Purple Bauhinia, Bauhinia purpurea...

A dewy patch of grass of Mumbai Mahanagar Palika in Borivili (W), beside Gokhale College. Lokmanya Tilak its name; at the gates two neem and a rain tree welcome walkers; Ali Ahmed keeps the little spread clean. Bordered and centred with trees; most walk quietly, some meditate, others jabber. Yet a slice of morning Saridon. Rama walks the grass on bare feet, meditates, strikes half-way Yogic stands. Me walks, trying to imagine the first man and woman standing up, somewhere in Ethiopia, breaking into a stride. They would have been surprised; perhaps, held hands, waltzed. Walking, standing straight could have been the first power statement of a human; the measure to dominate. Walk surely should have come before a run. Maybe we will never know for sure...that history. ....A flower-pecker queaks at the near top of a Purple Bauhinia, Bauhinia purpurea....Indo-Malaysian origin ....there are about five or six flowering Purple Bauhinia fencing the patch; and they are in purple booms, colouring the morning air purple. 'The scientific name Bauhinia refers to the two lobes of the leaf. It was given by Carl Linnaeus to commemorate the two brothers John Bauhin and Gaspard Bauhin who were French botanists and had contributed to the study of herbs in the 16 th century. Purpurea refers to the purple petals of the flower,' write Marselin Almeida and Naresh Chaturvedi in The Trees of Mumbai. Jijamata Udyan, Sagar Upvan (Colaba), IIT Campus, Powai, Film City (Goregaon), Sanjay Gandhi National Park are Purple Bauhinia locations. Well, they can add Tilak park. Other trees which me have identified is the cajuput, Pagoda Tree, kadamba, cashew; there are more and me is trying to make sense of the silent crowd. Three or four Fragrant Pagoda Trees. 'A native of Mexico and Guatemala, the Pagoda tree is believed to have come to India through China, and is therefore known as 'Gul-e-chin' or 'Chini champa', according to The Trees of Mumbai. A small wish is to be buried under a Pagoda Tree in open greens. Me likes the Pagoda that much. There are also flower plants with sadaphule a sure denizen. An hour and more of being with them all....a happy Rama makes a second cup of coffee, eases into her arm chair, muses ....an ancient quote in the book: 'Trees never eat their fruits, rivers never drink their water, they are born for the benefit of others.'   

Woman and man

With minutes, hours, days, nights, months, months, years, her legs turn in, bowed; she taps alone the ups and downs of LIC Colony, her hair cannot turn any whiter. She is alone; name do not know; some say she lives somewhere in LIC Colony; she does not talk; the lady is a Good morning friend; we exchange good mornings; she taps along, me trudges along; an oldness, no specific age, share. She makes it to the Shiva temple ahead of others; none around to ring bells or yell the God's name; 'morning silences sooth', me over-heard her talking to her; or is it her whispered prayer to Lord Shiva, sitting on the stone seat. When the devoted crowds take the stone seats, she slips away; not always, sometimes; quite a few are aware, have given up as she does not talk. She wears her spectacles to gaze at Lord Shiva; pockets it on her walks. On Tuesdays, she walks into the open Shiva temple, offers dhruva grass to Lord Ganesh; she cant bend down. Every stray outside the temple is the fair lady's friend; the lady feeds them buiscuits, rotis, breads and some milk. They whiggle to her taps; she has names for them. Across the winding road wait a leper and his wife; every morning she chats them up, gets a chaiwala to serve tea and pav. Mostly in yellow or brown sarees; not a milligram of gold on her.Some claim to her being from an aristocratic family, whatever that means; yes the lady is elegant. A morning, she hinted at a smile after the good morning. 'Please can you give me Rs.10,' she asked; stoned, took a Rs 20 note out of the pant pocket, handed it to the Lady. She hobbled to the chaiwalla, ordered a tea. She is gone. Refuse to say she is no more. Do not know where. There was this middle-aged fellow in a torn shirt and pyjama, who made his home under the banyan tree beside the Karuna Hospital. Sometimes we chatted; he did not beg; did not accept any offering; mostly sat or slept on the raised roots of the banyan, smoking bidis; he collected old bottles and other scrap, for two rotis and dal; and then he scrapped scrap; was always seen with the banyan; mosoon got wet; sweated in May heat. Again had no friends or rather none came helloing. Was familiar with birds and trees in LIC Colony; he counted time observing bats hanging upside down from the banyan; in red fruit, there were other visitors. Been a while missing; two stories read and partly forgotten. That perhaps put some sense into walks, morning and evening or anytime walks. Walks have no starts, ends, medals. Basho writes: 'No matter where I fall/On the road/Fall will I to be buried/Among flowering bush-cloves.'

Passer domesticus

Nodded, noting house sparrows on Sunday morning; taps of beaks on stainless steel plate; woke up. A kiss, a hum or a Bang? At Marine Drive, Brahma was scratching a mosquito-run face. A creator regretting a creation. Sometimes an Arabian Sea wind displaced them, but never forever. Playing with the last clod of earth and grass, Brahma and wife were thinking of the last roll, throw. Somethig nobody will bother about. That's how the House Sparrow came. The quintessential back-bencher; no aspiration to be a middle or front bencher; a non-competitor; made of meat none relished, animal or human; a queak of a call; a birth comfy in ancient pattanams (cities), content with holes in walls, car honks, human loudness; Brahma and wife at simple best. Passer domesticus has a corner on the window platform, near two bottles of money plants. By about 6.30 a.m. they make the first squeaks, hop on steel grills of the window, wait impatiently; for a steel plate of broken Marie buiscuits and bits of fresh rotis baked by Rama; seem to have no objection to grey necks sharing their breakfast; me is not sure of crows; they disappear to come back by 4 in the evening and then a night rest. A week now of house sparrow watching. House sparrow populations are thinning; not to be seen in cities; they can be easily spotted in Borivili though that may not suffice wild lifers; and what is a healthy number me does not know; on a morning me has counted five first visitors; then am confused as one house sparrow is like the other; the male has a dark spot on its neck; the female has none (me guess). Funny, God being a male chauvinist when it is animals: colouring males in wild life and discolouring females; a feminist when it is humans; women being better than males. Vidya has not seen house sparrows in Valsarvakkam, Chennai; there are few experts on this fellow. Who cares for back benchers with failed report cards? Salim Ali in The Book of Indian Birds is quite liberal with Passer domesticus. Dubs him and her, ' a confirmed hanger-on of man, in hills and plains alike, whether in a bustling noisy city or outlying hamlet.' In Zoo in the Garden, Edward Hamilton Aitken (EHA) disappoints. 'Sparrow is a cosmopolitan ...It is a vulgar little body, which tries to be a gentleman and attains to being a gent. In dress it affects smartness and in manners gentility.In the company of ladies it becomes a masher. Nevertheless, I like the little Sparrow out of doors.' Me likes me house sparrows on the window.  

Khans and Manto

November 27, 2015.

