First Garden of the Republic

'The Indian Grey Hornbills become unusually vocal too, flying from tree to tree to check out cavities for nesting, even trying to evict parakeets from the spots that they like! In response, the parakeets duck inside in the cavities, emerging only after the encroaching hornbills have left. The latter are occsionally seen engaging in territorial fights with other hornbills, fighting beak to beak. Pairs of the Black-rumped Flameback can also be seen checking out holes on tree trunks which they can hollow out and deepen for their nests,' writes Ghazala Shahabuddin in First Garden of The Republic, Nature in the President's Estate, Rashtrapati Bhavan. A happening in a New Delhi spring. Me read the lines many times over; whiled over the book about a more than 100 year old garden in New Delhi. Lord Hardinge, viceroy of India, in 1912 rode up the slope of Raisina Hill to locate the Government House. The final site was the brow of Raisina Hill. 'A 330-acre Estate with a house that covered five acres, 15 acre of ornamental gardens with lush greenery and lavish water fountains: in a country where most people worked their tiny fields to the utmost to coax out a living, a pleasure garden was the ultimate form of conspicuous consumption. Such profligacy, and at such spectacular scale, proclaimed the pre-eminence of British Raj over its dominion and subjects,' says Amita Baviskar. December 31, 2016, we should Thank Lord Hardinge for the Mughal gardens, the spacious green patch; grateful to W.R. Munroe, William Mustoe and Edwin Lutyens. In 2016, city planners have been scraping the green off old cities like Mumbai, Kolkata, Chennai, Bengaluru and New Delhi; ponds, trees, gardens, walks, open spaces do not inform their plans. The Estate has a manicured look with golf grounds and sore car parks .....less draped with forests ..., suggest the writers. Yes, the golf grounds and football field and car parks should go but for that we need a President with green paints. The book (except for the pix of Mr. Pranab Mukherjee) with color pics is me read of 2016. For the Gardens to live another 100 years, gardeners are a must; the Gardens were tapped and touched and tampered by families of gardeners over years; a cash crunch seems to have done away with the bond; the Gardens are today tended more by contract workers with less feel for the earth the Gardens. This should go immediately; hands should be retained, made permanent, for knowhow to flow and be stored; the Gardens need love in plenty and gardeners alone can offer. Sadly Amita Baviskar does not dwell on the lives of the gardeners, picking a family for mention. The Gardens need to be more wild; a team of old gardeners should guide the job as they are experts; and their suggestions should be binding; Presidents will come and go and we have not had a green thumb President. Will it happen? Will the Gardens turn a flower pot in times when green is much disliked? Pray, not. Gardens and gardeners: A Happy 2017. 

A Song 116

Ajoba,
Dandi marched
Eksar Road,
December morning,
for a blood test
ordered by the doctor.
Climbed a floor,
collected a token
at the lab;
edgy,
on the lip of a sofa,
when a nurse called:
'Zero number'.
Tapping a walking stick,
Zero number walked to an arm
chair,
flopped into it.
Nurse asked his age;
Zero number replied: 'maithi nahi'.
She thrust a needle into
a torniquet arm;
blood did not flow;
pricked a second time;
no blood.
Zero number
unpocketed a disabled sparrow
picked on the march;
Nurse needled the bird;
bloodless.
Nurse hailed nurse,
the lab called police;
Zero number
was put against a wall,
searched,
a beedi fell out;
'Terrorist' breathed inspector;
 Zero number
begged for matches
to light the fallen beedi;
denied.
'No clues;
No blood spills.
No kills.'
Noted the inspector
in a pocket book.
Zero number,
with sparrow
perched on head,
Dandi marched
home.   

A Song 115

Mumbai
lies blistered
on a freshly laid
wooden bench,
on Link Road,
in throbs of crowds,
an
abandoned
verse.

Cricket

Cricket today and yesterday swamps. Prefer watching Australia against Pakistan in Australia to England versus India in India. A Jawahar House versus Gandhi House cricket match was on at the Maidan in 50s Calcutta. Me was a kid, fun and a bald red, hard used cricket ball; three stumps at one end of an up and down stretch of grass in a corner of the Maidan; one stump at the opposite end, the bowler's mark; 22 steps separated the bowler from the batter with one heavy pad on the left leg preventing any singles, two worn gloves; me was the captain of Jawahar House; the pacers bowled, runs got scored and me thinks, after a long ago today, Gandhi House were 24 for no loss; a change in bowling, always from one end; off spinners; took four wickets and was to make my mark on the ICC list with a fifth wicket when a howl flew over the Maidan; Jasu Patel has helped India beat Australia at Kanpur; G. S. Ramchand was the India captain; Jawahar and Gandhi were forgotten; the fifth wicket did not come by to me; we celebrated without without details; like the high noon tides in river Hooghly taking over Strand Road. And the second match was at the green patch of St. Xavier's College, Park Street. Think it was B.A. Economics versus B.A. Political Science. Me was taken into B.A. Economics there being a shortage of players; we won the toss and the captain got me to open, face the bowling as others did not want to open; one pad, two gloves, scored 26 runs, and someone called me Hobbs. Did not know Hobbs and still do not know the gentleman as for me West Indian cricketers alone are cricketers. With probably an exception. Noob, Tiger, Nawab of Pataudi. Me wanted to be him. Did not, was not worth it. Then the little ambition to cover sports; as a Trainee Journalist in the Times of India was dumped into business reporting forever.... like all cricketers waited for the easy ball and a four.. it came when in Business Line, me got to report India Interior and wildlife... there is something of sports in wildlife ... there is colour, breed tells, power is never graceless, and compassion lurks....both offer chuckles if not laughs ... and sad to say both in 2016 are hurt by corporates ... corporate profits have reduced Test cricket to T20... badminton will be 11 points, five setters....; corporate profits want to mine forests, rivers, seas, skies ...everything is up for monetary digging. Mike Brearley writes: 'But I am now less inclined than I was twenty years ago to take a high moral-aesthetic line. Cricket embodies enough aspects of life, and captaincy many more. One who finds a career that fits in with some of his earliest dreams, and finds that career intensely fulfilling, is indeed fortunate.' Cricket and surely all sports came early; wildlife came late; Mr. Brearley me never thought or desired to be a journalist. Have no regrets. Cricket and wildlife, thanks for that.    

Banyans

Sun had not got up. Morning asleep. There were no street lights; lorry, bike, car lamps. Walkers, men and women, ghosted Link Road on their ways to LIC Colony. Could not make out trees and birds. In a coat of pleasant chill, Ajoba stumbled along; hugged the rather bare silk cotton; paused long before clutches of pink bougainvillea fronting Chancellor housing society; recent days appreciates the shrub though for reasons, he does not know; he holds the flowers, pats them, let goes; and then the up and down of Karuna Road with nuns hurrying to and from prayers at IC Church. They are into gods not trees and flowers though the Missionaries of Ajmer has something of a garden; wonder who many high rises on Link Road have gardens; perhaps none as architects provide for ever insufficient car parking spaces. A halt at a call from the banyan outside Karuna Hospital: 'I am feeling alone; good that you have come along', said the banyan who should be Ajoba age, if not more; 'I have fruited', the banyan, named Karuna, said; and there were the red berries to prove the point; 'but no birds; I am a banyan without birds,' said Karuna and there was no karuna in the tone. At that moment, two or three koyals hurried out of the banyan calling chased by cawing crows; the fruit bats at the nearby rain trees were not keen on the red offerings or so it seemed. A municipal employee had cleared the base of the banyan of gods and saints; it looked neat as Ajoba familiarly patted Karuna. Ficus Bengalensis. The English gave it the name Banyan as traders or banias used to assemble under the tree for business and worship, write Marselin Almeida and Naresh Chaturvedi in The Trees of Mumbai. There are many in LIC Colony and Karuna looks somewhat ancient. 'Am here before Karuna Hospital got built; not sure how long I will be around,' wondered the banyan and then landed a left hook; 'at the Karuna Hospital oxygen is fed by pipes to patients even as the public cuts trees in the world outside,' remarked the banyan; Ajoba rushed for his heart; it was beating okay. 'Yes' you have a point, a major point, said Ajoba and the entire banyan nodded. 'If birds dont come, I will not fruit again; will wait and go away before they cut me to pieces; you wont see me again; others in LIC Colony have agreed on the idea,' explained the banyan. 'We cant live without company; you, Ajoba, run away in cars; birds are absent; why be around unwanted.' Ajoba clutched at a hanging root as he could not do anything better. After an upsetting morning, Ajoba slid into a reading of First Garden of The Republic: Nature in the President's Estate; Rashtrapati Bhavan, New Delhi. A history of India's famous garden glues Ajoba. It may be not the oldest garden but surely is the grandest piece of brick and stone set in green. And it has birds, animals, insects.  

A Song 114

Priest to Ajoba:
Pray,
prepare for the
pilgrimage.
Ajoba,
head down,
walked
away.

Reita Faria

About 20 and in Calcutta. Falling in and out of women. Notes of incorrectness applauded. There was no pride in being a bhakt. And one 1966, November morning, The Statesman, Calcutta, carried a news item: Reita Faria is Miss World. Reita was 23 and today 73. Jumped in joy; booms in the heart; fell in love with Reita Faria; wrote a short Letters to the Editor, The Statesman, clapping Miss World. The letter got published. Had then cuttings of the news item; lost them. Friends looked down on her; The Statesman carried her flag. And after some time Reita fell away as me realised she would not be my friend and partner. But she was there. Today The Sunday Express magazine carries a detailed write up on the Lady by Sunanda Mehta. She a star in the sky and me a dot of earth, not a kissing chance. A medical student from Grant Medical College, Bombay, she is a Goan. Only Goans among Indians lap life, dance life, laugh life like the sea off their homes. None else. Simply, none else. Born to Goan parents she lived in Matunga and then settled down in Dublin. Mehta quotes her: 'the glamour world could have never given me this grounded security. I wish the girls today would realise the fleeting nature of fame and looks. Running after these flashes of publicity, trying to hold onto what changes so rapidly and always looking out for variety, be it in ambitions or relations, is bound to cause distress. It's unusual for a celebrity to make for a happy family these days, but this is where real happiness lies -- in secure relationships,' she says. .....When David and I look back at our life - 49 years together, including four before marriage - we realise we have each other, good health, children and grandchildren, and still so many shared interests from golf to skiing. What more does one want? I have my whole world.'  A Tuka, a Kabir and a Shankaracharya of Bhaja Govindam will be proud of Reita, having found her metier of happiness. Sunanda Mehta writes a Faria life in a dear old happy way, bringing a Sunday happiness to me. Today the essay tasted better than coffee. Today, Faria, Firpos, Trincas, Park Street, the Maidan, Lakes became live. Do not know whether today Faria will be appreciated by activists and the rest; there will be howls of protest; Reita Faria does not chant femininism as that was not the fashion in those times; those times, men and women loved, Casablanca years, smoked, drank, sang out of tune....rolled along.. improper times or Reita Faria times come back again... we are too serious for all that... not sufficiently flowery, flippant.. Thanks Reita for a fun Sunday. 

