Pleasure in Small Measure

I live in the residential quarters of IISc., Bangalore. Home is a ground floor apartment in a three storey building, with a small garden space, in front and back. For four to five years now, the overhead water tank has been overflowing into my backyard. Routinely, around 5pm every evening, water gushes out from terrace plumbing, flooding my garden, backyard, completely, waterlogging, stagnating, breeding mosquitoes. A variety of complaints have been made, letters written, problem reported over these last several years. Still, we await Peter to usually ride out here on his rickety cycle, unlock the door to the machine room, and turn off the motor-then after all the accumulated water on the terrace has emptied out, the flow stops, till the next day.

Now, I have watched, fretted, fumed, cursed, barked, yelled, screamed at this horrible wastage, till I have turned hoarse, sullen, silent, accepting, and then quietly watching this daily drama. Over years, a new wet land ecology has slowly evolved in my yard. Irises have taken over and bloom in my marshes, anthuriums thrive, cardamom long thought dead have revived on their own and now liberally sprinkles my back yard- a pepper vine is ready for harvest.

Two days back, I had a thought - don't know why I didn't think this thought before....I decided to dig a canal system to channel water to the entire garden from this overflow. For two days I labored with digging till the back is stiff, arms are sore, and palms calloused with working big tools on hard ground. Now a circuitous canal meanders between my plants, halfway till the end
(I am taking a break today!) and yesterday evening I saw water filling and rushing past in blue curvy lines through my yard. I sat at the window, coffee in my hand, watching this in satisfaction, and pleasure, in small measure.

Golden Showers at IISc

As skies clear out, air crystallizes, temperatures drop, and earth changes from the monsoon range of inky blues and dense charcoal grays, to light translucence in regal reds, orange and gold, Bangalore sports its own celebration of this season with a burst of festival colors.

I walk down the forest track behind residences at IISc. and the ground is littered generously with gold - I look up at a canopy of tiny gold blossoms on an ancient tree against blinding clarity of blue skies. Smallest breeze bring a shower down, raining gold wisps on ground, shrubs, leaves, me...a sharing of the wealth it has amassed over this year from earth. Walking a bit further, I am startled by the the neon pinks, coppery sheens on a young peepul celebrating the return of the sun with a burst of new, young foliage. Almond trees on the Badam lane are changing shade too - here the dowager sporting deep shades in autumn of her age - maroon, crimson, ochre are favored after a year of youthful greens. Pride of India is similarly seen, abandoning shades of green, to colors of a richer hue, chinese reds and antique pinks set off coppery pods of coffee sheen.

Heart rejoices,
destabilizes,
poetic stirring,
murmur within,
life is beauty,
in autumn too,
I laugh at mirror,
my love renewed.

Sunsets in Goa

Highlight of all my trips to Goa is reconnecting with sea, sand, sky - all vast, endless, connecting seamlessly at horizon. This time the expectations were high - I was again in mood to walk fresh washed sands, get drenched, be surrounded by blues, golds, and sing Megh - to myself. Instead, while the monsoon skies remained flirting close, the air moist enough to wet, winds teasing enough to anticipate a downpour - the rains stayed away - completely. I tried Megh, tentatively, but knew I was not yet persuasive enough to please the Rain God. Yet - as usual - Goa remained the same -astonishing, surprising. I walked each evening to sunsets, copper, gray, crimson, gold, all aflame, ignited skies, reflecting earth, molten ocean...I walked, engulfed and overwhelmed by beauty that seeped within, erasing worries, shedding cares - just me, sea, sand, sky.

I

Sometimes,
let 'I'
suffice-
singular delights
of solo flights
soaring high!

Reject
manipulations,
of expectations,
imagination
that compromise,
demise
of singular dreams,
to step
into virgin realms
of
'I'.

A Neighboring Windmill

I am interested in my neighbors-their lives, lifestyles, opinions, responses - especially to same set of events, and more so if those events happen in my home.

I ran into Zaheer Kidvai's blog, while perusing blogger's world for something entirely different. I discovered a neighbor of amazing intellect, acrid humor, arsenic expression, cynical and razor sharp wit, and a really remarkable gift for hard hitting words...

His blog has opened up an entirely different world for me, of Pakistan, India, USA, world, as viewed usually mercilessly, accurately, humorously, despairingly, by the author. His take on Governor Palin is hilarious! Check him out!