In high school and college, Dakhi collected pix of Shah Rukh Khan; still owns the collection; SRK is still her hero; has not missed SRK films. Ganesh manages first show, first day of every Amir Khan film. Both drool over Salman Khan with Rama tagging along; Rama's friend has seen Bhajrangi Bhaijan of Salman thrice; Rishikesh Hari delights in A.R. Rehman music. They do not dislike Muslims. Recently, tripping Leh and Ladakh, Ganesh threw an unkind remark at an old Muslim gentleman at a dargah; felt bad; after walking the dargah, he went back to the old man and apologised. 'Hum log itne kharab nahin hain, beta (We are not that bad, son),' said he offering a packet of Kashmir apples. Hindustani music is large parts Muslim ustads. At most Hindu marriages, Ustad Bismillah Khan shenais with none caring to appreciate. There is a darga on Eksar Road to which many Hindus offer chadars. Yet we dislike Muslims; unwant each other. Not been able to understand. It was there much before Independence and haunts us so in 2015. Me born in unquiet times of 1946; continue to be in unhappy times of 2015. Tired. Breathed first air of Hindu-Muslim hatred in 1963 at St. Xavier's College, Calcutta; walked into college one morning; bumped into hefty crowds of Malabar Special Police, billetted inside the College, brought in to stub riots. Since then, there has been no let up. Perhaps, never will be....Faiz Ahmed Faiz writes: 'This mottled dawn/This night-bitten morning/No, this is not the morning/We had set out in search of.' Possibly, times to read Mottled Dawn and Selected Stories by Saadat Hasan Manto. An in brief item: Mishtake: 'Ripping the belly cleanly, the knife moved in a straight line down the midriff, in the process slashing the cord which held the man's pyjamas in place. The man with the knife took one look and exclaimed regretfully,'Oh no!...Mishtake.'  Khalid Hasan in an Introduction to Saadat Hasan Manto; Selected Stories, writes: 'Eventually, it was Bombay where his heart was set and where he settled down. His love affair with Bombay was to last throughout his life, though he left the city twice, once only briefly in 1941 but for good the second time, after Partition in 1947.' Manto is quiet on why he left Bombay....his wife Safia is reported to have told Brij Premi, a Manto biographer,' He was always treated unjustly by everyone. The truth is that he had no intention of leaving India, but a few months before Partition, Filmistan handed him a notice of termination and that, believe me, broke his heart.' Manto, M.F. Husain, Salman Rushdie....will there be more...will India be a loaf of torn bread ...India not anymore India. Just cannot be as India owns the largest number of Muslims. Kerala never has had a riot...hope there still is.      

Addas and all that

November 26, 2015.

For some time have been trying to get friend Abhijit Basu for a mobileadda; mobile rings, no addas; maybe Basu has no time, living in time. That does not make Basu less likeable. In Business Line, we had addas, not the Kolkata brand, yet addas; sometimes over drinks at bars till bars shut down in and around Horniman Circle; he preferred to miss Press Club and journalists; those years he was a bachelor particularly good at stocks and shares; with marriage, no addas; then he left BL and that was that. Paul inquires about Basu as we were a threesome for a phase. When a friend is off mobile, that's it. We addaed in Bengali and English though he was not a Calcuttan and me a Calcutta, poor at Bengali; Basu relished addas, rosogolla syrupped with gossip; can humans live without gossip, me cannot. Adda sets apart Kolkata (Calcutta is preferable) from Mumbai (Bombay comes easy). Most times, an ability for creative lying plus a rock in a para (stone platform in a locality) are musts; you may not have seen a football or cricket game; never ever stepped into a bookshop; pitch perfect conditions for a jomegalo adda (a well set adda); tonally, vary from loud to whispers; cigarettes must; as all Bengalis try for the first day, first show of a film, cinematic know-how a qualification; Bengalis should be in a majority; no lovely boudis (sisters) at addas, which is unfair; maybe, in 2015, boudis are at addas with dadas; winter and summer timings. When me took the Bombay Mail (via Nagpur) to Bombay in a steam loco in 1969, lost addas forever. In the 60s, me had a good friend in Aniruddha Majumdar, a stylish batsman who feigned injuries, fielding; fielding and bowling, he exclaimed, were for the bourgeoisie, being a Marxist; batting for the aristocrats. A servant carried his bat to the pada cricket matches. And then me had A.V. Jayaraj, S. Nilakanthan and of course, M.Padmanabhan for Sunday addas; but they were real not imagainary affairs. Working as a journalist, me had some standout rum-adda sessions with Narayana Karunakara Kurup and Paul Noronha. And now, me addas with me, imagining a Bengali, sitting on a bench at Murari Dairy Farm; the other morning, me was talking to me about Kolkata heading the league table of the Super League Tournament; like Bengalis me watch on TV, kicking of the ball in between shots of Nita Ambani, Abhishek Bachchan, M.S. Dhoni, Sourav Ganguly and Sachin Tendulkar; Super League teams seem to have more foreigners than Indians; me thinks they are poverty versions of the English and Spanish leagues; me the Bengali held out over the Maidan greats from the past: Chuni Goswami, Samajpati, Jarnail Singh, Rehmatullah, P.K. Banerjee, K. Balaram, Ahmed; me, the Bengali, was sure of the Maidan greats being better than all the foreigners in Super League. Murari bhai tapped me; me-to-me adda session ended. Before parting, me bet on Goa to win the Cup; the Bengali me, Atletico Kolkata. Addas keep me live. 

Sai Krupa Stores

November 25, 2015.

Sai Krupa Stores on Yogi Nagar Road is a pie constant. Most children, mothers and fathers, make daily trips to buy Garden Farsan, Brittania and Modern bread, Amul Butter-Tasty Butter, other eats and over the last two days Maggie. In the packaged food category, me guess Maggie has pushed Amul to second place; just a guess; no statistics on me retired hand. For years, a Mangalore family kept the show with the lady obliging every client; no better sales woman has me seen; to every demand, she had the same rapture, ' Milega, milega, sab milega, do minites'; rarely upturned; for her tardy husband, she had no time; with Yogi Nagar having no time for living, 'time nahin hai', he counted and recounted change, sometimes losing clients; with the lady, clients came back. Yogi Nagar was hers. She was indispensable, mornings, with her fresh tephlas and idlis. Her old husband, an edgy type, unlocked the shop at 6.30 a.m. to shut down at about 10 in the night. It was a family show. The show shut one day. Lady told clients: 'Mumbai chhod rahe hain (Leaving Bangalore); Mangaluru ja rahen hain (going to Mangalore).' Sai Krupa Stores got leased to a Gujjubhai; zing is gone; clients dont rush the shop. Nothing to do with the Gujjubahi; is a pleasant fellow; tries to please but there is no 'milega, milega, sab milega' in him; stocks not the latest eats ads on TV channels, in particular kids channels. Perhaps, the first Gujjubhai refusing risks. 'How was Deepavali?,' me asked. With a twisted face he mourned of people not having funds while eat prices upped along. 'Salary hikes do not match price rises,', Gujjubhai said and for me Gujjubhais are the best economists; they know cash flow; they know daily sales should be higher than stock purchases; any slack, they grit their teeth. 'Dhanda nahin hai,' concluded Gujjubhai like an edit writer signing off day's edit in a newspaper office. Walk down Chandavarkar Lane in Borivili (W); Rama, Dakhi and me walked for dresses. Chiyu, last week, protested over me shabbiness of a three-quarter bottoms plus a jibba. 'Ajoba, ye jara purana hai (Ajoba, they look old), she complained. Me decided to buy readymade pants; never has that happened as there was always a tailor on Yogi Nagar Road; he shut shop as van Heusen, Peter England, Allen Solly trimmed styles. Chandavarkar Lane, houses brand names; Indian Terrain to Bata to ICICI. Dakhi insisted on pure cottons or cotton-linens; me went for two pants costing Rs.5,000; me was the lone shopper; the day's bakra; 'dhanda nahin hai, saheb,' moaned the young attendant; shops stewed empty. Length alterations had to be made as the pants could fit Ishant Sharma. The attender promised deliveries by evening as van Heusen was open 365 days of the year; no holidays. At Bata, a lady attender is temporary after massaging feet, selling footwear for four years (her version). ICICI Bank has crowds to pull out cash and is open from 9 a.m. to something around 8 in the evening. Perhaps, there are no labour laws to be violated. When Dakhi steps out shopping, she insists on buying dresses or a dress;she shines; the family in November heat trekked to Hakoba, with season-end discounts; there again no crowds, only crows on the rain trees. If retail shops are not vending, economy is still. Yes, no foot taps on Chandavarkar Street. Streets are sooth-sayers.