A Song 113

Ajoba primary,
Ajoba secondary,
scorned
a December sun
bedding Link Road;
'Javu ya,'
eagerly suggested
Ajoba primary;
walked to
Borivili station,
bought platform tickets,
stood on broken benches
there being no standing space;
watched
Maggi noodles
of
men,
women,
children,
siggle
in and out
of figgled locals
clad with Maggi ads.
Ajis had warned
of noodling
noodled locals.
After
many watches,
swapped vada pavs
for chats ---
vendor being
Ajoba tertiary.
Walking back,
stepped into
Dupe Laundry
with diddled
memories
for wash.
At Yogi Stores
bought a double pack
Maggi zoodles
for dear, muddled Ajis
in fuddles.

A Song 112

On Link Road,
a cool, December morning
hunches unsure
over a wood fire,
as
Ajoba airing
Hanuman Chalisa,
bathes his Maruti Zen,
towels his Maruti Zen,
hugs his Maruti Zen;
dresses his Maruti Zen in zendu
flowers,
lights Cycle brand agarabattis,
being Maruti Zen's naming
event;  
Aji tinkles a bell,
invokes the Elephant God,
names Maruti Zen: Meenu.
That's what the astrologer said.
Airing
Rama, Krishna, Hari,
Ajoba takes the wheel
Aji beside,
drive into a jam session
on Link Road,
dissolve in
cars on skies,
cars on roads,
cars on pavements,
Maruti Zen moments. 

Fantails

Its about fantail flycatchers. White-browed or whitespotted? Have been shunting between LIC Colony and Dr. Salim Ali's The Book of Indian Birds. Over the week has been sighting fantails on Ayappa Mandir Marg, a part of LIC Colony; certain they are fantails as their tails open and shut like Japanese handheld fans. But are they white-browed or white spotted? Today, on the walk back, saw a pair on copper pods nearer home. Sighting them, watching them in morning quiets, more warming than prayers; a delightful ritual; the two hopped around above me head, ruling out a sure dekho and called; best moment to make a Dr. Ali entry: 'A harsh chuk-chuk is commonly uttered; also has a delightful song rendered as chee-chee-cheweechee delivered as the bird prances about': white-browed fantail flycatcher; whitespotted fantail flycatcher: 'A harsh chuk-chuk. Also a delightful clear whistling song of several tinkling notes constantly warbled as the bird prances about.' Did not come across the harsh chuk-chuk; whistling notes, yes. Am still not sure though bets are it is whitebrowed. How me wishes dear old Varad Giri was around. The identification would have come in a jiffy and he will add: 'but I am a cecilian not a birder'. Standing on the road, the two flew away leaving me with the peace of pleasure; birding is that. Starting out in the morning heard a soft cheep from a bush; being dark, waited, watched; yes, it was dear friend magpie robin. They have started showing up with December on and will be around till March and then do not know where they go.Winter noons when a snooze runs away, sit down with of Birds and Birdsong: foreword by Zafar Futehally : M. Krishnan: edited by Shanthi and Ashish Chandola. With M. Krishnan it is a going back and forth. In the foreword Zafar writes: While admiring the exquisite morphology of the Hoopoe so designed as to make it easy for it to to probe for worms, grubs and insects underground, Krishnan was able to note that the flicking of its crown feathers open and shut 'express the entire emotional range of the mood of the bird'; during one minute he spent observing the bird, 'it played with its crest six times.' That's observation. If me had that would have today identified the fantail. Maybe, one morning me will. For the moment, house sparrows on the window sill fighting and pecking Marie biscuits, suffice.  

Vanyam (Wild)

Three films on women. In Birds of Paradise, a nut of a father birthday presents a duck egg to his daughter. Egg hatches. A yellow duck. Two girls (one physically disabled) and a duck lose and find each other. Fun, happy film. 2 Penkuttikal, a Malayalam film directed by Joe Baby is about two school girls, a mall and being females. They suspect and understand having no space in an Indian society. They will ever have to squat on the floor; none will offer them chairs at the dining table. Do no know whether the world will be fair to Shreya, Chiyu, their friends in the wide world.  Achu and Anagha plead their parents to take them to a mall; parents are busy, push aside a small desire; maybe, if the girls were boys, parents would have taken them to malls without pleas. Perhaps director Joe Baby could have worked harder at the idea, cutting out policemen, loudness and all that. Yet the concept is worth working on a second time. Then followed Malayalam film Vanyam, a recent release, me had not heard of; Malayalam TV channels have not talked of Vanyam (Wild) as they never get time to go beyond the dishum-dishum of Mohanlal, Mammootty and Sreenivasan (fast turning a xerox of Mohanlal); well, Malayalam TV channels have not a programme to be proud of; it is endless repeat of Mohanal, Mamootty and Sreenivasan; it is not as if Malayalis are not aware; simply, they do not want a output shift at TV stations; they enjoy current offerings. Vanyam is not that; it belongs to the genre Malayalis took pride in years ago;director Sohan Seenulal films rape of a nun by three youngsters; nun is dumped out of church; she knows the three; refrains, restrains herself; there are no consolations for a violated woman; even the Good Lord does not come to the aid; and director Sohan retails the tale without tears; no emotional slush; no policemen, no absurd stunts; no 10 minutes at a stretch verbosity; nothing which a popular Malayalam film does; a hurt Aparna Nair as the nun, hurting me. Anoop Ramesh scores over the modern generation of Niveen Pauly and Fahad and Asif Ali and Dulqar. Athirapally waterfalls does the roaring in the film. Will Indian women be allowed to be humans? Why is it that for most of us the first child has to be a son; why shastras dump women outside school gates? How is it no God likes a woman; Trimurthi has no woman; why have women to be packed up for marriage; is a marriage must. Possibly Sohan Seenulal attempts a reply, has one: It will always be so. Women will be hurt. Alone or wed. Afternoon, after Vanyam, me recalled rough instances with Rama. Felt ashamed. Yes, men are not worth it.

Thambis

High rises catch
the morning sun,
make trees, flowers
and birds,
second class citizens,
keep away from humans.
A darkness
streams ...
as Rama and me sat the winter morning on stone benches outside the Shiva temple on LIC Colony. A hugging combo - peepal and banyan - knit a leafy roof above the open house temple without doors and priests. Walkers pause, wish their wishes, pray their prayers... some step in with water wash the Linga ... walk round the combo from which a bell hangs...ring the bell. We sank in the quiet darkness lit up with diyas; noted a squirrel chase on a distant banyan.... love Shiva, not a macho god, loves his wife, relishes a drink, smokes preferring the burning ghat for a living ... always go back to Pandalam Shiva on Achchankovil river near Pathanamtheeta, a short drive from Kurup's Kurumpala. Every god has a presence at the LIC Shiva temple, a buffet, offering a wide choice to citizens. The first Shiva me got familiar was the one at Lake Temple Road, beside the Lakes in south Calcutta; with friends played chor-police hiding behind the Linga; those were warm, incorrect times. Not the cold, correct times of today. At 70 have lost my laughs; afraid to laugh. When two strays came over to rest on the stone bench; we gave them space; how is it that most temples have a strong citizenry of dogs; mostly harmless having no barks and bites to start with. Rama was in a particularly good mood having tanked up with idlis, vadas and dosas from Thampi ahead of setting out for the LIC Colony. Smiling Thambi, in fresh, blue half-pants, white half-shirts with a dash of ash lighting up the forehead, is serene Tamil cut out; his fun-face.... enna saar.... serves food made in Matunga; the food cannot be warm as Matunga is far off; but the autorickshaws, paunchy women and men wait to eat on a broken pavement near Shanti Ashram. This day me had paruppu wadas, dosas with liberal spoons of juicy coconut chutneys while Rama opted for idlis and wadas. Yogi Nagar has a different Thampi; perhaps Thambis share the markets equitably. A three to four hour business. Sipping Bisleri, we started off....

..And
the morning sun
roamed the road,
bare of walkers....

A Song 111

Trim parishioners
double past
a pink striped
bougainvillea,
for prayers on pews.
Mass over,
scurry past
a bougainvillea in facials,
step into cars
for homes.
Church is for prayers,
not for bougainvillea. 

A Song 110

Morning sandwich.
Koyals, skies above.
Haiku below.

A Song 109

From back benches
in Class 6,
Kabir and me
bunked classes
for puchkas
jhaal mudis
in Calcutta Maidan;
Kabir picking bills.
Met Tuka
and abhangs
on roof tops
of locals
in Mumbai;
bumped
into Chekov, Camus
in airy, dusty
second hand shops
on curved
pavements
of Flora Fountain.
Roamed
the gullied city
in smoke
and spirit;
Camus, Chekov
preferred vada pavs;
Kabir, Tuka
opted for brun maskas
at Yezdani.
Straying into
Marine Drive
met up Kolatkar
scratching poetry on stone
benches.
Squatted on sea walls
taking salute
from regiments
of words
marching by,
floating by.  

A Song 108

Aji scratchy
as food art, artistry
in pickle jars,
gets patchy.
From the morning
she wedded
in Alleppey,
for 40 years and more,
sambhar,
avial,
thoran
spiders the imagination
woven in Sreevatsam.
Slips there are
these times;
a Tata salt grain more;
fingers chipped
chopping vegetables,
coffee,
a suggestion of waste,
imperfections of
an enthusiasm.
Ajoba suggests a cook.
Aji is in a no.
Could snap her
wedding,
her
loving. 

My dear Kuttappai...

My dear Kuttappai,

Me wants to see you, Kuttappai, your grandfather, Valiyappachhai and Ottal (The Trap), the Malayalam film about you and Valiyappachhai. Rama also liked it. She comes from Allapuzzha and knows Vembanadu kayal and Kumarakom and Kuttanad. Today me saw a white-fronted kingfisher at the Vazira temple pond in the morning in far away Mumbai and that's not the same as a white-fronted kingfisher on a bamboo pole in the deep waters of your kayal. Living in Vembadandu kayal with Valiappachhai, a kingfisher for you may be a laugh. Me knows nothing of birds, rice, fish, waters, wind, night skies, sunrise, stars having lived in cities with electricity, cars, mobiles.... Perhaps, Ottal is the Malayalam film in recent years from Kerala without bikes, sex, mobiles, cars ... and all that; it is of kayals to which me brother in law Hari Gopalakrishnan took us one entire day in a boat, a motorised boat. Me just got your letter written to Valiyappachhai. Me never had a grandfather like your Valiyappachhai. No grandfather stories. 'Aarengilum padichhittano kuyil padunnanuthu (Did a kuyil learn singing at a school?), you ask and the film director Jayaraj let goes. Me had read Vanka, the Chekov delight, on which Ottal is based. Me read it again. Me do not know whether we will ever meet. But its worth saying Hullo. When you grow up read Vanka with Valiyappachai. Vanka is the next best after living a childhood with a grandpa in the kayals. Do not know if this letter will reach as letters do not arrive at Kuttanad. Me have posted it with an address: Kuttappai, Kuttanadu, Vembanadu kayal.

