Rooted Folks....

My young friend, Nanki Nath, from Jaipur, studied at the the National Institute of Design in Ahmedabad, Gujarat, and is currently a doctoral student at the Industrial Design Centre, at the Indian Institute of Technology, Powai (Mumbai). She is also a blogger, and blogs at , what else, Nankinath  

The campus where she studies  (and where I live) , is 400 acres of virgin land on the shores of the Powai lake, where parts have been landscaped and organized amidst structures dedicated to educating  the country's young.

Wooded areas, mowed lawns, folks with laptops and wires in ears, cattle moving around thinking of safety in numbers, shorts, tees, heads covered with saree palloos, kids on bicycles, walking to school kicking pebbles and sticks around, we have them all.  Sometimes with a leopard thrown in for variety.

And it just came to mind, that this capture of a tree, from her office, really tells it like it is .....

(photo by Nanki Nath of IDC)

Designer trees
one of a kind,
posing
standing,
all pervading
amidst a
straggly lawn
shying away
to the edges,
starved of resources,
hogged by this
unique leafless entity,
looking down in wonder
at its shadow roots
just below the surface.....

It takes
an old mother tree,
aging graciously,
remembering its life,
a tree resplendent in leaves
crowded and green,
communicating ,
holding in its womb,
birds,
nests,
and squirrels,
to grow roots so deep,
that they spread
deep inside the earth,
nudging
a rock here,
a spring there,
chatting by a water table,
telling everyone
about those
who sat in its shade....

And a 1st year M Des***,
nudges a 2nd yearite,
and asks,
"Should we move those benches elsewhere now ?"


*** M Des : Master of Design,  the first degree offered in Design, a  2 year course.

Junglee Gardens

My friend Sangeeta Khanna of Delhi, who is a  green thumbed plant researcher, nutrition expert, traditional food scholar,  trekker and photographer,  posted this photograph , of an early morning sun focusing on folks in her garden.   Then she wonders if she should be calling it a jungle, given the free and wild way in which things are  growing....

Ah.

There are artistically landscaped, color co-ordinated gardens, where no one really knows the names of the plants and an orchid is superior to a homegrown cherry tomato , rose, spinach or karela.

And then there are gardens, where the trees are free, the various fruits and vegetables grow together, fighting for places in the sun, some rebel, some are mature, and some behave like teenagers, obsessed about their looks.  A good mother knows all her children .

She walked amidst them , and clicked the Sun trying to trespass....

My friend can probably tell you the life histories and characteristics of most of those growing in her ....err..garden ?

  

It takes all kinds.

Some stand,
tall, green and upright,
concerned
in middle age
about
brown vertebral spines
managing all the foliage.

Some
in balance with their land
cheerfully face up
to each morning
humouring the Dew kids,
big leaves
lording over the little ones,
some stems weighed down
by the fruits
of their lives.

Some middle class types,
eek out an existence
in the shadow of
the large,
while
some defiant E types,
think they are
on an Internet cable
connected to the world
on a high.

But the ones
to really take the cake
are these
fair and beautiful
flowery damsels
artistically posing
just so
trying to catch the
tanning Sun
through a patch in the Green....

Fall has arrived,
and Ma Earth has declared
it's all about
Brown and Lovely......

Stones, Hearts, and Living....

My friend Deepak Amembal, when he visited Hampi in Karnataka State of India, must have been spoilt for choice when he looked through his camera viewfinder.  He could have kept the camera button pressed, and continuously clicked, and he still wouldn't have run out of these evocative rocks that represent an entire civilization in stone, on the banks of the Tungabhadra River.

So many rock structures, some amazingly balanced despite the ravages of erosive time, vestiges of a splendorous living city  teeming with art,commerce power and life. 

It just occurred to me that there must have been old people then too, and I wondered how the society then treated them.  I saw a very evocative image in these rocks clicked by Deepak, and I have a question.

Read on...