Babu and Behenji

November 24, 2015.

'Sarkar joli (government job)', say grandmas, yesterdays, todays and tomorrows, squaring horoscopes of boys with that of their grand-daughters. Sarkar joli is Brahman brand, beyond sin; Babu and Bahenji premium products., Patti, Aji, Dadi brand names. Grandmas best. Met Sethumadhavan after a Kerala trip. 'How is nadu,' me asked. 'Sukham, ellarude kaiil kashu; Dubai okke poyi; ippo New Zealand, Australia; pinne Sarkari joli top (Fine, money in all hands, Dubai is passe, New Zealand and Australia in; Government jobs top), Sethumadhavan replies. 'Sarkar joli' rings temple bells; meant and means having breakfast and lunch at home or with contractors, going to office after office hours to sign the muster, nights, sipping Blue Label free; collecting sure salaries month-end; and the power paste of a clerk; Mrs and Mr. Fix It; he and she could, did and do pack humans in files, their fundamental right; they never go; sun and moon may not be; babu and bahenji will ever be. No protests, no fasts. Sure of a blast with a Pay Commission rite upping benefits, unconditionally, forever and forever; babus and bahenjis play games, style it governance by indecision. From Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru, every Prime Minister, has failed to babus and bahenjis; scared of fate, babus and baehnjis gave into limited unfiledom in 1992; in 1993 closed in like stirred waters and remain so. Socialism, no; Capitalism, nay; reforms, nahin; babus and behenjis, yes, armed with files; they never act against each other; they wail together; they work from tables taped in Mahatma Gandhi currency notes; an unpleasant footnote. Babus and behenjis did not much approve the Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee Act; briefed privately Holy Economists; stinked it; put the scheme in a file marked Top Secret. Daily wage rates under the Scheme: Rs. 69 in 2006-07 to differential state rates in 2015-2016 with Haryana highest at Rs.251. Holy economists howl of leaks and subsidies when Mint says 32 per cent of tax rupees, or almost one-third, will go towards pays and pensions. One way to yardstick the rich and another the poor. As a Mumbai journalist, never seen North and South Blocs; never desired; RBI and banks in Mumbai sufficed. A Grandma Law writs filedom; Grandma in her avatar as mother-in-law. When the RBI Governor calls the Deputy Governor, RBI Towers shiver in fever; the RBI Governor does not call anyone except his wife; personal attendants put official calls; bank chairmen go under when RBI Towers mobiles. RBI Towers stands to attention when RBI Governor steps in and out; the habit spills over with clerks ordering sepoys at the gates and sepoys booting wives at home.  But in New Delhi, RBI reports to the Finance Ministry; bank chairmen namaskar officials in the banking ministry in New Delhi; in a few months, there will be no RBI; the Finance Secretary will be all; babu-behnji win. They own the Indian day and night. They own India. Always. 

Kiddy sports

November 23, 2015.

On the day after Deepavali vacations, Chiyu did not want to go to school; she protested as schools of her friends were yet to start. There is no sports class on Monday, the only class Chiyu and all children look to. Chiyu and Shreya do not play; they have rare sports classes and the one period sports class on Friday is not that. Just about offers them free time from books and teachers. Sure, they are happy. In most private schools in Borivili, children do not play; municipal schools on Eksar Road and L.T. Road have no grounds; but they play walking to school and in school with no teachers. Men and women of statistics report drop out rates, child nutrition measures but nothing to put a number or ratio to kids playing sports, any sports; slum and village kids, even after working for a living, do game; a rag ball, a wooden plank of a bat make up cricket for them; girls sometimes are into Kho-kho; Kho-kho, perhaps is the play best preparing kids for all other sports; spare and speed are must for Kho-kho; all sports need it; can do without trainers and large fields; for sports coaching classes, Kho-kho is hey, junglee; a Malayalam TV channel has a daily programme, Kutti Pattalam with kids mimicing Mohan Lal and not sprinting like P.T. Usha; school sports is not discussed by child psychologists or rather me has not heard any; well, sports pages in newspapers and TV channels have nothing for kids. Possibly, the only channel which helps is Doordarshan; a week ago one watched Junior Kho-Kho 2014 Championships; did not know Telengana girls and boys are the best at Kho-kho with North East making the base. Friend Vino John posted on Facebook news of India lifting Junior Asia Cup 2015 in Kuanton, Malaysia. Captained by Harjeet Singh, coached by Harendra Singh, India beat Pakistan 6-2; not news for most media; thanks Vino John. Not come across parents talk of their children doing well in running, winning medals; as a kid, me came third in 100, 200 and 400 metres sprint at one meet; collected three Colgate toothpaste packs; parents did not think much of it; were surely not proud. Governments cannot do everything. Should not. Agreed. Schools can come together informally and decide on a Sports School Day; one Day, every week, one day for sports; no books, blackboards, boasts; children and sports; to begin; could kick up parental quarrels pushing schools to employ trainers for some basic sports, like Kho-kho; or teachers could double as sporters. School grounds could be shared; or parks could be loaned; studying at Hindi High School, which had no grounds in Calcutta, we were carted in school buses to the Maidan to kick footballs or simply run. Media, starting with Indian Express, could have a weekly half or full page of school sports with pics. Somewhere can we whistle in a football game, a hockey match or an athletic run for kids. Least, we will get them fit to carry 10 kg of books in school bags every day to school and keep school industry profitable. Will Shreya, Chiyu and many, many kids play? Win an Olympic Gold in athletics, 20 years hence.  

Camus, Pamuk, Kolatkar

November 22, 2015.

4 a.m. Sunday; as good old days when Brahma thought up a world for Vishnu to breathe in and Shiva to breathe out; or when Big Bang strobed cosmos; good old days of which all is an absurd guess. Lighted a diya to Elephant God, prepared filter coffee and settled into Orhan Pamuk: Other Colours, Essays and A Story and Kala Ghoda Poems by Arun Kolatkar. Orhan Pamuk is marked and underlined by reads days ago; brief musings on many things including uncles and aunts and Albert Camus. Pamuk flips me into guesses over years starting at around age 24 when sports fields got blanked by words; sports became spectacles to watch and discuss not play; words earned a regular salary, became rolling stones in the brains. The Stranger of Camus me read of a whim at around 25 and have been phoning up the scenes till date at 70. Saw the film at New Empire, now gone, with Marcello Mastroiannai in the lead. Like Narayanathu Pranthan in Malayalam --- Mad Narayanan rolls stones uphill, chuckles at their rolling down; wish a Malayalam director makes a film; Meusrault in The Stranger, Sisyphus and Narayanan share absurdity. In Greek mythology, Sisyphus was the king of Ephyra. He was punished by being forced to roll a stone up hill, watch it roll down, till eternity. Who got there first with the idea, not sure; myths seem to have a way of seeping across the cosmos. Camus walked into me at 24, has not left me; mixed up with prayers and visits to Titvala. Possibly, Pamuk is better in Albert Camus: ' As time goes on, therefore, we cannot remember reading writers without also revisiting the world as we knew it when we first read them and recalling the incohate longings they awoke in us.When we are attached to a writer, it is not just because he ushered us into a world that continues to haunt us, but because he has in some measure made us who we are. Camus, like Dostoyevsky, like Borges, is for me this kind of elemental writer....These authors, read when you're young and reasonably hopeful, will inspire you to want to write books as well. ' Agreed Pamuk. But me has not gone beyond the folds of newspapers and some bylines, forgotten the morning the newspaper is sold. Camus and Arun Kolatkar have kept me a bit insane, moody ...an insufficiency... despite Writers Workshop publishing three volumes of poems, unread... and all that... Kala Ghoda and The Wayside Inn, now no more, were Kolatkar spaces...'Hand on hip you sit, straightbacked/in a torchwood yellow sari, blouse ditto,/ playing knucklebones with some of your friends..../ and a seemingly endless supply of which/you can produce at will, by reaching down/into the depths of your well-stocked clevage,/guarded at all times by two alert breasts.' Kolatkar puts sense into a Camusian absurdity. Suffices me; prompts me epitah: Born conventionally; Lived conventionally; Died conventionally. 