Ottal is that sort of film, we saw on TV (Mami film festival). Jayaraj and cameraman, MJ Radhakrishnan are poets; no camera has shot Kuttanad as lyrically as MJ Radhakrishnan; possibly, Kuttanad looks better on films than live. Songs in simple lines evoke a simple life and me doubts whether all that will be lost. Perhaps, the film could have wound down with Valiyappachai furiously ploughing the waters in a country boat after handing over Kuttappai to a child recruit. The old man says wryly: 'Avan padikkan poi, jeevikkan padikkan poi (Gone to learn, learn living). Yes, Malayali imagination is alive. Perhaps, Jayaraj has placed Malayalam films beyond Adoor Gopalakrishnan. And that's something. Hugs for Ashanth K Sha as Kuttappai and Kumarakom Vasudevan as Valiyappachhai. Durga and Apu in Pather Panchali, Swami in Malgudi Days and Kuttappai in Ottal .... a legacy me has been lucky to witness. Now a request to Jayaraj: Camera track Ashanth K Sha... like Ray and Trauffat. Nanni (Grateful). 

A Song 107

Six years ago
Ajoba played cricket
with Shreya,
held her crossing the road;
placed her on the
dining table,
fed her,
with food and tales.
Today,
Shreya fried Lijjat papads,
microwaved
rotis, dal, aloo sabji;
walked Ajoba to the
dining table,
served food, school fables.
Growing ups
at the dining table.    

Crows and coucals

Sleep broke at around 4; for the first time ever made me filter kapi as Rama was in a snore. With hot kapi not as good as the Rama version, sat down to random read A Necklace of Skulls, Collected Poems, by Eunice De Souza.  In Aunt: My aunt loves bright colours./Widowhood be damned./ Ninety-one years be damned./ She reads newspapers from/first page to last/looking for a cheerful story. Got out for a walk before morning newspapers hit the door. Newsvendor Patil is always on time. There are no cheerful stories to read. Papers have turned me a fake currency; maybe, they are not wrong. Wished for some cheerful moments... and today they came. Maybe De Souza is a talisman.  We have become friends somewhat. Coucal and me. On the gates of Management Development Centre, LIC, LIC Colony, it sat and walked; some five feet away, me stood on the footpath; do not know if it is the same coucal of a few days ago; from the gates it flew down to the footpath, flew up to a copper pod; went back to the walls of the gate; it opened its beak for a soft call; looked around when two coucals flew over to a mango tree inside the LIC compound; me stood watching as crows formed a crowd over and above me and coucal; the bird shifted to a bokeda tree inside the LIC green; the goondaish crow crowd cawed together; the coucal flew down and disappeared into a hedge; the crows looked cheap as louts do; the two coucals on the mango tree kept quiet; about 10 minutes of an early morning walk and me walked on. Coucal Point. LIC Colony throws up friends from the many trees in the area; passing Karuna Hospital, the now certain glimpse of bats (flying fox) in a chatter ahead of settling down, upside down; their browns glimmer as the sun hits pans them; and then bumped into a new friend, a beagle called Toffee; the owner does not mind me giving it a rub. A small hound, wikipedia says. Toffee has sad eyes, saddest me has seen. Some mornings are blank; and coming home sinks into the arm chair, upset. Today, it was different as the coucal will be with me through the day. No reading newspapers. Went back to De Souza. To a Naturalist: Mine's an humbler occupation,/hunting dog ticks, bed bugs, ants/ whose steadfastness I can rarely match./Fed up of concrete,/ a rat decided to/ take up residence in my oven./ Watchman and broom soon settled him./The wild parakeets chortle their way/through the seed box, three times a day./ As for fat pigeons/pushing each other off my air conditioner,/ there's no escape from their/orgasmic cries.  

Of others....they are ours

'Who couldn't resist a smirk on discovering that in Lucknow the slang for homosexual was 'chhota-line wallah' because the station there took both the broad and metre gauge?, writes Ian Jack in a prologue to Mofussil Junction, Indian Encounters 1977-2012. The lines lead me to a clutch of films on this human group that me has been seeing recently: Brokeback Mountain, Aligarh, Memories in March and My Brother, Nikhil. Have seen them twice and some snatches more and they remind me of the chemistry lab in Hindi High School where me was parked for practicals; labelled bottles and jars of acids -- sulphuric acid, nitric acid and many more -- stood in ranks on glass shelves; concentrated sulphuric acid, H2SO4, being perhaps a dangerous customer. In India, humans have labels, many: caste, sex (male, female, nongays, gays), religion, colour, language (English, Indian languages); females and gays are dealt in the same way, cruelly; in Memories in March, Deepti Naval pleads with Rithuparno Ghosh to take home a fish tank; 'no, do not like fish tanks, of putting everyone in a box,' Ghosh replies. Yes. Boxes. Displaying identity like Saivite and Vaishnavite caste marks. 2016 India is cruel to humans playing out their lives in these films; lives which have no say on their sex; they have to live with it and me wishes courts will make up their minds fast. Perhaps, the Supreme Court should see these films before writing their judgements; they could start with the 2005 film, My Brother, Nikhil, by Onir on an AIDS patient, Nikhil Kapoor  (played by Sanjay Suri) and his sister Juhi Chawla (Anamika); Juhi sticks to her brother; its about relationships, natural for Nikhil Kapoor, unnatural for his parents; the film flows like the Mandovi in Goa. Twice over seen Memories in March and Aligarh; Aligarh can be termed a classic; a film that will stay on; there is no fiction, only facts; bare, brutal and brilliant is Manoj Bajpayee; 'Love is a beautiful word,' says Manoj to Rajkummar Rao, boating perhaps the Jamuna; director Hansal Mehta keeps to the bones of the story; the legal scenes could not be otherwise. For me Aligarh is a notch in front of Memories in March with Deepti Naval and Rituparno Ghosh; not many have written of her; in Firaaq and Memories in March, she shakes the viewer; sound-speech links in Memories are indeed rare for an Indian film; directed by Sanjoy Nag, Memories and Aligarh butt me. A fair deal for those in hiding. Perhaps, Brokeback Mountain is the weakest going on and on ... unwinding to a few seeable last shots. Our directors have offered an unfortunate set of humans a better deal; insisted on they being humans. Indian cinema has grown beyond Ray. It can be proud.  

Link Road

Link Road,
no more,
any more.
Drillers hole
for sky-rail,
dredge from deep,
ajis, ajobas
wrapped in
Tuka and Kabir;
chapsticks of memory,
invalid currencies;
odd ends of Tulsi,
grass, bric brac,
fronting tiled homes,
today, sky stabs
taunting Vittala's Vaikunt.
On Link Road,
to drilling drums,
owners selfie Mercs,
wiped neat
by Nepalis.
An early morning sun
pauses behind
sky tops.
'In 5 years,
a sky rail
on Link Road,'
says the driller
from Chattisgarh.
'We wont be there,'
says Rama.
Making of an aged,
dentured
future,
on Link Road,
birth of a death. 

Supermoon

A joyous swoon,
a haiku croon,
a Supermoon...

Mid-night Supermoon tickled me from bed, got to chatting. 'For you am poetry; for me am hungry,' mused Supermoon. Felt like some haiku poet as Supermoon pleaded for eats; 'something to eat. Rama might have kept sambhar and rice in the fridge', Supermoon said; one wriggled out into a chilly night and fed me friend with vetta kuzhambu and rice; roasted a few tapioca papads; Supermoon sat on the bed, chewed steadily, slapping a few mosquitos; me got curious: 'You get your daily prasad with hundis full; and tonight you are Supermoon, there will be huge offerings,' me said. Supermoon snapped a papad and was into a bite; 'When did you last go to the temple,' Supermoon asked; me passed the query; 'the hundis are empty, there is no cash, the priests have scooted with currency; no prasad; why dont you walk the streets, visit some temples; the gods are planning to stand in bank lines; you may see them at private banks as reports are they are better with separate counters for senior citizens; all gods are senior citizens,' Supermoon went on and on. His talk longer than bank lines; he did not like me laughs; Supermoon screwed his face as he licked clean the plate; 'pass on thanks to Rama,' Supermoon said and went to sleep while me hunked into a sofa. We went for an early morning walk -- LIC Colony and Assisi grounds; on the closed gates of the Management Development Centre (LIC) sat a bharadwaj, Lady or Gent, we were not sure; from behind a tamarind tree we watched, the bharadwaj walking the top of the gate, pausing over some dried roti on a wall, nibbling at the breakfast, hopping over to a tamarind and away; for about seven minutes we observed from about five feet; we came into the open and the bird did not fly away; this November, LIC Colony seems to be holding a sizable lot of bharadwaj with their hoarse calls. 'Been years since I had a relaxed morning, watching birds, earring their calls .....'said Supermoon preparing to go. 'Where to,' me asked? 'Where else but to a bank to stand in the queue for some cash, not for the hundi and priests, but for my lunch. Cant tax Rama, who also will be in some bank branch,' said Supermoon. 'Will the banks have some TV sets beaming the South Africa-Australia Test match? asked Supermoon; ' the match is over, South Africa has won,' me replied; 'so no cricket?' Stars, planets, fates stood cashless. 

A banking tale...

Working in the Times of India in the 70s, journalists were paid in cash. Afternoon, on the last day of the month, an attender would walk into the newsroom with named, pay packets in a wooden tray; distribute them to journalists (me got a Rs.400 pay packet as a Journalist Trainee), take their signatures on a register, and that was it. After payback of loans, me started the month with Rs.200 and went back to money lenders by the middle of the month; an ever revolving debt. Me never went to a bank, had no bank account, at the end of the month lived on borrowings or on food served at press conferences and seminars.....life jogged along. Like the Kamal Hasan times in silent film Pushpak; a likeable film; there is no dated feeling; he and the beggar on the footpath never go to a bank, are always in cash, there is not a shot of a bank, life is a laugh; currencies come and go; no IT officials, no Modi surgical strikes; chuckled watching it on youtube in the night; simpler times. In 1976 got married and Rama opened the first bank account at Canara Bank, Dombivili East branch; appa took her to open the account; me avoided the bank; the account got transferred to Borivili and she holds to it for old days' sake; for some delicious memories of never having more than Rs.50 in the savings account; today Rama runs the ATMs, talks easily of credits and debits; does not write cheques; swipes cards buying sarees and sweets and samosas; me am not into it having never gone near an ATM machine; financial powers rest with Rama; am in a fright, scared (cant explain) of banks and bankers. Modisation of currency has not unnerved Rama. My paternal grandfather, a Devarajan, a broke temple priest at Suchindram temple, never heard of banks, probably never saw a bank branch living in Ashramam village; Kannadi Vakil Swami, maternal grandfather, a lawyer without case papers in Kottarakara, did not have a bank account; but he talked of bank and bank accounts as amma retailed financial histories of me generation. 'Pichchakkara (beggars)', she used to exclaim with an odd tear wriggling. Kannadi Vakil Swami, Thatha, promised to pay all during banking hours, when he got pumpkins and raw bananas as fees from broke clients. My grandmothers, well, resided in kitchens. A fixed deposit of Rs.20,000 from Calcutta times is alive on Rama's name in Axis Bank; that my mother got from appa, she passed it on to Rama and the lady has tossed it to son Ganesh .... a family loom, lone family loom. None can touch it. Rama will not allow it. 