Scenes Outside a Train Window

Buffaloes and children sit submerged in chocolate ponds;
under searing sun, half bent women over neon paddy fields;
tiny lime butterfly fluttering to the rhythm of our chugging train;
walls of water bursting from an overflowing dam - into arid, rocky land;
lillies in chinese white over smudges of jade and emerald leaves;
distant smoky mountains merge into moist clouds -seeking relief from the heat;
tall copper grasses with feathery silver fluffs bending in the breeze;
tracts of charred waste land around smoky factories;
small white temple of perfect symmetry mirrored in a village lake;
a jumble of mangy brown huts-thatched roofs and skeleton cows in the yard;
a line of waving children as they squat for toilet along the tracks;
single tall palms, erect, proud, crowned;
turbaned man in bright kurta and his veiled bride, sailing away on a bicycle;
two dogs running in opposite directions on a lonely, dry track of red mud;
white egrets in flight in a sunset over green chequered fields;
arid sandbars of scruff within slate, sluggish rivers;
groves of bamboo, banana, papayas, emerald vines with gold yellow blossoms;
fluttering clotheslines in rainbow - tibetan flags of the poor;
a flock of swallows sailing in choreographed harmony;
lush tribal women of earthy grace striding with loads of kindle on their heads;
villages festooned in orange flags - warnings for the times ahead;
large tracts of sweet sugarcane;
cool evening air, gold sunset rushing past in torn puddles;
a game of soccer by the village young;
catching fish from small overrun streams in square nets on bamboo cross;
ink-blue night and stars reigning bright.

At Home in Indian Railways`

For those lost, bereft of the ordinary, familiar, and commonplace, the anchor of a home, especially of a comforting, middle class, Indian home- traveling by Indian railways, sleeper class, is sure to cure individuality blues, or modernisation angst; maybe the scene is worthy of study by a sociology scholar, or participation by a theatre experimentalist. It certainly kept me fully engrossed, entertained, nourished, comforted and most of all delighted, in the 48 hour journey from Kolkata to Bangalore (including 13 hours delay) on the familiar Yeshwantpur-Howrah express. The already announced, and expected delay, was hardly comment worthy, in a country routinely thrown into chaos by recurring natural disasters, political upheavals, and breakdowns of fractal orders. People on platform, lying, reclining, sleeping, eating family dinners in circles over a shared common plate, hurriedly gathered up their belongings and rushed to join a mad crowd at the approaching train. Within minutes of our taking our seats in the 'reserved' compartment, stowing away luggage, the train slowly chugged out. A sense of excitement,waving goodbyes, tears here and there, children with noses out of the open window. Train picked up speed, lights rushed backward, I settled back to enjoy the familiar rhythm of a fast moving train, scenes outside, people inside. I found several of my fellow passengers already stripped, down to their waist, others in the process of tying their tiny, flimsy gumcha around their portly middle, ready to change, for the night. Others had converted shared seating area into kitchen platforms, cucumbers were being sliced, onions peeled and diced, bottles of chilli pickles extracted, punget mustard oil dribbled, tart lime squirted, in preparation for a late night feast. The TT never showed up to check tickets, and all the extra, non ticketed passengers, arranged themselves quickly for the night, in corridors, alley ways, between reserved berths, outside shared toilet doors.

Early morning saw continued scenes of familiar domesticity, with people marching up and down with little mugs, toothbrushes, towels. All men, who felt particularly affected by the increasing intense heat, were again stripped to their waist, comfortable in their long, loose, underwear, dripping into the well worn polished seats of accumulated grime and sweat. The tiny toilets had become bathrooms for a quick bath- some particularly vain individuals emerged in ironed, sparkley white kurta of mulmul. A young marwari in front of us had changed, after his bath, from his dull work clothes into flamboyant orange patterned shirt of his native land, and then sprayed under this shirt the mandatory "deo" that the youth use, with the nonchalance of a young son. Here a pious muslim gentleman emerged in his fresh skull cap and turquoise lungi ready for namaaz. Crimson feet peeked under pink saree of a discreetly covered young bride. Children ran, fed, cried. Old and young shared introductions, then jokes, and finally settled down to a game of cards.

Domesticity filtered into a deeper level, as time passed and the neighbors got more comfortable with each other. Newspapers were borrowed, seats swapped, tea and snacks shared, a few lethargic squabbles started over differing political opinions. We rushed through blinding green landscapes, chocolate rivers, swollen and heavy, through searing, miraging heat.

After all that grooming, feeding, sharing, there was a late morning lull-I sat with my steaming tea cup, part of my transient family, observing, and participating in the moving theatre of Indian Railways.

Ocean's Quandary

I am ocean,
torn,
thrown,
to the shore,
golden, warm,
emerald necked
swaying seductress
irresistible, and sure
of her pull, her lure.

I am ocean,
yearning,
reaching,
for the raging sky
burning, singeing,
unmasked fire,
flaming desire,
unconcealed lust,
that doesn't tire.........written in Goa.

I am ocean,
vast,
deep,
unmoved within,
by two loves
who keep,
promising
earthly delights,
or heavenly sights,
playful now,
to later retreat, inside......back at home.