Crows or Corvus splendens

November 20, 2015.

To reader, if any, it is about crows in Bombay as Edward Hamilton Aitken (EHA) saw and wrote of them. In Zoo in the Garden, EHA elaborates on The Crows: 'The common grey-necked Crow has got the name of Corvus splendens; whether from the glossy blackness of its wings, or the splendour of its impudence, I will not pretend to say. It was once more aptly named Corvens impudicus, and one could wish that name had remained.' As of November 20, 2015, the gentleman or Lady is common; in Borivili the gentleman or Lady is in plenty and that without much of impudence; he or she is not scarce; mostly minds his or her business. For EHA in middle or late 1800s, ' in Bombay, the Crow population has multiplied to such an extent of late years that the competition for nesting materials has become terrible. In Marine Lines, as the season advances, the Crows patrol the road, or the garden-walks, waiting for sticks to fall, or they get up into the trees and tug at twigs which are still green and will not come off. It is not many years since a pair living in the Fort discovered a real El Dorado in an Optician's shop. They worked that mine so stealthily and cleverly that before they were discovered they had succeeded in abstracting about Rs.400 worth of spectacle frames, which they had worked up into a very superior nest, combining durability and lightness like a helical tube. The museum of the Bombay Natural History Society contains a ponderous nest made entirely of iron wire, taken apparently from the ruins of railway fences.' EHA alone can write like that; perhaps, an old gentleman in Sreevatsam in far Alleppey may not have read EHA but liked, rather enjoyed crow company. Morning breakfast was three idlis or three dosas for H.Gopalakrishnan, insists his daughter, Rama. Two and a half idlis or dosas for self; rest for crows waiting in the courtyard; the old man enjoyed the wild moment while wife disapproved. Crows for many of us represent dead ancients, to be fed rice; in Achchan, Tilakan imagines crow calls, of crows to be given lunches; crow is God Saturn's Merc. For sure, the old man H. Gopalakrishnan was aware, says Rama. In a tiny gesture, Rama and me are on trying to study crows; over two days, between 7 and 8 in the morning, me breaks up a Marie buiscuit, places the pieces on the grill of the window sill; wait; two crows, unsure of identity, land; caw; wait; me heads into the morning newspaper; Rama sips Horlicks; me pulls head out, crows and eats gone; for the house sparrows, one arranges broken pieces of Marie on a newspaper or plate; they are not complex as crows; hop in, breakfast, fly off; they are breeding in the loft. Crows are gentlemen; gentlemen are rascals; crows are also ladies; ladies are fair.    

More of Tadoba

November 19, 2015.

Rama said from the kitchen: 'Three days of forests, animals, silences. Else blanked out.' Yes, it did not strike me; twice or thrice Shreya and Chiyu floated in, otherwise easy blanks. For Ganesh, forest is a meditation; Vidya agrees; she did not think and talk of Chennai and office. We have yet to break the dream. Tadoba was there before us; will probably be after us. Tadoba and denizens took us in; not sure we did and do the same. Perhaps, Tadoba magic can never get read. Have jeeped Tadoba many times to be stranded at the gates. Silence is a confession of what me does not know. We may have created a power bureaucracy in the forests: Tigers at the top, rest below. That may not be so for forest Tadoba. It is for us. Jungle quails, three of them, edging their way along the mud track like pilgrims on pilgrimage; a barking deer; and undistinguished sat bhais (jungle babblers), twice; till date not know why sat bhais, when there are more in a crowd; what about the females and kids in the crowd. When for the first time, Paul and me stepped into Melghat Tiger Reserve with Sanjay Rithe, we came across sat bhais and a gaur; that was all. Since then they amuse me. They, the aam admis, are not matters serious for camera tourists; with all the high speed shuttering, do they relish the moments with bare eyes, wonder. But they are for Douglas Dewar, Edward Hamilton Aitken (EHA) and M. Krishnan, wildlife Marxists. Perhaps Douglas Dewar might have bumped into EHA; M. Krishnan belongs to the 20th century. They have mostly written on commoners, not princes.Writing more than 100 years ago, Douglas Dewar in Jungle Folk, Indian Natural History Sketches: 'I commend the common peafowl (Pavo cristatus) to the Indian patriot, for it is a true Swadeshi bird. It is made in India and nowhere else.' Spotted peafowl often at Tadoba, drove by. Dewar muses: 'India is peculiarly rich in birds of character. It is the happy hunting-ground of that unique fowl, Corvus splendens -- the splendid crow -- splendid in sagacity, resource, adaptiveness, boldness, cunning, and depravity; a Machiavelli, a Shakespeare among birds, a super-bird....Finally, Indian birds generally are characterised by their fearlessness of man. It is therefore comparatively easy to study their habits. I can count no fewer than twenty different species which, during past nesting seasons, have elected to share with me the bungalow that I happened to occupy. Is it then surprising that an unbounded enthusiasm should pervade the writings of all Indian naturalists, that these should constantly bubble over with humour? ...Our writings must, therefore, other things being equal, excel theirs.'  In me pocket garden in Borivili, sometimes sights crows, sparrows, squirrels; rarely Alexandrine parakeets, drongos ....our birds are scared of us ..our writers have little of birds in 2015... Tadoba save us. 

Bye, Saeed Jaffrey

November 18, 2015.

Rama and me went back to Shatranj ke Khiladi, Chashme Baddoor and Saeed Jaffrey. Smiled, chuckled over the remains of decencies lost. 'Romba nanna irrikku ( Fine),' exclaimed Rama watching Chashme. Saeed Jaffrey is a pleasant decency; Lallan Mian in Chashme Baddoor reminds clients of financial dues in polite, cynical lines, never ever suggesting violence; maybe those days bankers did the same when corporates did not pay back loans; in a New Delhi with shady lanes; of a New Delhi me has spent some days in ease. Sai Paranjpye and Chashme Baddoor are joys except for two minutes of a needless violence late in the film, suggesting perhaps of times to follow; and Sai is right. Ray can camera a story as few can and Munshi Premchand is a story teller better than all including Rabindranath Tagore; a Kabir; Sadgati with Om Puri and Smita Patil is the other Premchand story Ray filmed. Jaffrey as Mir Roshan Ali holds up to Sanjeev Kumar as Mirza Sajjad Ali; two chess players in ordinary stations cannot but play chess in extra-ordinary times; a chess board limits them; Munshi Premchand did not turn them into patriotic warriors as they could not be; Awadh is lost; they do not know; a king is checkmated, they know. Jaffrey's telling of Urdu is grace though me knows nothing of Urdu; its hard to choose between Urdu and Bengali. Shatranj is a 1977 film (saw it at Eros in 1978), Chashme is 1981; somewhat less tough times made up Sanjeev Kumar and Saeed Jaffrey; they fitted the times; pleasantly drunk times not tight times with gibes exchanged back pats; surely, that's not being oldy. Premchand, Ray, Sai, Saeed Jaffrey ill-fit 2015; wonder whether we have produced many better directors than Ray and Sai; they keep the screen elegant; Saeed Jaffrey and Sanjeev Kumar; Saeed turned bit roles into critical parts; the shootings could not miss him; there are no exaggerations to his style. Saeed Jaffrey is perhaps Nedumudi Venu in Malayalam films. Both are best being low tones as Nedumudi in Lal, Bhadur, Shastri. Saeed Jaffrey to me is like mornings with Mario in Economic Times, Laxman in Times, Busybee (Behram Contractor) in  Evening News; in Chashme Baddoor, the boss in the film is scanning a black and white Economic Times. Today, there is a bareness. Thank you, Janab for the laughs. Me am a bit late over you Saeed Jaffrey as me was laughing.  