Wild Strawberries

With Malathi back from US, Rama evenings are booked; alone watch and re-watch non-commercial films; on Monday it was the second viewing of 1957 film Wild Strawberries written and directed by Ingmar Bergman. An old man trying to live on a retake of his childhood. A Wikipedia note on the origins of the film: 'Bergman's idea for the film came on a drive from Stockholm to Dalarna, stopping at Uppsala, his hometown. Driving by his grandmother's house, he suddenly imagined how it would be if he could open the door and inside find everything just as it was during his childhood. So it struck me --  what if you could make a film about this; that you just walk up in a realistic way and open a door, and then you walk into your childhood, and then you open another door and arrive in some other period of your existence, and everything goes on, lives. That was actually the idea behind Wild Strawberries.' Later he would revise the story of the film's genesis. In Images: My Life in Film, he comments on his own earlier statement: 'That's a lie. The truth is that I am forever living in my childhood.' Me chatted the idea with Rama and she agreed to turning back to times in Sreevatsam and Dombivili. Well, what happens when a childhood is bruised; there cannot be a flashback as it happens to Ajoba. After years, Ajoba confesses to not feeling sad when his parents died; he felt and still feels an unusual freedom. Yes, it hurts Ajoba but this has to be put down. Childhood was fear, fright: fear of a fierce father and slightly milder mother; of course, the extended family will disagree with Ajoba; but for Ajoba it was not a living; beaten up with utensils and cricket bats, some verbal abuse ... yes they did love .... but their love was hard for Ajoba to understand or grasp even at 70. And the prayers: morning, before going to school, after school, evening, night; and when festivals came, hell prayers; gods became a disgust; sure, Ajoba was well fed, clothed, sent to a priced school; they had hopes and Ajoba failed them entirely; they wanted Ajoba to hold a job with office paid home, car and all that as near and distant cousins; they were upset over a journalist Ajoba. Ajoba at 70 is afraid to dream of them. Yes, appa and amma were good, in their way, Ajoba never could make. A day after appa's death in Kolkata, Ajoba went for a walk to the Hooghly river and for a second laughed loud and free, touched the river's flow; yes, appa will not be any more to place a halter. Yes, Ajoba turned free after amma died. It was as if Ajoba had none to report to. No bosses; good bosses, yet bosses. Ajoba became entirely free. That meant he could not back flip into a childhood like Prof. Isak Borg (done by Victor Sjostrom) in Wild Strawberries. Ajoba has to peep into the future and that is living forever in a new wardrobe. Uncomfortable. No Wild Strawberries.    

A Song 106

In sadhu's orange,
a morning sun
at Assisi grounds,
footballs,
dribbles past kids
hailing 'Sir, pass, pass';
some tug him;
declines a goal move,
refuses a win. 

Kagiso Rabada

Kagiso Rabada and Keshav Atmanand Maharaj more newsy than South Africa win over Australia at Perth by 177 runs in the First Test. On a Perth pitch curated by an Australian, Kagiso Rabada, nickname KG, the fastie South African, takes 5 wickets in the second innings and in Australia none questions curator loyalties. They say Australia lost, fair and square. No excuses. Keith Pietersen in the commentary box thinks Rabada is the news in world Test cricket; parents professional, studied in South Africa at a school equal to Eton, says Keith. Seemingly, Michael Holding is tuning Rabada, the sweet spot of Test cricket and an able stand in for the injured and nearly retiring Dale Steyn. An easy run up and the right arm goes over in something of a classical bow to; missing is an up left arm; it gets tucked in; lots of shoulder; Mark Taylor in the box thinks he is good at reverse swing and a pace between 135 to 149 kmh; the bouncer is not one breaking into the face of the batsman as the West Indians of yore did; perhaps, Holding will tune up. No cricket playing nation has something like Rabada; me has been following him from South Africa against England to now Australia. Australia and England have not genuine pacers; frightening helmeted batsmen. From somewhere comes Keshav Maharaj, left arm off spinner with a straight arm action; South Africans have had no spinners to show for years; Imran Tahir never could be dubbed a spinner; they have one today in Keshav Maharaj, bowling well, the last day, without much flight. Mark Taylor thinks he bowled well and he should know. South Africa is missing de Villiers to set up a complete team against a rather unstable Aussie team. Sadly Perth stands were mostly empty with a few flavouring Rabada and Maharaj. Test cricket has no crowds today; maybe, England is outside the rule. The last England-Pakistan series did see crowds and me was backing Pakistan against England. 'Have you stopped watching cricket?' asked son Ganesh as me had not switched on to Perth. That remark hurt but was true. Cricket in the normal sense, Indian cricket in particular, does not enthuse me anymore; patriotic outpourings of most cricket commentators seem to be in bad taste; me belongs to the dated cricket of Bedi and Vishy; in India it is IPL not Test cricket. 'IPL mein majaa ata hai'. Do not think will watch India-England Test as they will be on Jadeja and Ashwin muddy patches; why not hold Test matches in neutral venues; say an Australia versus South Africa at Lord's; an England against India in Perth; after all Pakistan is playing most of its Test cricket in neutral venues. Neutral umpires go well with neutral grounds; TV ads talk of Virat Kohli venging the last series defeat in England under MS Dhoni; in that series, Kohli and Dhoni did not perform; Ajinkya Rahane and Ishant Sharma performed. Or it just could be me will watch as there will be DRS for the first time. Thanks Anil Kumble. Hope there are no Nagpurs. 

A Song 105

atop a mango tree,
scrawled a golden oriole
a bright yellow, black
morning.


....


squatting on A'ssissi grass
counting on grass
dew dots on grass.

A Song 104

goats wait for the butcher;
chickens wait in coops;
patients wait for
some call, 'kana doctor',
others, ent specialist,
with cones of laughter;
a wooden, name board
waits on the door
with timings,
unstuck;
a deaf maid with brooms
waits on a litter of deaf talk;
deaf lady attendants
wait on phones;
in his private chamber,
kana doctor
taps deaf ears with a tuning fork;
scribbles reports;
does not wait for fees - Rs.800 -
cash down,
no receipt;
asks deaf to make it again,
wait on a deafness.

    

November 2016

An October 2016 in Mumbai is unsweaty. November mornings, evenings, nights -- pleasant smiles. Peeping into darkness, setting out on a walk at 6 in the morning; Link Road has lost half its soul to coloured metal partitions for Metro Rail; through the nights machines, noisily drill and drill the Earth; insomniacs; a security guard thinks Metro Rail will slice the skies in five years after counting for funds filched by every soul related to the project; which, he says, is fine by Indian governance norms. Striding into LIC Colony, Ajoba waves arms, good mornings to trees known and unknowns; it does not matter, this knowing or not knowing Mumbai style; their leaves nudge and wave hullos, an acknowledgement; you cant deny they live; from post-rain hedges, beep blue morning glory and morning glory; they never miss the first week of November; frangipani and parijats in blistering bloom. Being early, the talking, hurrying walkers are absent, leaving Ajoba soul alone. At the Francis grounds, footballs thomp and thud waiting for footballers; they desire kicks; wait; and then there are more footballs in the air than on the grass. Ajoba watches, pockets the moment, as it may not be the same tomorrow. Ajoba is not into prayers, deep breaths, laughter clubs and all that; he likes to watch the world pass by having been a part of that world; today more an outsider than an insider; the sun bounces heads of the laburnum and rain trees; on electric wires sit and fly drongos; none has a watch or a timer; they are as long as legs hold; and then a resting on steel chairs before the walk back along Ayappa Mandir Marg and the Krishnan spot where Ajoba is sure to spot some bird, at least a crow; today counted three or is it four bharadwajs from some 15 feet away; a magpie robin marking the batting or is it bowling crease, being November; the first Test match between South Africa and Australia starts at Perth; perhaps, the magpie robin will switch on Star Sports HD to watch Hashim Amla bat; and then on a leafless tree, a koyal calling with his lady flying across; Ajoba pecked a house sparrow in thanks. Every morning is not the same. Like Ajoba is not every morning. But some days, Ajoba pockets a pack of joy; in his armchair, unpacks; for Aji waiting with coffee.   

A Song 103

Is exile, having no roots?
Is fugitive, having bleeding
tiffs with parents?
Is deportee, an absence of tongue?
Is proscription, not holding a
passport?
Is Ajoba,
without sister,
brother,
alone?
Is Ajoba alien?
Is Ajoba,
a mathematical,
absence;
unknown,
constant?
For sure,
Ajoba is still on. 

A Song 102

Bonier than drumsticks,
wasted as flowers,
she hawks,
is Shyama
crouched on road edges;
smiles dripping from
a pot-holed mouth,
she talks of
lone daughter's wedding
to a boy, a bank peon;
she will be free
in Saphale,
alone,
wiping shadows
off mud walls;
Titan Rani,
Titan a bulge
on surgical knees,
Rani a pug,
are not in Church for Mass;
'my church' misses both:
the prayer and bark;
they tap their home
with walking sticks;
Old Man,
wrapped in jeans, T-shirt,
unwraps at the grotto,
looking beyond folded palms
searching a smoke;
Gandhari,
bright as her
Saphale farm products,
packs up Deepavali cash,
to roof a broken home;
Leave no stains
on part-tarred,
part-cemented,
Link Road,
feathered with waste
of Deepavali crackers.