(photo by Deepak, white line imagination by me )

The old man,
ramrod straight,
bag in his right hand,
and his frail wife,
resting a while,
her head on his shoulder,
legs crossed;
a pause
under
the intense mid day sun,
thinking of
of their days alone,
and no one coming to see them,
The children
tunneling in
success and progress
to fill coffers
that
on any day,
win against the Joneses
and these two
waiting for a deliverance
and requiem in stone.

And then these too,
solid as they come,
together
a she sits looking up
head on his shoulder,
wordless against the sky
aeons under a burning son,
washed by the winds and rains;
they've seen the cities of gold
the celebrations
the plunder,
the artists and the city,
the stone hearted art.

Strangely,
they are not alone.
As folks
of all colors and persuasions,
come wandering by
to peer and look up at them,
click pictures,
paint and write stories.

What a pity,
in this day and age,
the old parents
have to turn to stone,
for someone to notice them....

Cycle Stands of Life

My blogfriend Kavi Arasu, the original person who encouraged me to start this poetry blog, is back again with this very interesting capture.  The systematic parking of cycles, the slightly different cycle models to the right ,  and the existence of non-dug-up sidewalks probably means that this is not Mumbai.

Never mind.

The message conveyed by the scene is surely universal .....


(photo by Kavi Arasu) 

A sinusoidal life
replete with peaks and troughs,
allowing speedy zooms
then
a momentary
resting at a base.

Some though,
constantly on a curve,
cycle through life,
eyes only ahead,
and miss out
on the
Rivers,
Trees,
and Peace.

The troughs
are the
Cycle Stands of Life;
where you
realize
you have land legs,
a deep breath
inhaling leaf fragrance,
a pebble
creating ripples in the water
and a sudden thirst
for the beauty around you..

Bhakri Tales : एका भाकरीची दुसरी गोष्ट ....

 

Some folks have all the luck.  My friend Shruti Nargundkar of Melbourne recently visited her maternal home in Maharashtra , in India,  and was blessed with  some amazing childhood events, happening all over again.  She recreates these for her own family in Melbourne; but there is something about a winter morning, green smells , wet earth at dawn, bath water fragrance in a traditional copper boiler, Zunka scraped on an cast iron kadhai,  and a dollop of ghee melting in a hurry on a steaming hot bhakri.....

 

A married daughter coming  to her maternal home on a visit , is an EVENT , like no other.  Read about it  , on Shruti's blog post  "Heart cooled in homecoming..." 

 

Some of us who  don't get impressed by the fast globalized breakfast cereals and quick foods, that need to be marketed so much , often hark back to our childhoods in  Maharashtra, where food was cooked  and served  (in present parlance) , "on-line " , so to speak, bursting with freshness,  flavour, nutrition and love. 

Nothing beats sitting along side a Mom making Jowar Bhakris, materializing and blooming on some red hot coals of a sigdi, a breaking of it into crisp fresh halves, steam emanating from the innards, as it is slid into your plate with a dollop of white butter and/or ghee; and you greedily have it with the traditional Zunka, (spiced garbanzo preparation), some amazing vegetable curry, pumpkin raita or even just plain cut onion and a chilly oozing attitude. 

There had  to be an ode in Marathi and English.....

आठवणींची रात्र लांब असते विचार दूर दूर वरून घरी येतात आणि आडवे होतात ... आणि पहाटेच्या थंडीत घट्ट झालेल्या तुपासारखे एकत्र होतात .... सूर्यकिरणानच्या उबेत , आईच्या आनंदाश्रुंमध्ये चिंब भिजतात आणि मायेने पाठीवर फिरवलेल्या हातांच्या स्पर्षांने हळू हळू कधी कधी गोलाकारात बसतात .... लहानपण च्या आठवणींनचे निखारे कसे फुलतच राहतात, भुकेल्या तव्यावर पडलेल्या छोट्याना एखादा मायेचा पाण्याचा हात लागतो, आणि जुन्या स्वप्नात बुडलेल्या एका वाढलेल्या ताटात झुणकामाय मिरचीला आणि कांद्याला जवळ घेते आणि म्हणते, "इतकी सुंदर पापुद्रावली भाकरी आणि तूप नाहीतर लोण्याचा गोळायांच्या बरोबर  एका ताटात असायला नशीब लागतं !"

