A Song 11

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
across ages,
strolling, crawling, trolling,
mauling, mailing words,
easing them to a moksha
by the Sea,
patting witness, Gulti, their stray,
readying for a 5G foray,
without dismay. 

Federer does not dance...

On the sky blue plastic court of Melbourne, Roger Federer looked a poet without poetry. In years gone by, there was a certainty about his wins; now, there is a certainty about his losses. An Irish green bandana kept off the frowns from the gentleman's forehead; frustrations were kept tight in the pockets. In the first two sets, Djokovic looked better and better as Federer turned worse and worse; the arcing cross court and down the line backhands were called out; they did not skim the net; flew over at heights for Djokovic to smash; wrong-footed on the rush to the net; Federer's forehands were always a bit thin and that could be insulting the Master; most importantly, the style was critically absent as were the waltzes across the courts. It was Federer in lower caps. Denying a post-lunch snooze, watched the game at 2 in the afternoon (IST), hoping for a five setter; by the end of the first set, predicted to self a 3-1 victory for Djokovic. Maybe, he will come back at Wimbledon; not being an expert will not wager. Have watched McEnroe, Borg and Sampras, on and off, on TV; Federer walked in from the changing rooms with tennis and style; a lady commentator talked of a grimness in Djokovic as he strode in. Would like to know what runs the Federer mind; another try at another Grand Slam or just saying a bye with a tennis racket and a line of a smile. At mid-30s without tennis poor man may have nothing to do; as a journalist one had 60 as a retirement age; there is a certainty about the not wanted date; that does not mean one is prepared. For Federer there are no such numbers; but his friends, known and unknown (me), will wiggle in agony when a Djokovic lassos him all over the place. Federer-Djokovic score today stands at 22-23. It is not a pretty sight. Commentators in Australia said it was Djokovic at his best; The Indian Express quotes Associated Press: Fightback ends in surrender, yet again; a good tennis match is born when the opponents are at the crown of their craft; on Thursday, Federer was absent. Nadal, the physical player, and Federer, the Vaslav Nijinsky of tennis, are nearing the exit doors; at least, they wont deny that. Isaiah Berlin in Personal Impressions writes: ' ...the dancer Nijinsky was once asked how he managed to leap so high. He is reported to have answered that he saw no great problem in this. Most people when they leapt in the air came down at once. 'Why should you come down immediately? Stay in the air a little before you return, why not? ', he is reported to have said. Federer may not stay long in the air, anymore. Then today, Murray ....Siva, Siva, how you make tennis fans suffer.  

A Song 10

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
dusting pile of words
from fated foreheads
in an absent, unsmart city,
of no mention.
a Mumabi Katha.  

Ma is the best

'Maavu poothu (Mango is in flower),' said Aji to Shreya, inducting her to Malayalam alphabets. Sure enough, the mango in the housing society is dressed in white flowers and that in January. 'Will all these flowers turn Alphonsos,' asked Shreya, a delighter of Alphonsos. Aji was not sure on fruiting and Alphonso mangos; she confessed to not knowing. 'Kya Aji,' said Shreya as the flowery tang took the air and impressed. The mango tree has been there before the society was built; in some insane compassion, the builder did not think of hacking the mango tree; it should be more than 23 years old - the time Aji knows and pats her; starting on her morning walk, Aji pranams the mango; some years, the mango fruits juicy, some years quiet. At the new housing society Shreya has no mango or coconut for company; yes, a fresh green jack fruit near the gate enjoys life. From the eight floor apartment, Shreya and Chiyu watch the heads of coconut trees, like tops of open umbrellas, in the compounds of St. Francis engineering college. Aji is into a Malayalam primer and for Shreya it will be her fourth language: English, Marathi, Hindi and Malayalam. Shreya took Aji to times when mangos and coconuts were commoners at homes; they were always there, unmissed; may not be any more with coconuts dubbed grass. But the language Shreya enjoys is Bengali; 'sundar aur thanda hai,' she tells Ajoba; at the new housing society, Shreya and Chiyu have a Bengali friend, Lakshita; her parents call her Lokki as Bengalis are prone to; Lokki speaks more Hindi than Bengali. Mother tongues are something like Mother foods; for every child Ma is the best cook; deserves a Padma Shri like chef Imtiaz Qureshi, a first happening. Aji makes dal and rice in the manner of mother Dakhi; but Dakhi's dal and rice have a flavour Aji has not, upsetting Aji; but for dosas and chutneys, Aji has to take the auto to their kitchen; all goes for Chiyu -- from fish to crabs, to vetta kuzhambu and sambhar; she prefers Aji for an extra helping of affection as the old lady feeds her - a story going with feeding fingers. Seemed like shots from Natsamrat -- Nana Patekar coddling grand daughter Chimni -- singing for her, teaching her abuses, carrying her on his back ...and then being taken away..... Vikram Gokhale as friend of Nana Patekar wins me applause, he always does; Nana is served overcooked and loud; he professors, makes students of viewers; and most importantly, the film needs editing; it should have stopped with Nana losing his wife (or much earlier) as there is nothing left to say. But Mahesh Manjrekar goes on and on till putting to rest Nana and the audience. 'Khinchtha hai,' remarked Dakhi and Shreya while Chiyu went to sleep; when Aji tumbled over bouncy Marathi of Nana, Shreya helped her up; no tears were shed. Sometimes wonder why our films are noisy; emotions never brief; acting Gokhale crisp. 