   

Piggy

'Wodehouse wrote a
a pig, Empress of Blandings,
into a hero..
none else..
Mostly,
in fury,
you,
make us curry,
without a sorry..'
whistled the pink and white pig behind a fence on Link Road to Kartik and Ajoba on an evening with the sun on a downturn. He stood under a peepal inside October leaf droppings. He snorted a Hai, twiddled a short curve of a tail, and Ajoba thought laughed as Kartik took a video. He posed and Ajoba styled him Piggy; 'what a name,' thought Piggy but went along. When the three took a selfie, Piggy took the entire camera. 'No Satyajit Ray has clicked me. Thank you, Kartik. You are the first director, maybe the last, as the word is I am up for Sunday lunch,' said Piggy. Kartik beamed at somebody calling him a director and thought of taking him along to MAMI Film Festival or pack him in plastic as hand baggage; would make interesting company; if MAMI films turn boring, as they mostly do; Kartik could pass time feeding Lays to Piggy. For the moment, Piggy wanted to see his parents located in the bushes of LIC Colony; it seems they had placed on earth a new breed with one of them a turn witty; to escape stray dogs, the little fellow ran across the road, between the legs of an old man on a stick; old man fell, cursed: 'soovar ka baccha'; the little fellow speeded, braked a speeding scooter with the contents hitting the road; he squeaked and left; parents are searching and Piggy wants to help; they have filed a missing complaint at the police station; but the police said they could not do much without a pix and a pig pix is not on; yet, the world of pigs is tight; Kartik and Ajoba offered to take Piggy to LIC Colony; 'no, we have our little prides,' said Piggy; in turn, offered to click the camera and capture his large hidden family; 'soovar achcha hai; kuch bhi khata hai' said a lady living on the footpath. The evening downlight turned down, down ...split by headlamps of speeding vehicles on Link Road. They wished Happy Deepavali. Piggy was not sure if he would be around; he was not sure if others like owls and dogs would be there. Walking back Kartik unwound the camera: bulky Piggy with the right foreleg up, between before and after a story.   

Piggy

'Wodehouse wrote a
a pig, Empress of Blandings,
into a hero..
none else..
Mostly,
in fury,
you,
make us curry,
without a sorry..'
whistled the pink and white pig behind a fence on Link Road to Kartik and Ajoba on an evening with the sun on a downturn. He stood under a peepal inside October leaf droppings. He snorted a Hai, twiddled a short curve of a tail, and Ajoba thought laughed as Kartik took a video. He posed and Ajoba styled him Piggy; 'what a name,' thought Piggy but went along. When the three took a selfie, Piggy took the entire camera. 'No Satyajit Ray has clicked me. Thank you, Kartik. You are the first director, maybe the last, as the word is I am up for Sunday lunch,' said Piggy. Kartik beamed at somebody calling him a director and thought of taking him along to MAMI Film Festival or pack him in plastic as hand baggage; would make interesting company; if MAMI films turn boring, as they mostly do; Kartik could pass time feeding Lays to Piggy. For the moment, Piggy wanted to see his parents located in the bushes of LIC Colony; it seems they had placed on earth a new breed with one of them a turn witty; to escape stray dogs, the little fellow ran across the road, between the legs of an old man on a stick; old man fell, cursed: 'soovar ka baccha'; the little fellow speeded, braked a speeding scooter with the contents hitting the road; he squeaked and left; parents are searching and Piggy wants to help; they have filed a missing complaint at the police station; but the police said they could not do much without a pix and a pig pix is not on; yet, the world of pigs is tight; Kartik and Ajoba offered to take Piggy to LIC Colony; 'no, we have our little prides,' said Piggy; in turn, offered to click the camera and capture his large hidden family; 'soovar achcha hai; kuch bhi khata hai' said a lady living on the footpath. The evening downlight turned down, down ...split by headlamps of speeding vehicles on Link Road. They wished Happy Deepavali. Piggy was not sure if he would be around; he was not sure if others like owls and dogs would be there. Walking back Kartik unwound the camera: bulky Piggy with the right foreleg up, between before and after a story.   

A Song 101

October notes:
a beaming, blue morning glory,
from below plastic waste;
a hoopoe flies over
Assissi grounds,
lands on a wall,
watching football,
before filing media reports;
fantail chips
on Ayappa Marg;
a red star glory
on the fence;
an ashy grey warbler
looks around
from a leaf-crowded bush;
no takers;
speeding walkers
on Enfields and Mercs,
spit,
scream. 

Portia trees

Aji did not like the walk suggestion to St. Francis d'Assissi play ground to watch Shreya football practice. Ajoba toffeed the idea with a auto ride to the ground for a walk. Aji was not for it but went along; both took an auto dropped off at IC Church and stepped on dewed grass, football spikes and boot studs, yesterday's marks of a football game.  Aji thought of smiling and then smiled: 'Lets walk'. Ajoba was waiting for the walk. Shreya did not turn up; nor her friends; nor her coach; the ground in quiet they walked; the teak plants, which Ajoba last year felt and appreciated, today hovered over him to look up and hug. After a round, Aji rested as Ajoba turned for a second round. Old mates said Hullos with some inquiring of health as Ajoba was last spotted before the monsoons. Today, a quiet home as Aji and Ajoba sat, looked around; mornings were not for words. A few school kids in colours were practicing trick moves with a soft football, but not playing a full match; free kicks, back flips ... their parents were not there to cheer; well Ajoba was the spectator still dreaming of a day when India will win an Olympic Gold or World Cup. He was on the look out for Portia trees; he had seen them in IC Colony. Thespesia populnea (Paras bhendi in Marathi); seems to be an Indian, says Wikipedia. On morning walks has counted two Portia trees on Link Road and IC Colony and they still are uncut. Will they be around as Link Road is being dug up by a metro project -- some say a monorail. Link Road will then not be in five or 10 years. Yet the Portia trees bug Ajoba; maybe because of a re-reading of One Part Woman by Perumal Murugan. Pulled out a copy from his pant pocket and walked the first four pages on Portia trees. 'The portia tree was dense with foliage. If you looked closely, you could see the yellow trumpet-like flowers with their flared mouths, and then drooping, fading red ones with their inviting smiles. Portia flowers always grow more beautiful as they fade.......For instance, he could now see that they had trimmed a branch that had outgrown the yard and started reaching into the house. It looked like a deformed body part. They must have done it to get some sun to dry something. But he stood looking at the tree's wound for a while....'  And then Aji was on those lines when two hands snatched them from Perumal and portia trees. Shreya in football attire with friends troubling a football and football coach .....

A Song 100

At the window,
mangroves
in sun-taped fog,
tagged an old man
welled in an arm-chair
with a walking stick;
stepped out of the window,
over hills,
with scribbles in jibba pockets
for Kabir, Tuka and Kolatkar
approvals;
mid-walk,
winds snapped,
to windlands
scribbles flew,
old man pushed out of
geography, history ....
a loafer beyond skies
having tea with.....
someone, something .....
none knows. 

A Song 99

Walked into a
ISO certified temple.
Certified priests,
blessed.
Certified safe. 

A Song 98

Chaurasia
a fragrance of varnish,
walked in
for facials to
Aji, Ajoba armchairs,
double doors;
an absent face in
a pant and a shirt
stained Asian Paint colours;
Chaurasia
scraped and scraped and scraped,
varnished, varnished, varnished
with cloth balls;
a pleasant rub of five fingers
up and down,
in style,
at ease;
not a drip on the floor.
Chaurasia stammered,
Ajoba half-heard,
in winsome smiles
Aji took down
their question, answer session;
Chaurasia lives alone
in a khatiya in Rawalpada slums;
wife,
a four-year old daughter
in a Gorakhpur village;
'bahut yaad atha hai,'
he titters.
Earns Rs.800 per day
if on contract.
Two days,
Chaurasia left
home,
an unsigned,
art piece.   

A Song 97

Loss of an absence
absence of a loss...
malls, food sites
hawk
fresh stocks
of Deepavali ferral...
chakli,
chewda,
sankarpali,
laddoo,
karanji,
sev,
Sivakasi crackers;
for pelf, profit;
dreams out of stock;
no buyers, say they;
hence, no sellers;
poets shifty,
alter scales,
staring at night skies;
crowds at airport
with foreign
passports,
Deepavali feral,
in transit
to foreign certainties;
dumping Ajis and Ajobas,
Kabir and Tuka,
Meera and Janabhai.
in retirement homes ...
Loss of an absence
absence of a loss....

A Song 96

On Twitter..

A dead man
desires a selfie
with Yama.

Earth

With Chiyu, Shreya and Funskool clay on an evening turning flowers at homes. When they were tots in Dahisar, Chiyu mixed water with street dust while Shreya cooked the watery paste playing ghar-ghar; Ajoba and Aji collected small stones for vegetables; upset with fooling her grandkids, Aji once made bhel for them, fed them as they messed tiny fingers. Down the street came Dakhi, early from office, bristled at her kids in mud; upturned Aji, Ajoba had disappeared from the scene. And this evening Chiyu and Shreya turned clean pressing plastic clay; no mud on them; as if they had not played with earth; they washed their hands with soap after massaging plastic clay. Will, one day, fifty years hence, there be earth and children and grandmas and grandpas; maybe robots will do what children do today... do not know when Chiyu picked Ajoba out of his thoughts ......  'abhi Deepavali chutti ayega, maja karenge' they chirped together; and then Aji told them of Dombivili times when Deepavali meant making mud killas ... surprising in the delicious Marathi film Killa, there is no killa manufacturing by kids. Led by Vidya; 1980s at Anand Arunoday Co-op. Housing Society... Vidya, Dakhi, Ganesh, Sachin, Rani, Swapnil, Satej and more kids existed in mud, rolled in mud, became mud .... no plastic clay, earth dear, soft earth, brown with grass and pebbles... Vidya would assign jobs and at a corner of the garden they would pile up mud with plastic mugs of water .... together they mixed themselves into all of the clay and Aji could not identify them... it took days for the killa to be made as it was broken down many times by erupting quarrels ... by the next morning they would all gather for killa ... the killa was named Killa .... designed by grass, sand, dry leaves and other waste products ... yes, those times they were free and there was not plastic clay or if it was, there was no purse ... the killa had diyas, a moat with water and paper boats and a few ants reminding Ajoba of Swami and Malgudi days .... then schools opened ....Aji finished with the Killa telling... Shreya and Chiyu have decided on a plastic clay killa as Dakhi from the kitchen bawled against making a furnished home earth dirty ...'kachada nako' .... Wish schools could think of a Killa game with mud for Deepavali 2016.... 

A Song 95

a zendu tweet...

we,
lemon yellow,
saffron,
pretty,
plucked,
priced,
by women,
for
homes,
gods
on Dassera.

Dassera din

gods,
goddesses,
humans,
an imagination of blood
in a geography of heavens,
peace in ICUs,
brain dead....
'nothing to worry,
patient will be shortly shifted to
general ward,' say doctors......