Tadoba resorts ....

November 16, 2015.

Pug marks on soul. Red earth of Tadoba-Andhari Tiger Reserve churned by Maruti Gypsys on beard, back and body. Morning temperatures demand a thin cover; the first few cold breaths; a wind squeezes gentle sighs from teak, bamboo, arjun, palas, crocodile bark; trees taller than viewers; trees sewed by spider webs of giant wood spiders; webbed stands of trees for birds to park; will always be. From the MTDC hotel it is 30 minutes to Khutwanda gate; 5 a.m. we are on the three ft. wide tar track, a winding darkness bordered with lines of men and women defecating; being in the buffer zone, they are at risk, as tigers and leopards, have been spotted, reminds Diwakar; till two years ago, MTDC was perhaps the place to stay; today, in the buffer zone resorts are sprouting as crowds make their way to Tadoba; resorts Tadoba needs but is there a method in the business; Lokmat Times issue of November 14 reports: The National Green Tribunal has directed Assam government to clear its stand on eco-sensitive zones and how it has permitted large-scale hotel projects to come up in and around the Kaziranga National Park -- home to the famous one-horned rhinos. In two years, the resorts at Tadoba could be ATM machines and be a power centre for policy making; will they employ tribal men and women of the villages around the reserve? Will resorts not impact the Tadoba Andhari Tiger Reserve and the Erai and other water bodies in the buffer? Is there a way for private interests, villagers and forest department to link arms as without Tigers they wont be; the Tiger economy can malfunction if Tigers are elbowed. Maybe, best start could be to build covered latrines for women and men. Some years ago, plans of Gautam Adani to set up a power plant near the Reserve were effectively put down by locals. MTDC is a decent place with tea and coffee at 5 a.m.; has open spaces with teak and tamarind; me failed to hug their thick girth. On the way to MTDC, a few covered cages hold mischief leopards; the public cannot see; possibly, the forest department could do something better as the leopards cannot be blamed for human and cattle kills in the buffer zone. There is evidence of funds in public pockets; it could help if the poor tribals are made a part of protecting the reserve, buffer and water bodies; all, including visitors, need to be at the table to keep Tadoba going. Canters running on diesel, banned in parks, yell inside; saw a white caged Canter with public inside; Gypsy drivers are upset. There are daily limits on the number of Gypsys entering the Park to help violate less animal privacy; Canters could be getting round the rules. Will Tadoba be Ranthambhor? More Tiger business, less Tiger home. Sanctuaries may be embroidered parks; but they are the best of the worst for animals; if parks go or get cribbed, the End is nigh. 

Tadoba Lake

November 15, 2015.

3 p.m. Moharli Gate opened and from the Maruti Gypsy ahead a soft invocation: Ganpathi bappa moriya...me also called up Titvala Ganesh, a favourite...unsaid was a favour ... a Tiger sighting...me confess to a scorn of Tigerwallas .... but every forest trip and a Tadoba entry makes me something of a Tigerwalla.... is it the media mentions...is it the Tiger...Yes, it is the Tiger.. something akin to getting a college degree or the first job or an abiding dream .....a Tiger holds me and many, many else....Every time me enters a forest tells the guide a lie: jungle dekhna hai, Tiger ke liye no bhagos; ..a call or a whispered mention...and blood pressure ups....and when the sighting is on...the BP is 80/120; me is still; no meditation can do it; me has no explanation...know little of Tiger science...cant stand up to any scrutiny ...but every Tadoba visit and there have been a few, a  Tiger alone matters...going by wikipedia, Taru a village chief, was killed by a tiger; there is a temple under a tree for God Taru near the Tadoba Lake, a space of lifey waters... Tadoba forests as an historical entity started in 1955; they were there before; they will be forever. Spotted deer, sambar, nil gai ... saw a deer alone on a mud track winding to the skies; a sambar lipping at a water hole in a meadow...a sambar gives the impression of a buddha wondering over forest ways ..But then wildlifers will taunt and they may not be wrong; animals do not know humans and humans do not know animals, is a contention, me does not prefer. Over four visits, saw green bee-eaters...there seems to be an explosion in their numbers...some mud-bathing...a few flying overhead, skimming a bald skull...they were here, there, all over. And a resting gaur on the forest borders...rising up nimbly and moving away...Mornings at Navegaon meadows (with tribals relocated outside Tadoba Andhari Tiger Reserve under fair resettlement terms.) On the electric wires, a black shouldered kite nibbling a breakfast at around 8 in the morning; it hit the high skies, fluttered at a spot before diving down for the kill; a white-eyed buzzard looked around....but green beaters booked the show...on the way Ganesh eyed a pigmy woodpecker, tapping a dead, tree upside down, for eats. There is the mandatory Tadoba Lake wait; with all that water, there may just be a few dry minutes, if ever, in blinding summers; open billed storks, black ibis, a giant heron ...a crocodile, eyes above water....each into each's business... and a male sambar , horned head above water .....the Maruti Gypsy halted...we watched ..... wondering the next glimpse .....For me it is Tadoba or Tarubaba.

Chital

Sambhar

Green Bee Eater

Green Bee Eater

Black shouldered Kite

Open billed stork

Black Ibis

Sambhar

Begum, Choti Tara, Maya

November 15, 2015.

9.10 a.m. Bright Tadoba morning; a stillness. Maruti Gypsy was rolling by the Japanese Accident Spot. A tigress strolled across, some 15 ft. away from us, moved forward, turned, smelled a teak leaf, legged towards our Gypsy before stepping into the wild; from behind a bamboo grove, a sambar deer protested the deed as the tigress had made a kill of its kid; guide Yogesh and Ganesh sited a hint of the act; we were alone with the tigress; we were quiet for long, Vidya, Ganesh, Rama and me; then the silent moments dripped away. None has yet named the strongly built three year old tigress, a few have spotted it, said Yogesh; me named it Begum. At the Tadoba gate there is a wall cartoon: An astrologer examining the palm of a visitor, predicting: Nobody can assure you a tiger and that is the fun of it. Yes, astrologer. Tadoba or Taru the adivasi god, namaskar. On the afternoon outing, at the Jamli meadows, driver Diwakar heard a deer bell, a langur cackle; switched off the engine; Gypsies rolled in; sighted collared Chhoti Tara striding the meadow, back and then forth, her territory; wish there was something more comfortable than a collar round her neck; sure, scientists have to know all about Chhoti Tara to form their theories, lasting at best a day; me believes an animal cannot be predicted; wonder, do we need all the know-how; she rolled on the forest floor, triumphing with her tail up; a crowd of deer started on a run as Chhoti Tara went across the meadow, Oooming, Oooming, Oooming ..... the lighted 3.30 p.m.afternoon; a nervy baby deer moved back and forth; Rama wept for the baby; some 30 vehicles shut down; camera shutters firmly lipped; Chhoti Tara impressed; she crossed the road; the Gypsies turned for her; but the Lady said no more; the two hour show was over. Ganesh was busy into tasting his shots. Friday morning the guide bent his ears to sambar and deer notes; the Hanuman langur pitched in from a high on a teak tree; at Pander Pauni 2, we waited with many others; from behind a Canter, Maya darshan came in, yet again at 9.10 a.m.; the head came first, then the Memsaheb,  Maya Memsaheb, in full view, about five feet from me; she walked past her awed admirers, for a moment Ganesh came off the lens to appreciate with bare eyes; went past to turn straight into a forest track; stepped into a meadow where her two cubs were waiting, presumed the guide. Guides were one on a single fact: Maya enjoys admirers. Maya, Maya hi hai. Tadoba .... Begum, Chhoti Tara, Maya...Khuda Hafeez.