A Song 9

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
from routines free,
trimmed each other
in the absence of
mirrors and barbers;
to be in Spring
of Alphonsos on swings,
a Mumbai katha.  

A Song 8

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
parked at traffic signals
switching colours,
wait;
cars, bikes, Ganges, Indrayani flow by
in haste,
no time to waste;
desperate;
a Mumbai Katha.  

A Song 7

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
munching rice bakris dipped in chais,
no paunchy, twitter patriots,
with untaxed incomes;
without flags and anthems,
a few dohas and abhangs
set to Pandharpur and Varanasi
rhymes.
Amused by Republic Day mayhem.   

Bank heist......

Short of sticking the Red Flag atop RBI Towers, the RBI governor Dr. Raghuram Rajan has said everything a Red thinks. Corporates are not to his liking; well they are not to anybody's liking. They have bilked banks, owned mostly by New Delhi -- always a trusted friend of corporates.  Can Dr. Raghuram Rajan go beyond tough words when bank chairmen have to respond with invisible favours to corporates; the entire process of appointing bank chairmen is a manner of fixing, something like selection of the Indian cricket team; and many bank chairmen get a corporate board posting after retirement. Dr. Rajan is aware. There is Mr. Arun Jaitley boasting of Indian growth on the back of a near-bankrupt banking system. Recap funds have been promised; recap funds are taxes on depositors who have lost their deposits, to begin with; yet, again, corporates do not pay up; depositors do, they have no choice. What is Dr. Rajan's dream for RBI? Am not sure whether RBI governors have unknitted their dreams to the public? Banking is run like Indian cricket; BCCI and New Delhi know all about interest conflicts. BCCI has not punished any; New Delhi ditto. Both will not change, have little credibility. New Delhi and RBI will deny strongly. New Delhi owns RBI, owns most of the banks, owns the Finance Ministry. Can then RBI and RBI governors, dare to dream? Has India's best icon, Rajan, a dream for RBI?; perhaps, he may be having nightmares. Dr. C. Rangarajan, the RBI governor, allowed banks to set deposit and lending rates; he also talked of a 4 per cent per annum bubble in prices, today's inflation targeting. And most importantly, RBI allowed staff to have a view on every aspect of finance; there were discussions with Dr. C. Rangarajan, taking the final call. Fair enough. And he had Dr. Manmohan Singh as Finance Minister, who believed every issue has many faces. Economics has many truths, not one. Ahead of credit policy, Dr. C. Rangarjan met all -- marketmen, industrialists, academics and his own troop of officials. That habit perhaps fell through the 18 th floor window of RBI Towers. Dr. Bimal Jalan, in a public speech talked of government holding in banks at an unchanging 40 per cent with the rest in public hands; it made sense; those were Vajpayee days and the Finance Minister Yashwant Sinha agreed; anyway Yashwant Sinha did not meddle unlike Pranab Mukherjee, P. Chidambaram and Arun Jaitley. Vajpayee lost the elections. Bank remain under New Delhi. Jaitley wants to take away the debt powers from RBI; a Monetary Policy Committee to decide interest rates; one is not sure if RBI will have veto powers. Dr. Raghuram Rajan has been brilliantly ambiguous; he talks of  New Delhi and Mumbai making up; making up what? Sir, again, what's your RBI vision? An Utopia worth sharing. Do you think the banking system will get off the bed with New Delhi spannering every nut and bolt? Should not banks report to RBI, none else? Should not RBI be responsible to the Lok Sabha and none else? Should not RBI be certified the first and last Dissenter in the financial system? Will India always have high growth, bust banks and Red flags?     

