Weekend at the picnic house

Pictures from last weekend in Malavli, near Lonavla.

The place is a riot of colour, lush green, flowers of every kind.

A cat among the pigeons.... why is there one white bloom on this tree of red?

Landscape with plants and crab hole ... our garden pests come armored and clawed, tunnelling up from dark subterranean kingdoms to feast on our shrubbery.


And the birds, the birds! Especially the ones that would not allow us to photograph them.

This guy was obliging (or just used to us)..

..unlike this frisky sunbird who toyed with me for a half hour.. but hey, gotcha!!

Moon over picnic house at four in the afternoon.
'WAXING GIBBOUS ', the Imp will have us know, after all our bedtime encyclopedia reading. (We now seek sleep following Alice down rabbit holes)

Then we look up at her, and decide such fragile beauty cannot be weighed down with a word like 'gibbous'.

Sinister fingers reach for our feet...

..while miniature ones reach for our breakfast

Views from and around Tiger Hill, on the old Bombay-Pune highway

Remind me again, why we live in Bombay...

..and we are angry at having to host one Kasab

Our taxes support an entire government that has aided mass slaughter and continues to do so.

The 25th anniversary of the Bhopal gas leak marks one more failed attempt by its victims to get compensation from the government. On November 30, the High Court denied a claim for additional compensation from the victims, despite it being public knowledge that what was doled out was far too little .

For 25 years, successive governments have ignored, passed the buck, or colluded with the MNCs responsible for the disaster, while the families of victims struggle to stay alive.

What they are willing to give Bhopal, though, is a monument. Costing 116 crores.

Self praise is no praise... unless it involves talking birds

I wrote everyday through NaNoWriMo, and had a blast!

Requiem for a N

(I which jukie puts the ee...!!! ad er....!!! i free verse)

You served me, but ot log eough.
You let me dow just whe my eed for you was greatest.

ow I sit, helpless, as the wordsmithy I aspire to, comes apart at seams slit through by the kife of your icosderate demise.
I rue, lamet -ay, mour the others, I spured i haste to get to you
That promised greater returs but for dues I could not muster.
That I tured dow i oe swift pag of lowly greed.

ow my words resoate with toes I do ot recogize, lie the voice of a lover felled by cold
Ripe with soud, pregat with fury, sigifyig othig.


If there is a moral here, O cup bearer,to this tale of trust betrayed, it is surely this..

" ever buy bargai basemet keyboards. "

Skyscape with stars and angry guy