Begum

Choti Tara

Maya

Maya - Bye

November 11, 2015.

Planning a trip to Tadoba, Ganesh inquired me identity. 'At the forest gates, they will ask for Aadhaar and PAN,' he said. Few times have gone to Tadoba, seen tigers, me being the identity, no cards; seen tigers and other animals and they demanded nothing; perhaps, they are happy without us. Me has Nilekani Aadhaar and PAN; when me dies will carry Aadhaar and PAN for entry into wherever me is slotted to enter. If Americans have the their Security number, we should have Aadhaar, goes the logic. Ganesh and Vidya have passports; Rama and me have not. Never applied for a passport; have seen bits of India without passport. Have been brooding over this lack of passport; like never owning a car, nay a bike or a cycle; cannot ride a cycle; never a patriot, so that's ruled out; more keen on seeing India, yes; as a journalist reporting beat started at Kasturi Building, Churchgate, extended upto Mint Street via Oval Maidan, University Tower, Flora Fountain, Horniman Circle; that did not demand any identity; mostly rested at Oval Maidan watching the Clock Tower belling and un-belling time; reminds me of Father Time at the Lord's cricket ground; the second stop was Horniman Circle, where me lay down on the grass or on the benches, steamy afternoons; yes, once took No.81 BEST bus from Mantralay to Worli where the Passport offices were located; was given a many pages form after standing an hour in a line; the form asked too many details of me, which me did not know; grandfather's name; disgusted, binned the form; that, one could say, was me lone foreign trip. When son Ganesh was billetted in New Jersey for two years, he offered a trip; me and Rama declined; we had no passports; Rama as always keen on Alleppey and Sreevatsam. Today, on Diwali, have nothing to do, flipping  PAN and Aadhaar; for Aadhaar one stood in lines for hours over two days, courtsey Nilekani; the last Diwali cracker burst was in 1961; abandoned crackers when Jawaharlal Nehru pleaded for restraint after the 1962 scrum with China; those days Nehru was heard and listened; he was like that; started again on a heavily marked Orhan Pamuk, Other Colours: Essays and a Story. In about a 400 words write up:' Giving up smoking', Pamuk winds down: His call does not frighten me. Because, as you can see, writing - if you're happy with it - undoes all sorrows.' Smoking, me has not given up; writing, nothing near to Orhan Pamuk. No sorrows, thanks be Orhan Pamuk. Happy Diwali Pamuk. 

November 10, 2015.

Happy Deepavali, Aji wished Ajoba oil massaging arthritic legs of Aji. Aji today is not into idli, sambhar, Mysore pak...in pain...nothing enthused her when her mobile acted: Happy Deepavali, cheeped Shreya; humlog aarahe hain (we are coming); Happy Deepavali chirped Chiyu; Aji, sambhar aur vada, haan. Bye. Aji danced her arthritic legs to Ajoba beats on a wooden table. Aji and Ajoba were tanked up, satisfied cars out of a petrol pump; Dakhi mobiled again demanding an avial to go with onion sambhar. Shreya, Chiyu and Dakhi in new clothes and home made farals; for Aji and Ajoba, a crowd most welcome. Ajoba took down purchase orders for vegetables, pappadams and coconuts from Raju, three packets of Peppy, sweet buns....funds deficit will not matter.... udhar... Aji, bathed and dressed, left for Vajeera Ganesh temple, being Tuesday and Deepawali...pleading the best for Shreya and Chiyu. Ajoba made home presentable with Madhavi going to her village...charged Aji's mobile for clicks.....Shreya and Chiyu have a routine...playing Concentration, at the swings in the housing society, youtube Salman Khan dances for Chiyu, making up stories for Shreya and long chats ...Shreya delights ...of her school, teachers, friends....Orhan Pamuk in Other Colours, Essays and a Story, has a two page essay To Be Happy. Orhan Pamuk pieces with daughter Ruya are Amul icecreams, never stopping with one stick or one lick or one read. For Ajoba, Shreya and Chiyu become Ruya; he is no Pamuk. Doing something again and again, Shreya and Chiyu at home, ..yes, when they become women, Ajoba may not be ...but today's moment  ..for Ajoba...Desires in Buddhist freeze/in no breeze/Life today in an/ Shreya, Chiyu unfreeze. Pamuk writes: ' When I go to the seaside with my four-year-old daughter, Ruya, I become the happiest man in the world. What does the happiest man in the world want most? He wants, of course, to carry on being the happiest man in the world. This is why he knows how important it is to do the same things every time .....On the way back, while I'm pulling Ruya's wagon, we're both tired and happy. We're thinking about life, and about the sea behind us, and we don't say a word.' Door bell Deepavali crackles; in pop Shreya and Chiyu into Aji hugs... 

November 9, 2015.



85-year old, cancered friend Srinivasan stepped into a Meru for Santa Cruz Airport. Flying to an Old Man's Home in Coimbatore. Yogi Nagar will not see anything of him, a slip away, said Rama watching Malayalam film Achchan, with Tilakan, the Perunthachchan of  Malayalam films. In the intro shots, Achchan in bed, in a crouch, bum up, head hidden in pillow; caretaker, Rahitan walks in; film of an old and a young. Like Major Maman (Major Madhavan Menon), Srinivasan, bubbled living; a chartered accountant, did not make it to the company's board, made it to the door of the board room; kept aside phone calls for wife and two daughters; 'ennoda ushir (my life)' he said his friends in Tamil denying himself parties and a few rums; today earns a pension of Rs.25,000. Twenty years ago, his wife Kavita became a black and white pix in the wallet; one daughter went to US, a second looked after him in Yogi Nagar. Achchan Tilkan, sent his wife to a son in US to oversee birth of a grandchild; wife a framed, garlanded pix on the wall; second son in Bengaluru; Tilakan and keeper Rahitan aka Gopalakrishnan (Sasi Eranjikkal). Srinivasan, always a front-bencher strung with every university gold medal worth competing and claiming; a chartered accountant and a mechanical engineer, mentioned in company annual reports; with a pix interviewed in the front page of Economic Times; Srinivasan every one chanted or he thought so. On the youtube, film, Achcan rolled as Rama went on with her telling of Srinivasan; Rahitan gets a job as Block Development Officer; US son books a room for Tilakan in an Orphans Home; Tilakan drives Rahitan to be a BDO; stays at home; shuts the door, alone. Srinivasan is Achchan, remarked Rama; two same stories; one on youtube; another in Yogi Nagar. None checked whether Srinivasan became an orphan at Orphan's Home; his daughter called on Sunday and on Sunday no calls are taken; Srinivasan is without a mobile; left it with daughter; has none to call; Achchan never calls. Achchan does not talk the film. Rahitan offers a drink, spoons kanji to Tilakan; thinks of killing the old man; has not a heart; Achchan becomes Rahitan's father. Will anyone feed Srinivasan: yes, he has money, funds in banks; no fun alone being with cancer, says Rama. None knows. Srinivasan is a back-bencher with gold medals in custody with second daughter at Yogi Nagar;  some time left for trees, birds, suns and moons; but, Srinivasan will be strapped to pain killers, not an address to his name; for a future mention. Film ends...Rama is crying......for Achchan and Srinivasan.... 