Memories journeying for miles, way into the deep night, resting at their destination, snuggling close and thick like an aggregating dollop of thickening ghee in a cold winter dawn..... A shower of warm sun rays, a sprinkle of maternal tears overflowing joy, and they come together in a satisfying dough, patted into rounds with great concern and resting hands on back. Roasted on hungry griddles Old memories burning bright and fresh again, the grainy surface gently wiped by a  concerned Mater's wet palm, old stories bloom into cheerful new pockets, cut and waiting to exhale in mirth and joy. The avidly waiting Dreamy Zunkabai cossetted together with the wayward onion and teenage Mirchi suddenly blinks and says, "Guys, you must have done something good in your past Karma; it needs  lots and lots of luck to be on the same page as such an amazing bhakri with that melting dollop of  golden butter or ghee...."

Bozo Royale

Bozo, Mumbai's only dog-with-his-own-blog, is in a good mood.  The rains have gone, taking the terrible thunder and lightening with them,  not to mention the puddles and wet everywhere. 

There is a nip in the air early mornings, the balcony is fragrant with the various plants, and it is once again fun to spend time wandering about the house, checking up on stuff, breathing in the gardens , peering into the kitchen, and scratching on the sofa leg to catch the attention of Magiceye, who is actually smitten with a certain twowheeler these days .

Even then, Bozo's cheerfulness must have been contagious, because he happily clicked him in his favourite domain....

You know,
some are born kings,
some strive to become kings,
and
some have kingship
thrust upon them.

(I've heard the
then young fellow
read this
ages ago
while doing his essay....)

I was born
far from any palaces,
in the midst of chaos,
got mixed up
and ran with the wild.

Kings don't do that.

These Dada dogs
troubled me,
teaching me all the tricks,
till
a little girl took me home.

This doesn't happen to Kings.

But here I am,
so many years later,
freshly bathed,
brushed,
a bit of exercise
and a satisfying grub,
in a cool balcony
away from the October heat.

I breathe in deeply
the perfume of roses and tulsi,
and wheatgrass
and  hibiscus,
mixed with
the aroma of cooking;
I acknowledge my
flying subjects,
who look on from the window ledge,
and I sit, stretch and sneeze
whereupon,
someone rubs my back, tickles me
and says "God bless you!"

If that is not about
kingship of this jungle
being thrust upon you,
I don't know
what is !

Monsoon Ghosts

Mumbai has been thrashed , the last few evenings, by an onslaught of  rain amidst a lot of grumbling thunder and crackling lightning.  This odd-timed rain is of no use to the ones who really look forward, year after year , to a good monsoon for their crops. Like our esteemed politicians, all fire and brimstone, noise, and no substance.

My friend Magiceye, captured a typical rainy late evening scene in a suburb of Mumbai, as folks return home , on dark roads, lit only by vehicle headlights sometimes,  with dull visibility,  and a sense of having to make do with the  lack of proper infrastructure. 

Looked ghostlike. Two bright eyes, bobbing and floating in the gloom. Till I realized whose ghost it could be .

The Monsoon ghost
its energy spent this year,
simply wandering around,
loaded
with sound and bright fury,
in totally random places,
finally
descends on Mumbai
like a politician
with no substance,
flying in
amidst lights
by a
noisy helicopter,
but with nothing
useful to say.

Walking ,
slithering,
finding his way
amidst dark potholed roads,
trees cowering under
an onslaught
of illegal building plans
sanctioned,
and empty roads,
lit by a lone four wheeler
limping on
expensive fuel.