A fast goes viral. Under a banyan hacked of nests and birds, leaves and roots,  an old man going by the name of Gandhi, sat on bare earth, bald head down over a charkha; the still centre and bald head timed the going round and round of the charkha; hippi moments, hippi times in Vaikunt; Gandhi was on a peace protest protesting Durga intention to perform the killing of Mahishasura on Dassera; 'every Dussera you come Lady and every Dussera has a Mahishasura; why not have peace chats in some neutral Heaven,' mumbled a broken-tongued Gandhi glued to an Camusian uncertainty, hippi camraderie; too many fasts had gone waste; and Gandhi was yet again unsure with Durga serious about the killing; but even gods could not broom Gandhi; so they opened peace talks; 'Dassera is a holy day; you gods who write our fates can sure edit a change for a handshake, a sharing of rossagullas; Satyajit Ray thought it in Goopy Gayen, Bagha Bayen; he ensured peace with rosogullas falling from blue skies; a camera shot capturing rosogullas....achcha laga'; Goopy Gayen was the only film Gandhi went to Lighthouse in Calcutta to watch with tickets bought by industrialist friends. Across sat Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva with Ram acting the concierge; the talks spun without an axis; in Vaikuntam everything is possible including a Gandhi fast, Gandhi on a charkha. Add a few or minus a few adjectives and prayers, but Rama turned spongy with his old devotee; perhaps, Rama loved Gandhi more than Sita; 'we gods are fated and wars are etched; Durga has to go; a resting Durga may not be better than a warring Lady,' Ram said in private. Then came the peace offer. 'We will not kill if Mahishasura eats Durga prasad,' Rama downed the proposal on the floor; Mahishasura was not for prasad; he wanted a muddy pond and grass to wade in quiet; thats what Mahish or buffalos yearn for. Crows silent. Flowers off stems. Clouds dropped skies; a Tadoba forest stillness. Gandhi and gods went to war; Gandhi refused war; intoned Ram, Ram; Durga was getting late for Dassera; Ram fixed flowers and fruits to arrow tips, shot; some hit the khadi charka, some off target; a chuckling Gandhi with Sita, backing the old man, said: Your husband arrows like the Indian archery team at Rio Olympics'; Sita clapped and clapped; only Gandhi could size down Ram. Gandhi's head rested on the unbroken charkha when public Twittered: Ram does away with Gandhi; Gandhi alive, being tended to by Sita; fasting Gandhi down with peace dengu. A Human Rights team missed Gandhi; Kasturba with plates of dhokla spotted Gandhi rolling the charkha, inducting Sita into khadi with thready laughs. Twitterati in gluey glee: Magsasay for Durga; Nobel for Ram. Ba offered Gandhi bangles; old man wore it; presented a khadi garland to Ba ... distributed dhokla to Durga and Ram and Mahishasura ... in and off Heavens, sounds of war on peace were on....Dassera din ......

Ladies football

G-O-A-L. Funning morning. Lush St. Francis ground adjacent to IC Church breathed a Hallelujah. Wonder whether St. Francis ever kicked a ball for a ping of joy. A Ryan International forward steered the football and defenders of Rustomjee to the right corner flag, crossed the ball to her unmarked No.11 jersey at the top of the box. She tapped in for a second goal. A Zidane would have applauded. Ryan International beat Rustomjee 2-0 in a 30 minute football game of Ladies in the morning; a goal in each half. Four defenders of Ryan relaxed through the match as their foward line pushed back Rutomjee; Ajoba's Shreya in the forward line and the middle line of Rustom found it hard to hold Ryan as coaches, parents yelled out instructions; in typical IC lingo coaches bawled: Yes-No; gadha move man, kick forward; Ajoba stood in the grass watched, intently, quietly as if a World Cup was on. The 11 a side ladies teams brought cheers to old Ajoba as he had not seen a live match on live greens for well .... years. Was tipped off by Dakhi in the morning about the football game; laced the trekking shoes, walked to the ground by 8 as the match was scheduled for 8.30; teak trees had grown sturdier, dew-beaded grass cooled the knees ... at one busy corner a four a side kids game to start; one team was short of a goal-keeper; the kids pleaded with Ajoba to be a stand-in goalie and Ajoba thought he was Thangaraj at goal of East Bengal in the 1960s. Let in two goals; Ajoba had never won a match; kids crackled as Ajoba slipped in the slush. Came the big moment; 9 a.m.; Ryan against Rustomjee; warming up Rustomjee girls were a tad scared of Ryan girls; 'bahut accha khelte hain'; the Rustomjee coach who had played for Ryan at the same ground when in school did not like it; 'play-no; yes-no', he said; the refree whistled, linesmen took their places for the game; in the 11 th minute of the first half Shreya crumbled, breathless; got up to goading of coach from the sidelines. Match over, girls became friends. Coaches patted all. 'Well played' they said with many yeses-nos. A team mate told Shreya: Eat well. A Ladies football game left smiles on the gushing grass. They were there when all walked away.

A Song 94

Fixing the world
in a raindrop
tipping a hibiscus.  

White Paper

Blessed. Nedumudi Venu in Malayalam film White Paper. In recent months, heart swells for the greens, ponds and chandana kuris offered by Namboodiris at quiet temples in Kerala; it led Rama and me to a youtube.com search and a stumble on White Paper. Had not heard of it. Arranged our sofas; for about 90 minutes were lost in Nedumudi Venu, Lena and a serious Jagdeesh; Laughed with Nedumudi Venu at the Laughing Club on a green hill; Nedumudi Venu before the camera does not act; he is; and the gentleman flaps in old Malayali graces lost in the malls, mobiles and internets of Cochin and Thiruananthapuram. White Paper deals with the parental ambitions of modern times to tomb their children; school, classes, studies ... a dengue biting all... and Nedumudi Venu salving the hurts of children ... at his village home a tad like Rama's Sreevatsam in Alapuzzha... in the mittam (foreyard), playing olapandu (bamboo ball) with grand-daughter, grandson, daughter-in-law Lena; we funned; wished could throwball an olapandu with Shreya and Chiyu ... White Paper is for modern times.... do we have to monkey our children? There may not be sure answers... the hunch stands watching Neel Battey Sannata of Ashwini Iyer Tiwari; a maid and a school drop out Swara Bhaskar has a dream for her daughter Apeksha; Apeksha says: a maid's daughter can only be a maid; not a doctor..'aukat nahin hai; but Swara Bhaskar thinks otherwise and Apeksha sews her dream ... the poor to get out of poverty have to snitch dreams from middle class homes... debates and arguments can wait .... Hopped on two Tamil films handling the agony of children and teachers ... Kutram Kadithal and Appa .... in Kutram Kadithal, a school teacher slaps a child and is in guilt while in Appa a school boy is done in by his father ... a relief from Rajanikanth and Vijay inanities ... finally wound down to Prakash Raj funner, Abhium nannum....a noon film is a must for Rama and me and there are many delights untalked and unwritten .... 

House sparrows

Living in a one BHK, old man and his old woman are sometimes guests to calls of koyals and parakeets in summer; and is not the same as watching them at the window sill; they have unwound the wall clock; the HMT manual wrist watches of both find a place in a Godrej locker; bird calls rhyme their lives; koyals, parakeets, crows ...; Ajoba wants to be with them; Aji a no-no; Aji and Madhavi like the window sill clean and neat; pigeons are not being entertained, firmly. A few months now; Ajoba in his wooden cot near the window is woken up by a chirp; tired bones do not stir; a second cheep ... not sure if it is the same sparrow... pulls out Ajoba from his bed.... to Marie biscuits served in a stainless plate on the window sill .... the sparrows land up as Ajoba watches from his bed .... putting on wait the morning and the coffee of Aji. 'I want one or many of them to park on me one morning; waltz on me,' Ajoba tells a wispy Aji; comes back Aji: 'Pagal.' Some mornings crows land up, scaring sparrows, caw...caw.. 'my ancestors', remarks Ajoba and Aji nods in belief. Into their coffees, Ajoba pauses over a few lines of poetry ... and this morning is into The Best of Gerald Durrell, chosen by Lee Durrell. A take from The Amateur Naturalist: ...I was two years old. I went for a walk along a mountain road in India accompanied by my ayah....made my way to a ditch nearby where I discovered to my delight, two huge khaki-coloured slugs brought out by the rain. They were slowly wending their way along the ditch, leaving glittering trails of slime behind them ....I have had great fun being introduced to and playing with a duck-billed platypus that looked like Donald Duck in a fur coat, but at the same time I get enormous pleasure by simply looking out of my kitchen window and watching the sparrow bustling about in the hedge beneath.' Sparrows are not any more common sparrows in Mumbai and Indian cities. Ajoba sets out for his walk with chana in his pockets to feed squirrels speeding up trees and down roads. He had picked up the book on September 29, 2000 at lovely Landmark in Chennai with best friend Muthuswamy Padmanabhan; Landmark is no more; they went for a beach walk and lunch at Woodlands. Like sparrows, Padmanabhan is scarce ...maybe migrated with his computer son to US..

A Song 93

Wrinkles dripping,
wishy smiles,
old man and stray
squat in front of
palmist and parrot;
magnifying lens
spot not
fate and fault lines.

A Song 92

Parijats
dot
Adinath Marg;
as many
as smiles
on the old man
counting parijats.

Of jhadoos .....

No sleep.
Storm in skies.
At the window,
clouds bang,
light up wind and scramble
of raindrops...
a star dropped bedside;
in long agos, dateless,
gods were alone;
stars blinked for company;
earth and humans
built homes
for gods and stars;
gods and stars blog,
no priests to edit;
they have no tales;
picked tale-telling
from humans;
hey, jhadoos and brooms dust up,
stir tales,
soft and hard ...
that's where you score over us,
keyed in gods and stars;
earth wins always...
par for life and living;
the bedside star, shivered,
pressed for filter coffee,
to go with the cold;
sipped,
left with the dawn....

... rains been on for too long in Mumbai; Mumbaikars are in protest. At home in the morning, Madhavi is depressed,wet. Having Rama breakfast of hot rotis and sabji plus tea, she talks of clothes not drying, of clients complaining, this and that; being Friday reminds herself starting with a new soft jhadoo she bought for Rs.70 on Thursday; she lights the diya before the gods, applies kumkum to the hard handle of the jhadoo, says a prayer and puts the broom into work. 'Maaji, jhadu bhagwan hai, Lakshmi hai. Diwali ke din hum log puja karte hain,' she tells Rama who has handed over charge to Madhavi. For an hour they chit-chat; Rama cannot do without her smiles and chats and selfies. Rama is amused as by her custom jhadoo is unsacred; to be hidden behind doors; like many things she goes by Madhavi as Goddess Lakshmi is always welcome. Yes, there is some logic in assigning a premium status to the jhadoo. Madhavi dislikes the plastic broom as there is no earth and corn and god into its making and she prefers a traditional Goddess Lakshmi. Am not aware if the jhadoo enjoys upper caste tab in other parts of India. The door bell rings ... tall Sooraj, a dash of Shashi Kapoor on him, from Udit Stores, walks in with 5 kg of chakki wheat, unskins the raincoat... unloads wheat into a many years old aluminium container ... waits for the bill to be paid plus tips....he is 16 or 17, not sure of birth date having passed Class 9, from Jodhpur.... 'gaon jaane ka hai', he says with a wispy smile... he does not know what he earns as the malik or is it seth deposits the salary with his father ....  in 2016 a young boy works from 7 in the morning to 10 in the evening, the norm these days in Borivili with no offs and is not aware of his earnings ..... going by Sooraj ... well, the door bell calls and at the door is dearest Tarun from Milan Medical Stores ... his smile has a washed, ironed, fresh look; perhaps on Yogi Nagar Road, Mayur Medical Stores and Milan Medical Stores, jointly owned by Palitana men, have the finest attenders with Tarun tops .... on a quarter of an excuse he goes away to his village near Palitana .... in an unreserved compartment of an overnight diesel train... when me and they have nothing to do, chat; a month ago, they overcharged Rs.200; me did not realised; Tarun came home with Rs.200 in his pocket and smiles on a creaky bicycle; today Tarun is thinking of Deepavali, Palitana, sisters and brothers... the next passenger train and cycle home ... crops ....this year the rains have been good....