November 7, 2015.

This morning, Madhavi was brisk. Pulled out the steel ladder from its corner, placed it against the loft, swept down dated lots of The Indian Express, Mint and Mathrubhoomi; squatted on the floor, arranged neatly yesterdays words of news for the raddi. Looking up at Rama, made a face; the waste did not have much weight when Shankar, the raddiwalla scaled it; at Rs.9 per kg, the pile up weighed 11 kg. She kept me out of the process; in her view me was sympathetic to the raddiwalla than her; what she was quiet about was uncle, me, could be tricked by Shankar; got Rama to oversee the weighing and pricing; "Bahut kam hai," she moaned to Rama and added 'Uncle o mota paper nahin leta hai; Uncle ko kya ho gaya,' Perhaps, she was referring to Times of India plus Mumbai Mirror, with raddi value AAA+ rated by Madhavis and Shankars; Madhavi reads Kannada while Shankar reads nothing; me had dropped Times for Mint with Keynesian compassion for the rich (John Maynard Keynes is the favoured economist of Dr. Raghuram Govind Rajan). Rama has placed Madhavi in charge of raddi and the funds realised on sales; financial fates were linked to raddi sales; this morning Madhavi had dreamed of at least Rs.200, an ex gratia to go with a month's Deepavali bonus; she will be on Deepavali offs with her mother and children in a village near Kolhapur. Patil, the newspaper man was also upset when me shifted loyalties to Mint; 'saab, ye kya', he moans still and is trying to get me back to Times of India, where me started as a trainee journalist in 1970; possibly, Patil gets a higher commission; brokering smiles in Madhavi and Patil, me is into Sunday Times; the first moves of a smile and not an entire smile; Sunday Times if also off the menu; preparing the home and mornings for ushering in The Hindu expected any time now from Mumbai, going by a Facebook blog. The Hindu could be the last newspaper from Mumbai. Guts in the timing, when everyone, including journalists, is talking of the demise of print. Rama and me have to strike a Pareto optimum; Rama wants to do away with newspapers; The Hindu does not excite Ganesh; Madhavi, Patil and Shankar prefer spot trading in The Times of India to futures and options in The Hindu. Worked seven years in Times; some two years in The Hindu and 13 years in Hindu Business Line. Attired in middle class loyalties, prefer Times and The Hindu; help Madhavi and Patil; Rama reminds me of slack funding; 'Why all this? Is Arnab not enough for you,' she asks. Remind her: 'Arnab has no raddi value.'

November 6, 2015.

No walking this morning. Me in me arm chair, window, rain trees, sky with parakeets swimming and screeching morning air, pigeons....and thinking the day's blog ... Ruskin Bond writes,'I came here when I was nearing fifty. Now I'm seventy, and instead of drying up, as some writers do in their later years, I find myself writing with as much ease and assurance as when I was twenty....And I enjoy writing...Its not a burdensome task.' Bond is a writer, me a journalist; a typist of press notes is a journalist; a writer is minus press notes; a Bond is read; me am not; a blog, a blogger and a like; 2015 Chekov literature. Rama serves off the tawa, Akki rotis with gunpowder ... a Facebook menu made of Madams rice powder ...it goes well with filter coffee. Two house sparrows land up; me shares Akki rotis; they fly off. And Rama dips into her arm chair with Akki rotis and we talked of Dombivili times when Deepavali meant an anxious wait for the bonus to land in empty pockets; Rama would count the notes twice over when me brought them from office; no cheques; cash; and that evening bypassed Press Club and drinks; every newspaper group me worked, did give a bonus; ahead of Deepavali in Bombay there would be bonus strikes with the textile strike being a sure Deepavali rite...till the last day Millowners' Association, Bombay will say no, trade unions will reject offers, political calls made and then a 8.33 per cent Deepavali bonus; every year the same copy typed on the same typewriter; sometimes typed the story for the next year. Rama would wait for the bonus to touch home before planning the itinerary. Deepavali sweets: mixture, ribbon pakoda, mysorepak, thattai and farals learnt from friend Vasanthi; Rama will note down the raw materials to be bought from the Marwari; with schools shut, Vidya, Dakhi and Ganesh had no time to wait; those were times when the entire family sat together on the floor for lunch and dinner with Rama taking the centre; and to Dombivili East for clothes and crackers; Vidya, Dakhi and Ganesh busy in putting up mud killas (forts) with their friends; dressing and ponding the killas; a week and more of funning; home was laughs, shouts and chewing. And today, there is no bonus; IT companies give performance bonuses, not Deepavali bonus; with most IT companies linked to foreign clients, no Deepavali for most; they enjoy Christmas; no buying textile jigs in crowded shops; Ganesh and Vidya order the world online; Dakhi, Shreya and Chiyu are planning an InOrbit trip for clothes and crackers; Joshi Bandhoo in Borivili for faral. Rama and me sit and wait; the Akki rotis are over. Keep the doors open for Shreya, Chiyu and Grandmother Dairies of Kartik Iyer... 

November 5, 2015.

At street corners, school girls and boys in fancy dress, were waiting the morn for school buses; school girls and boys from the Link Road Dahisar slums, in drabs, were trudging to the municipal school on Eksar Road. A Chiyu-size lady of Rustomjee School in Gandhi dress with grandpa's walking stick and her father at the Shanti Ashram turning...unsure whether Gandhi is a risky, calling card in today's near-shut-India...for me Gandhi is Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi not Mahatma Gandhi.Chiyu-sized girl stepped into the bus and me into a walk. Me lives. Me walks. Living in jitters. Walkers return Hari Oms and Jay Shree Rams for Good Mornings. There is Hindutva India; there is still a plural India; Hindutva India is violent, bullets and lynchs; plural India of Dr. Raghuram Rajan, Shah Rukh Khan, Arundhati Roy ... pleads for chairs at talking tables.. there is Anupam Kher upset over Hindus, Kashmiri Pandits, driven out of Kashmir by Muslims; me goes with him; that act of driving Kashmiri Pandits was cruel; as tearing down the Babri Masjid. For Babri, Hindus should say Sorry to Muslims; Muslims return the Sorry for Kashmiri Pandits; a hug and a Khuda Hafeez. Me can understand the twins; but not a third with names like Amitabh Bachchan and Sachin Tendulkar. They are neither this nor that; Amitabh has rarely spoken on anything except while hosting Kaun Banega Crorepati; or when yelling in Deewar and Zanzeer; a non-commercial film, he has not serenaded; his grim wife Jaya is a Rajya Sabha MP; son and daughter-in-law are into films, though flops; every politician of every shade is a family friend; all bases covered. Sachin Tendulkar is of the same imprint; in recent times has adopted a village in Andhra Pradesh; never wrote or spoke a quarrel; me did not go beyond 15 pages of Sachin Tendulkar: Playing it my way. Sachin became a Rajya Sabha MP in Sonia times. Is it the money way for Amitabh and Sachin; maybe, the two are playing their ways. 'Unfair' me friend says. Not being anything, neither a Karna nor an Abhimanyu; neither a Rama nor a Krishna; a phot-op living in Juhu and Bandra; a live-in with cash; akin to tracking the paramatman by our saints with zilch concern for the living; Buddha and Brahma, a selfishness; isn't it a lonely existence, Amitabh and Sachin. To be fair, Gandhi never sat down, stood up. In another 50 years where and what will be Shreya and Chiyu; and the many, many school girls and boys me meets every morning, me Happy Morning hours. Amen. 

