jamun1.jpgBoth reflective and nostalgic moods as triggered off by my little poem. ….I wrote 

Fallen ripe jamoons at the sidewalk
crushed under heartless feet
pungent flavour in my mouth

Someone walked over the fallen leaves
abandoned ones rustled alive
suddenly I thought of you

Your tear-drenched words of parting
on rain-soaked fallen leaves
left me feeling even more damp

I loved its fluttering robe
I hear it falling down
humbly and silently
a whisper –
a threat of grizzled winter

All that I long for,
summer secrets
marching into my heart

Warm summer day
deafening silence
empties the courtyard

Anjan sir wrote…..Purple stains beneath my feet
Democracy trampling Royal colours
In fashionable contemporary disdain

Ajji wrote ….butterfly on my chest.
azure blue ocean in my front. And I feel
myself becoming
one with the ochre yellow sand I am lying on
while the sun plays color game on my closed eyes.
I just remember the backyard tree of my home

Soeb sir wroteOr was it you?
I thought again.
Were you ever so untrue?

Max sir wrote…endless drizzles
obstinately wiping out
traces of summer, and
wintry winds sneaking in…

….David sir’s voyage on Jamoon moods begins thus *David is from US of A

still the day’s swelter
puts on its show
only night’s au courant
 (sounds from outside, 8th floor of an urban office building, window on an inner courtyard –a building of glass & stone)

the workday almost finished
on a Friday in September
soft echoes of construction

I’ve never seen jamoons
nor tasted their secrets
my tongue is unschooled!

You can’t send me a jamoon
I can’t send you a jicama
our envelopes arrive empty!

[jicama is a white-colored root vegetable imported to the US from Mexico perhaps; it’s eaten raw. The texture is crisp; it’s best served chilled. The flavor is somewhere between bland and sweet, quite agreeable. More juicy than a carrot, less mushy than an apple. My mother likes them.]

When I think of jamoons
I wonder what happened
to my erstwhile paradise!
note: this poem is based on the unlikely notion that the  Moon in our sky was, long ago, a planet like Earth. After  it completed its role of supporting evolving life (including humans), so long ago, it became the burned-out satellite  planet we see today — and the role of supporting human life shifted to Earth. (This local-cosmological idea is found  buried in obscure corners of Meher Baba’s writings; he wrote extensively about cosmology.) (Of course I thought of this poem due to the “moon” in “jamoon”) 😉

When you mention jamoons
& your childhood memories…
my life has been wasted!

Those heartless feet
were steeped in a reality
that here is hypothetical

The jamoon might be a ghost
a goddess or a hatrack
indirect knowledge is unreliable

I have glimpsed the jamoon
in the mirror of your poem
but is it the real jamoon?

What if FedEx speedily
delivered a chilled jamoon?
hmmm — anticlimactic?

What if DHL brought me
a baby-plant in soil?
it’d water it and wait!

Watering my jamoon plant
what should I look for?
in what month? what signs

Since jamoons are tropical
should I move to
maybe I can get a deal now!

The first jamooon plantation
in the
United States of America!
— perhaps this goes too far

The jamoon poems jostled each other
wondering which might be first to reach
the ears of a real jamoon tree?

Naive jamoon poems were like chicks
hatched with eyes closed — pitifully
ignorant of their jamoon namesake!

Should the ignorance of the poet be
ascribed to the poem? — can jamoon
poems know jamoons despite the poet?

The reader of jamoon poems stands
in the presence of a jamoon tree!
bhaktas take refuge in the Lord

Who knows this tree like Jyotsna?
“jamoon! jamoon!” the poems sing!
in the Mother’s many-branched shadow 

As you can see the delectable experience words could weave…from a fallen Jamoon fruit* to leaves to wintry moods to raindrops to an office courtyard…Jamoon, is an Indian berry, heavy on its scent, juicy and the wonderful thing about eating this tiny fruit is the pungent flavour it leaves in one’s mouth, and the musical chairs played by purplish hues….when we were kids, we used to look at our tongues to measure the intensity of purplish hue each one of us had amassed… My previous office has this Jamoon tree in its courtyard, under whose shade I used to park my car, stand there for a while listening to its rustle/whispers. That’s when I have fallen in love with the tree and started praying silently that no one should cut this tree off. I used to maintain a date with the tree every Saturday, when I sit near this huge tree, caressing its trunk, reading a few lines (selected from my books) under my soft breath….this fabulous living thing made me all the more sensitive and human. This string of Jamoon reminded many of their childhood, living on the road lined with Jaamun trees.

eve.jpg…Changing robes – a secret affair in hushed tones,
the fallen leaves crackle at the sidewalk, moaning about their duller shades,

a misty smog creeps through the courtyard,
an old crumpled newspaper lying on the ground mutters its notes,
muddy puddles falling into a deep slumber,
the grandpa’s mangled chair under the shade of jamoon tree,
crumpled petals and faint shadows resting on a lonely car
wait for me, finally she is settling in….

..I have got this little path
that looks so completely natural,
the modern world’s grey dust would
not summon up courage to touch it…
simple dumbness breathes in life..
This escape from modern day’s trials
and tribulations come to me every evening….