Orucomputer

With Rama watched Oridathu (A place) of G. Aravindan fielding a cast of Nedumudi Venu, Thilakan, Innocent, Srinivasan, Vineet ... the film forecasting or foretelling a village future with wooden electricity poles .... Aravindan nudges thought..... and the film could be slotted in the epic genre.... trees have to be cut for laying lines... a Communist tailor quotes Gorky...women hurt before and after the village is lighted ... the film ends in a blow out ... there is a shot of young Vineet toying the electric switch .... off-on... smiles around ... and there is a power cut ... nasam... remark the few in the room. Aravindan makes many statements or perhaps suggests, not sure... or simply chronicles ...a let go. Today it is perhaps time to make a film Orucomputer (A computer); are you interested Kartik Iyer?; the film script is there in Osama Manzar column in today's Mint -- Digital World -- The Humane Source of Crowdsourcing; Manzar and Anurag Behar are me best Mint columnists, writing of ordinary humans and tempting solutions. An 18-year old Ajay Kumar raises study funds on computers with banks as usual refusing help. Majethy Sujatha of Medak runs an organisation for destitute women, depressed widows and suffering wives. Sujatha has raised monies on social media platforms -- Rs.30,000 for funding marriages of two girls. Writes Manzar: ' For Sujatha the entire digital world has now become a family that can be tapped for raising funds... I see a huge boom in crowdsourcing phenomenon in India in the coming days, especially as connectivity and Internet usage increases. However, the interference of venture capitalists in crowdsourcing platform-based initiatives could lead to a monoplizing control and this is something I fear could lead to the end of a good thing.' Oridathu filled me with Kottarakara, my village; in the 60s, it had no electricity, no roads, no tapped water; no walls; greens; today it has walls around the temple pond, temple, homes .. and computers with women tapping keys ....do not know what Aravindan would think of Manzar script but me it excites; perhaps a digital Kottarakara with Malayali women going their ways less hurt, less scared, less upset ..in some peace which the gods and men are denying them .... for a human in and around Kottarakara .... from where Asianet TV reported a 90 year woman hurted by a 65 year old man on Onam day... Orucomputer could free women and poor ...... 

A Song 91

A fresh red hibiscus,
an old man,
a few sparrows,
a myna,
nod heads.
A raindrop;
steps down
from hibiscus
to birds
to skin-head;
raindrops.
Old man is not
into culling flowers
for gods,
wife,
daughters.
A Sunday morning. 

Visaranai (Interrogation)

In Mint Friday, Lata Jha expands differently on Hindi films: The Re-emergence of Bollywood's Unconventional Leading Man. A fine read. Maybe Lata touches on actors me likes a lot: Nawazuddin Siddiqui, Manoj Bajpayee, Irrfan Khan, Rajkummar Rao and Dhanush. Maybe many will quarrel over Dhanush but me enjoys him. At least he is not a Tamil routine. He is at least not a muscle man. No young Malayali actor and that is not surprising as Kerala filmdom has stopped breathing fresh; sadly, Lata Jha does not discuss young female performers like Kalki Koechlin; maybe it is for another day. Nawaz and Manoj or their variants me meets in Borivili -- the bhaiya selling vegetables, the auto driver talking of floods in Varanasi.... -- extraordinarily ordinary; and their films stay in me long after seeing. They connect us. And that brings me to 2015 film Tamil talkie, Visaranai (Interrogation), directed by Vetrimaaran. Till Thursday had not heard of the film; Rama had. Reading The Hindu site, came across Oscar nomination for Visaranai; clicked youtube; we watched perhaps the critical and brave film on the Indian police system and interrogations; a few compromises as the starkness could have been more brutal; can one expect reason from this system? perhaps a notch ahead of Ardh Satya; a Telugu-Tamil mix, it is a dark film; freezes you; explains the public fright of even a beat constable on Link Road; the police talk is cold; and far too real, the just short of two hour film; for me Oscar is not the last measure and a Oscar denial does not make Visaranai less better; the police force has to be particularly debased to do what it is doing in Visaranai and outside; perhaps, the Tamil dialogues could have been more distinct, ear-catcchy; the cameras a dash more focussed; Visaranai is happening everyday at police stations; for a change no normal Tamilisms; googled to learn the film is from Lock Up, written by an auto driver in Coimbatore, M. Chandrakumar. It is a logical walk from Visaranai to Taste of Cherry by Iranian director, Abbas Kiarostami; a gentleman, for some critics a homosexual, thinks and talks of suicide driving through Tehran; he wants someone to dig a grave for him and shut him; there is logic in moving from Interrogation to Taste of Cherry as after being mishandled, one human by another, suicide is best....... or is it the Taste of Cherry?  

A Song 90

Sun wet
under an open
umbrella.

...

No caws from
upset
drenched crow.

...

Rains cold Patil.
Today's paper tomorrow,
or is it yesterday;
Okay anyway for shaky Aji.

...

30 minutes school classes;
15 minutes recess,
brief for lunch and rains;
is it fair,
asks drizzly Chiyu
hugging rain drops
with friends,
walking to school.

A Song 89

Born in a bullock cart,
Vasu saar, a school master
without schools, teachers,
taught.

...
uncinematic profile,
in a jibba, mundu,
deep in an armchair,
warmed in jute sacks
free at ration shops.

...

when kids tailed him
with whistles,
tugged at his clothes,
he wanted more.
...

Vasu saar
had holes in him
for hide and seek.

...
at his best,
a half-shut cash box
at Potti's eatery
near Three Lamps corner.

...

cool as Gita,
book and wife shy,
a bouncy daughter
Gita, deep fried.

...

odd hours
at temple pond
noting
suns and moons bathe
and dance.

...
school bell gonged;
Vasu Saar at
Three Lamps bus stop
for the day's bus
loaded with tales to jot
a Saarian epic.

...

Was there when
the one platform railway
station
flagged a single bogey
steam engine,
lugging a Sarrian epic.

....

Vasu saar -
an autobiography -
by Kalli a lady,
a stray,
without an okay;

A Song 88

Bored turtles
in temple pond,
desire change.

.......

Rain drops
sans swimsuits,
kick into own puddles.
   
.......

A Song 87

Under the acacia
brushed yellow,
lost, last words
inked on post cards,
crowd a lonely post-box,
without a post office,
a post master,
a post man.

A Song 86

Festival offers:
at Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
stock take abhangs, dohas;
Hindi film beats
of Kishor, Lata and Talat
sold out.

A Song 85

Lapping Vicks,
ajis and ajobas
on morning walks,
smell Vicks;
mothers applied Vicks
to young ajis, ajobas in beds;
wedded, ajis packed ajobas
with Vicks;
old age, ajobas massage
ajis with Vicks.

Autoing to Borivili market

Borivili (W) municipal market is dirty; perhaps, the uncleanest spot in Borivili; police and municipal offices make the edges; perhaps, eases collection of haftas from men and women of UP, Bihar, Jharkhand and Chattisgarh, sweltering on the roads, selling all the world wants; something like ease of doing business. Rama and me had to make it with Maveli, not Vamana, calling up and promising to have Onam sadhi at home on Wednesday; 'Varum, theerchhaya varum,' Maveli mobiled Rama with flowers. Going by Maveli poetry, Maveli era was better than Vamana times; Maveli country with rice, payasams, ponds, coconuts with braided hair, sloped, tiled roofs, rains and an inherent decency missing in Vamana and now Pinarayai acreages. First halt, Kerala Stores a high hole inside Borivili market; ordered sweet banana chips, valya pappadams, pickles and all that going into a Onam slurpy afternoon. A hundred rupee note is a Rs. 10 note despite Arvind Subramanian, chief economic adviser. But that's vikas. 'Enthu vila,' said a Malayali lady without a grudge spotting Maveli trying out ripe bananas. Maveli had coins of his era. We shared Onam aashmsakal. 'Happy Onam,' voiced Maveli, in T-shirt and jeans. This is the time when Sanju at Kerala Stores is busy filling a wooden money box. He will not shut shop for Onam on Wednesday as all shops in that area. Rama was keen on a iron tava to make crisp dosas, tired of those coming off a non-stick branded tava; iron tavas are not branded and cost Rs.190 a piece; 'we are open all days in the week,' said the owner of Satyam with a open-ended grin as Rama inquired of a Milton water can; 'naya stocks do din mein ayega,' the owner warmed pocketing Rs.190; then came a pause at a plastic shop to pick up a plastic stool costing Rs.270; two boys, from Patna and Elahabad, showed us many models and chose one pink item for us; as we were doing a buy-sell deal, one of them said shops are open through the week, not only for festivals; three months ago, shops had a Thursday off; now, 10 in the morning to 10 in the night, he earns a monthly salary of Rs.9,000 for a 7-day week with no let ups; half-holiday for Ganesh and Deepavali; he is a 10-pass from Elahabad and tried to contact Amitabh; failed. Perhaps, much before the new rule, STM (for freshly ground and powdered pea berry coffee seeds) was and is the lone shop working through the year. It may do us well if New Delhi scraps labour, rural, health and other ministries; sets up a corporate ministry with the finance ministry having a desk; corporates will decide on GDP growth, interest rates on bank loans, run elections ..... sedition charges will visit all protests .... we got into an auto; on Yogi Nagar Road municipal workers were bringing down wooden kiosks on pavements... police holding sticks like AK 47s, tambakooed; 'kya huva,' me queried; 'kuch nahin, hafta officer ke pass nahin pahuncha hoga; ye neeche wale kha lete hain,' smirked the auto driver and he should know; 'police tho apne bibise bhi hafta lete hain, ye Bambai hai,' he added. We paid him. Maveli,  Onam aashamsakal.

A Song 84

A green moth,
dropped in at the writing table,
on way to Vithala.

A Song 83

Aji,
Ajoba,
wooden armchairs,
creak.
Aji,
Ajoba,
wooden beds,
squeak.

.....

Ajoba,
at windows,
in armchair,
combs beard,
bald head
unspecked of hair;
sometimes with fingers bare,
other times with combs square;
Aji lolling in
wooden bed,
makes faces,
dislikes beards;
'You look better shaved,'
says Aji as
Ajoba was on wedding day;
chuckles Aji:
'Is it Omar Sharif outcrop?
A Nasee Babu moment?
A Tuka option?'
Lighting a cigarette,
Ajoba responds smokily:
'A reluctance to lather a shave,
put blade to beard,
a fear of mirrors,
a beard without a face
is solace,
me never gave you
till date.'
Aji ran Ajoba beard. 