November 4, 2015.

Niranjan Sadashiv cleaning vegetables, grinning to self, hailed  'Good morning'. His daughter taught him, claims Sadashiv. Today, is in rhyme; Ram ratan dhan payo re; hawks vegetables with their English names. Aloo has become potato; kanta, onion; seekh raha hoon saheb (learning), he says. Bhelpuri India; a nuanced Bhelpuri India; a Bahurupi street production of dusts, drums, desires, dreams. Over months and years, between tending to customers, has unloaded me an autobiography; a Benarasi; you have seen Masaan in Hindi on screens; come with me to Benares for Ganga Mayya and Harishchandra Ghat; me strong wish, a walk down stone steps of ghats, a dip in Ganges, a puri-bhaji in whirling lanes. Patha hai saab, mera janam kaise hua? Sadashiv asks. Mother, carrying Niranjan, was resting in a charpoy in her hut; from an overhead beam hung a snake; the lady was scared; promised to name the child, Niranjan, if a boy; snake slipped away. Boy Niranjan Sadashiv came alive in Benares; some 40 years ago on a morning when a snake came and went. Swimming the Ganges, boating the Ganges, tending to farms with waters from the Ganges ... living Ganges; her flow marks on Niranjan; twice a year is with her flowing the ghats.... Niranjan has two daughters and one son ...aur abhi nahin, he states decidedly. Two daughters are in the primary of Maculate school (Lady Immaculate School); son in St. Francis Assisi opposite the Lady Immaculate Church at the far end of LIC Colony; they take the school bus; wife, an eighth class, is learning English from her daughters. Today she wished her husband, 'Good morning', reveals a shy Niranjan. When he goes home, elder daughter rushes with a glass of cold, matka water, mentions Niranjan with a tear marbling eyes. "Hamare mein ladki ko koi padatha nahin hai (they dont school girls)," he says and adds: Mere bachche college jayenge (My children will go to college). By 9 he is at the street corner till about one in the afternoon; back again at 4 till 9 and more; in the mango season, hours are more as fruits have to be delivered at homes in Yogi Nagar; is in business relations with most Gujarathi families and their business politics. Lives in Dongri-Eksar, deposits cash in Dena Bank, never taken a bank loan. In recent times, is into mobile orders ....some six years ago, there were at least four mall-type supermarkets; today they are not; shops alter bill-boards regularly in Yogi Nagar; Niranjan is. 

November 3, 2015

'Onnu chirichhu, paththu divasam (laughed 10 days).' Sethumadhavan after a trip to Kavipuram. No TV, no Jagathi, no Innocent and their loudness; chaikkada (chai shop), samsaram (talk), paruppu wada, old times ...of an aged couple with grandkids in clocks ago regularly making it to the chaikada;promising payments; they lived in a ghost house; male ghost friend of grandpa and female ghost of grandma; the ghosts loved each other, had no time for others; of a Brahmin mistaking his keep in darkness. 'Inggane, anggane (this way, that way),' said Sethumadhavan. Chai and coffee no difference; some chaikadas are demanding payment in rials and dirhams. 'Oru sukham (a pleasure)'. No ambalangal (temples) and sin of sins no Guruvayurappan. Sethumadhavan is a bit of the Sakha, a gone tribe in Kerala. Sethumadhavan cannot be vulgar which is what Malayalam laugh today is. TV channels bulge with it; me has not had a laugh for long from Jagathi and Innocent; Tamil humour damages ears. Thinking of it, did Draupadi joke with her five husbands; did Arjuna share a laugh with Bhima; did Sita tickle Rama; why are they so grim with dharma, adharma, atman, paramatman; did anyone share a food joke with Bhima, the ultimate foodie; or thought of promoting Bhima a gymming machine short on brains; did Sita koel or croak; did Arjuna ever try to be a Kamadevan; or me as usual may be wrong; anything improper; no sex jokes; subtle versions; in a private chat R.K. Laxman dubbed Hanuman as the first arsonist. Why are religions grim as cement blocs. Perhaps ...a very perhaps, Malluland can take the credit of publishing humour collections. Friend Narayana Karunakara Kurup in February 2013 presented a book to Rama: Namboodiri Phalithangal (Namboodiri humour) by Kunjunni; published by Current Books; cost Rs.40. Humour should be read more than told, intros Kunjunni. Namboodiri humour in Malayalam is tops, followed by Chakyar sayings; then Mappila fun. ..writes the author and adds: 'The collection is not complete; is unartistic; impure; readers please forgive; help to bring out another unlike edition. Me book stumbles but laughs when Rama reads it out. Am not aware whether Malluland laughs or smiles or grins anymore for a publisher to print a fresh collection. Me makes a clannish claim: Mallu was delightful laughter. Today, he needs a Mohanlal video to smile. Chirikkan marannupoyo, sakhave? 

November 2, 2015.

Diyas, rangolis, stickers, small plastic squares holed with designs of gods and goddesses...retailed by women, men and children.... have taken their places on Borivili Station Road a week ahead of Deepavali; on Sunday the road was not, retailers having taken over...Rama was searching for a plastic square with her favourite Ganesh...the poor lady filled the square with white rangoli, tapped it on the road and there came Lord Ganesh without mouse....Rs.10 per piece...Rama picked up two of them even as two customers nudged her...bahinji jara... to test check diyas, perhaps made in Kumbharwada in Dharavi; then for six colours of rangoli, Rs10 per glass, for Rs.50, discount Rs.10 ...Rama felt the rangoli in her fingers, chichieed the quality but went for the deal. Then there was an uprising, the road empty; an advance notice of a municipal raid ... the covered lorry moved in ...why the lorry on a Sunday when haftas are posted to municipality and police without default; the cuts to local goons of political parties; doing business has not become easy...lorry goes away... hawking is back. As Sunday turns Monday and onward, more retailers and customers...a step backward or forward took a minute on Sunday...no business paper and news channel have looked at these folk, their debt-equity ratios, gross and net profits and the many other arithmetics me is not sure of; banks dont fund street retails; will Bandhan do it ?; every Deepavali they shoot up to disappear for the next Deepavali; they dont yell their sells; products laid out for free sampling; from rangoli to STM Tea & Coffee for peaberry filter coffee; the shop never shuts; open the year and business papers say labour laws in India restrict business; the 60 plus Dada, living in Gorai, nods at us pouring roasted peaberry seeds into an electric mixer; the powder tumbles out hot and fragrant; Rs. 480 per kg. Rama and me do it every month, a rite done in fervour. Turning into L.T. Road, we walk into a cloth stretch with towels and bedsheets, pants and shirts, colouring a non existent road and pavement. At organised shops, a pair of towels costs Rs.200; on L.T. Road it is Rs.100; Rama had done a recce and picked up a bright coloured pair for Rs.100; having saved Rs.100, me in smiles strode into Madhuram for samosas (Rs. 16 a piece), Calcutta kala jams (Rs. 30 a piece) and dhoklas. At home, placed the towels in cold water to get rid of street dust; went into the eats; in the bathroom the towels lost colour, turned body kerchiefs. Chewing a kala jam wondered over Doing and Dealing with business.