A lone dog,
wandering ,
looking for shelter,
gives him a look,
sneezes,
emits a disgusted moan,
and disappears into the darkness.

Bozoical Life and Times

Bozo, Mumbai's only dog-with-his-own-blog, is, at the end of the day, a man-of-letters.   He inspires pixels, words, and letters, and it was a matter of time before someone wrote something like this , dedicated to him.

It is not easy to learn the alphabet the first time, as we all know, but even then it is remarkable, that Bozo is paying great attention to what the lady of the house is showing him. :-)   

Had it been that hefty Moo Aunty, chewing the cud at the corner of the lane, she would have simply chewed this book away .  ....

Some jealous types
call me an E-Dog,
because
I have my own blog,
appear on Facebook
on a weekly basis,
and so many international dogs
communicate with me in the comments.

But I am glad
someone
has compiled this,
and it's always been
a secret ambition
of mine
to have a woof poetry reading.

Amidst the rocks,
on the Carter Road Promenade,
me sitting on a rock
reciting poetry
in my special blue collar,
all my human blogger friends
around me
sipping on some fresh air
tapping their smart phones
and clicking photos.

I wish Luci
from Thiruvanathapuram
could have attended.

In the meanwhile,
it will simply thrill me no end,
to see
the proud and page-3 show-off
Lassie
emerging from her Mercedes
with her new leash,
only to watch me
with my book;
the look on her face
will be amazing....

She doesnt understand
the RTE Act;
I do
and so
I practice reading....

I just hope
Deepak is ready with his camera
to capture her
disappointed look ....




 

A Crackling Performance ....

The monsoon in Mumbai is known to put up a grand show when it withdraws, and it did this on a Monday, after a weekend of intolerable heat and sun.

There were clouds, a strange yellowish light pervading the atmosphere, and there were immensely powerful showers of heavy rain, accompanied by uproarious thunder and brilliant lightening. A bit of a lull in the rain, and the thunder and lightening continued, like a tiger growling to itself, unable to reduce the momentum of the last deadly chase.

My friend Magiceye, clicked this amazing capture  the same evening , in Bandra, in Western Mumbai and posted it here..  

(And i saw something there as well ....)

The brilliant lithe gymnast
Monsoona Sparkley,
of the
Mumbai Lightening Group
cracking
her twirling rope
as
she leaps, jumps
and tumbles across
performing
in a flash,
her gymnastic manoevres
in the individual event at the
Sky Olympics....

If photographs were audible,
you might
have heard the clouds
thundering and roaring
in approval.....

Parakeets and Politics

My blogger, photographer and travel writer  friend Anu Shankaran  recently posted some amazing captures of red ringed parakeets  on her blog.   

The sequence did indicate that something serious was being discussed. Like folks at the top interviewing some junior folks, helped by an presumed-peaceful intermediary.  Like some interested folks looking on from some distance away, biding their time. 

Maybe the birds in India are aware of the political happenings.  Maybe there is a clear hierarchy amongst parakeets, and the red ringed ones are members of an elite body, elected by proletarian parakeets.  

Anything is possible. Even a poem !

The Chairparakeet
at the top
in lights,
and her smart protege
steeped in guava economics
and FDI in Trees;
both wondering
how the fiery one
on the rusted eastern pillar
will react.

" No ! I cannot
and will not allow
FDI in trees, ever ;
what will my  fellow birds eat ?"
the fiery lady parakeet
said determinedly.


The Chairparakeet
gave a slight nod,
turned away in anger,
and
the fiery one,
ever aware of the niceties,
bowed and said,
"i am sorry, but I must withdraw..."
and flew off.

The Chairparakeet looked down,
consulted the
Sitting Committee,
and decided to approach
someone else....
 
Some distance away,
amidst the spiky trees,
another parakeet,
statue-like and stately,
watched the proceedings,
as the Chairparakeet approached....

No one knows what was said,
but this one too
flew away.

Crisis time.
The Chair parakeet
and the smart protege,
were last seen winging south...