Bus stops

Standing at
bus stops,
waiting for
life's drip-drops,
needs patience,
a thrusting in
of messy,
ye, silly thoughts. ...

.....Took cover from September morning rains at Link Road BEST bus shelter; whiled away at Lord Ganeshas sitting unsold after discounts; on the third day of Ganesh festival there may be no takers for my friends; a tempo drove up, loaded the unsold gods to a where of a nowhere. Alone at the shelter, appreciated a drenched peepul, middle of Link Road; me knows the bus stop since 1992 when there were no autos and auto stands; bus route no 270 from Gorai bus station to Borivili railway station, a rupee ride or maybe less. Of modern times, me likes buses and bus stops; wildlifer M.Krishnan wrote of bullock carts being for ever and ever in India; buses are a must of life like dak ghars (despite mobiles), LIC offices, SBI branches. BEST buses and bus stops colour Mumbai; knew many in Calcutta, the Hazra Road bus stop to Park Circus bus halt; dropping out and walking to St. Xavier's College; on lucky mornings, spotted a few young Anglo-Indian ladies, got to know some of them, Liz being one; do not know where she is; the Esplanade bus stop to Baranagar where the University Department of Economics sat for failing me at MA; MA classes allowed for a mix of gents and ladies and everyone had his and her favourite with some having many; Shailendra, best friend ever, and me named some stops after the ladies who took the regular buses at sure times for MA lectures; Kamini was one name; hallow of Kamini in Bengali cotton saree; hearts tore away at arteries; a day we got down and feasted Kamini at a rosogulla joint and that perhaps was the end when she said she had a man in her life. Mostly poured out of crowded State Transport Corporation buses avoiding fares; savings funded Charminar smokes. At the spacious and dirty Esplanade bus terminus, we bought The Statesman waiting for MA ladies; never read them; Shailendra wrote Hindi poetry and me read them, appreciated them on the promise of a few rums. In the 70s, BEST buses in Bombay were a joy; there were queues at stops, little overcrowding, old men and women were offered seats, no traffic jams except on morchas to Sachivalay. Then entire Bombay walked. Today, there are no morchas; people do not protest; knew well, the Mantralay bus stop with its trees; the bus shelter souped the poor with the middle class and it did not matter. In Borivili (W), the Shanti Ashram bus depot is neat, clean and green; no crowds as the public prefer autos, 'time nahin hai'. Have taken the top decker of BEST buses plying Marine Drive watching the sea serenade citizens of the sky; first noted BEST buses on Marine Drive in Hindi films; Amol Palekar movies have BEST and ST buses. Am not aware of a docu on BEST buses its amours, paramours, rumours. Perhaps, some retired BEST bus driver or conductor will be the best choice. A college couple strode in; a BEST bus paused at Link Road bus stop; me climbed in, dropped out at the Station, last stop, for Rs.10; the conductor was gracious with the change. Walked to the train, realised had no office and no copy to type; walked home ...

Doubt, lots of it

Minutes we palm-count; Rama and me; bunches of Hindi, Malayalam, Marathi short films over two to three hours every day; Kevda, the Marathi film stands out in that cluster; Ganesh took a dandi - feverish- and settled down in our sofas to watch Doubt. Had never heard of the film; on FB scanned the BBC list of top films; usually is a write down of critic or intellectual wows; no Indian films, a drop unfair; tell me is not Bharat Gopi, Tilakan, Nasee babu, Om Puri, Shabna, Smita and Deepti Naval world class; am far away from that BBC roll call, not being a thinking type; mostly a Maruti not a Merc. Doubt is the sound of wind through the trees - psithurium. Written and directed by Shanley, it merits many dekhos. Cast: Meryl Streep, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Viola Davis and Amy Adams. We did not move; upped and downed with certainties and doubts; critics rated topsy the 2008 film spelling out adjectives for Viola Davis; Ganesh reminded me that Viola Davis is an Oscarite and perhaps was a head ahead of Streep, the what-an actress. Yes, Viola put herself down simply, a Afro-American mother about a son, with nose and tears running; Streep might have read about Macbeth and three witches before turning a Sister in the school. For India 2016, the film fits; suggestions of a priest and a school child, an Afro-American, the doubts and the last shot before lights off: Streep weeping into a ' I have my doubts.' For India and world 2016, when faith is all and faith in doubts earn a stare, Doubt could kick up protest; its easy to faith, hard to doubt, Doubt as never are all the facts in for any conclusion. Gandhi and Nehru were never sure, were doubters and were top class; Gandhi earns a sneer, Nehru a swear; Gandhi murder is okay with India 2016; debating tables are dressed with knives and loudspeakers; it was not so in the 1950s and 1960s; today we are a sure nation; sure in our dislikes and likes; every guess is a gossip is a truth; not a drip and drop of Doubt..Elegant, crisp Doubt ticked liberal beliefs. The about 90 minutes film earned an audience says a google search. Left Streep in the garden and lept to Kevda, Marathi short film; have seen it over and over and saw it again. At 70 me is Jyoti Subhash, when Shreya and Chiyu come home, are into their mobiles, have lunch, say Bye. No doubt. 

My Old Lady

Hullo or palms raising smiles as we walked away every morning for close to 16 years. We never went beyond. Rao saheb and me when Borivili (W) had mangroves, rice fields and green hearts not Link Road and ponds, not Eskay Club. A month of mornings, Rao saheb is not at the stone bench near Gossip cafe on Link Road; he is going away, slipping away, from his friends and me; or is it that we are moving away from Rao saheb; a midnight, his family found him at Gossip; alone; checked out with friends; 'maloom nahin, bhool jata hai,' they tell me. Trudged, turned into LIC Colony with Rao saheb, Mohan Agashe of Marathi film Astu and Julianne Moore of English film Still Alice. A poke on the back; turned round quickly; my dear Old Lady in jeans and tops, all teeth out, with her bent and aged walking stick on my behind; 'where are you,' she asked and invited me to a breakfast spread out by her strays, donkeys, flying fox and assorted pigs; settled down under a silk cotton tree to vada pavs, sandwiches, pizzas; seemingly they pooled funds for a breakfast goodbye to their and mine Old Lady; 'Ganapathi Bappa is coming today; me am going,' she whispered; the Lady could never go beyond that note scale. 'I am tired of noise; cannot take any more of Mumbai; every time a loudspeaker opens up, my heart thuds, cant take it,' she said as dogs, pigs and donkeys nodded; titched, titched warblers; a koyal hooted. The Lady has negotiated a room for two years at Banasura overseeing Banasura Lake and hills in Wayanad; at Banasura, foreigners bivouac for six months, one to a room, rarely talk, go for long walks inhaling and exhaling quiet, watch birds and elephants; 'Will leave Ganapthi Bappa for my animals and meet up wild elephants at Banasura; we cannot do without elephants in our lives,' the Lady said. Goti was in tears being most near to the Lady; if she was absent a day on LIC Colony, he would visit her, make inquiries, take her to a doctor if ill; Goti has to be with the Lady daily; somewhat like Rao saheb and me. 'You do not have phones, mobiles, TV, nothing, except Swamy and Friends of R. K. Narayan, how will you be with us,' asked Deva, the donkey; many, many readings and she knew all of the book; she reads and wheels it out without the book like Goti; the Lady likes the manner Goti rests near the Shiva temple, rolling out Swamy sentences from memory; some Shiva shlokas. Lady squeezed a Pichko on a pizza, bit into it and warbled: 'Will tap messages on trees in Banasura and there are many; they will relay to the banyans, pipals and silk cotton trees in LIC Colony. You can hear into their titter; tap back.' Claps. Breakfast over; The Lady took an Ola to Vile Parle for the afternoon flight to Kozhikode and further to Banasura, quiet, elephants. 

A Song 82

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea.
Mused Kabir:
For every kurta stitch
a doha.
Gazed Tuka:
To ting of tampoora,
an abhang.
Mused Kabir:
From boatmen of Kashi
weaving Ganges
with paddles.
Gazed Tuka:
Hum of whizzing
potter's wheel
cupped in bony palms.
Lullabies
to Arabian Sea,
asleep,
wrapped in a warm sky. 

Mahabali with chips

In white khadi jibba, mundu and a chandana kuri, Mahabali Charavarthy is at home. He was delivered morning by a sprightly, Amazon courier; sent by Vidya from Chennai; 'better beat the Onam rush; Onam is on September 13; we promise prompt, advance delivery,' Amazon emailed a message to Vidya; Mahabali is home (perhaps, on a time our from board meets) and has with him air tight packets of roasted bananas, diamond cut bananas and mixture; we dipped down at his feet, Mahabali blessed us and we became foodies. 'Vidya ordered them from Calicut Banana, Products and Sweets, Chakkorathkulam, Calicut; a pole valuting claim: Traditional Banana Chips Maker of the Town, Golden Jubilee, 2015.'  There is a site called Flavours of the City; Vidya searched the site, railed to Calicut, first class; Mahabali was flown down by Amazon to Calicut; bought chips and chips with raw bananas costing Rs.100 a kg; today, Monday, they are in Borivili. Rama has unpacked; we are chewing; as Mahabali walked in without sufficient notice, Rama is cooking rice, onion sambhar, aloo curry, pappadoms to go with the snacks; plus a bit of palpayasam. Mahabali slipped into a sofa; 'flights, delayed flights are tiring; of course, Amazon looked after me well,' he said; got into a soft chew to go with filter coffee. 'Some change, better than pottikada wada and chai,' remarked Mahabali as he opened his ipad; whastsapped his Mumbai clients; promised visits; varum, varum, he assured before chatting in Malayalam with Rama; 'sukham ano (fine), asked Rama; 'aa, oru mobile sukham,' Mahabali returned; they went over his visits to Sreevatsam long ago when Mami cooked the best saddhi on wood fires for him; ' I will be delivered at Matunga before making it to Thiruvananthapuram on September 13,' said Mahabali, smiley as the month of Chingam, popping a self-twirled murukkan. Me stepped out for a double banana leaf to serve lunch for the Great Man, making life for all a long day of vada-payasam, a saddhi; and being taken out by Vishnu most unfairly. Yet, today Mahabali has no grudge as we shared a sparse meal on banana leaves with handfuls of Calicut chips. 'In three steps, Vishnu, measured out my empire; I did not protest the tricky ways of gods; am thankful to Kerala for the old flower beats of Chingam; this year it will be mobile caller tunes,' Mahabali said as the Amazon courier rang the door bell to deliver Mahabali at Matunga. On the way Mahabali Breaking News: 'Amazon has been contracted by Pinnarayi government for Onam. Hope you are on whatsapp for September 13 wishes.' Eyebrows slip-slopped.