Sorry.....

Easy to forgive but not forget, Nelson Mandela supports the findings of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, set up in 1995, to look into the apartheid years. Compassion formed the undertone and observers think it helped a free South Africa ease into democracy. Nelson Mandela did a fine job to get all together. In Justin Trudeau, the Canadian Prime Minister, there is another politician trying to be less of a politician, more of a human. Have been reading a bit about this gentleman. In Canada, the Indian residential school system, one of the darkest chapters in Canadian history, has had a profoundly lasting and damaging impact on indigenous culture, heritage and language. As a father and former teacher, I am overwhelmingly moved by these events, a newsite quotes Justin Trudeau. 'Seven years ago, the Government of Canada apologised for this abhorrent system. The apology is no less true, and no less timely, today. The Government of Canada sincerely apologises and asks forgiveness of the Aboriginal peoples of this country for failing them so profoundly.' A genuine band-aid, not manufactured by Johnson&Johnson. Sorry does not come easy. Pope Paul said Sorry, Trudeau said Sorry. Will my country say Sorry to Muslims, Christians, Dalits, Adivasis, Kashmiri Pandits, Sikhs and the society residing in the North East? With January 26, nearing, we need a Compassion Commission to study our inequitous society the last 69 years. Yes, a Commission may not be of any help; but at least it will tell us what we were and are; a nation taking to counselling to soft edge its hatreds for the future. A Dr. Manmohan Singh said Sorry to Sikhs for 1984; Mallika Sarabhai says PM Modi has not said a word on the death of mother Mrinalini Sarabhai. Mallika admits to hating Modi politics and Modi hating hers; but a death need not upload hatred. Not a word on Rohit Vemula. Not a word on Mohammad Akhlaq. Not a word on Pansare, Dabholkar, Kalburgi. A Karan Johar at the Jaipur Festival is scared. Mr. Modi you are a busy human, the job of being primus inter pares is demanding. Yet, you could have tweeted mother of Vemula a Sorry; a RIP to Mallika Sarabhai. Not a word on farmers giving up faster than their crops. Surprising, Mr. Modi you take time out for corporates but never for farmers. Development is your calling card; all in your government want India to better China; n India development is money for a few, poverty for most and never a nullifier of community dislikes; worse, development abhors dissent. Dissenters in China are firmly behind bars. In India they are tittering. In the Cold War years, Russia was placed on par with US; two super powers; today Russia, Brazil, China and India make Brics. But Sir, you want to be a global power better than China. Never understood the logic; but now do; that's the way dissent can be got rid of  and 10 per cent GDP clocked. A Compassion Commission could make India more civilised than China; an India with a million views clashing the maidans and parks. Mr. Narendra Damodardas Modi, January 26 for grace with growth.  

Whistling Chiyu

Watching house sparrows feed Marie biscuits on the window ledge is more fun than morning walks. By 7 they are at the window queaking, on one count, there were 12, ladies and gents; trying hard to know one from the other; they carry dark marks on their backs and it seems the marks are differently placed for identification; not sure, just a guess; they dont feed if me is anywhere near; the watch is from the far end of the room; with 7-year old Chiyu they are comfortable; she watches, laughs, smiles as they fly in and out; Chiyu got her name from chimni, the Marathi term for house sparrows; Patil drops the newspapers and me puts them away; sometimes an odd crow flies in driving away the sparrows; crows do not stay back allowing the sparrows to feast. An hour goes by, the biscuits are over, the sparrows are off. And it is time for Aji and Ajoba to be on their daily pilgrimage to spend time with Shreya, busy on mobiles and iphones and Chiyu; Aji has to spend time with them and now that they have shifted to a new housing society at Borivili (W), near IC Church, it is less costly by auto; earlier it was Rs.52 to Dahisar and now it is Rs.30 with the savings going into buyng Cadbury Silk. 'I cant explain it but I turn happy, happier, happiest with Shreya and Chiyu around,' says Aji to a nodding Ajoba. Aji and Ajoba are cushy sofas for Shreya and Chiyu. The two take an auto, the driver knows them (most autowallahs in the area say hullo to them, never deny rides), know the address and take the shortest route. It cant be better. This morning, Aji and Ajoba crossed the security at the gates when they heard a soft whistle; turned round; failed to spot the whistler; a second whistle, the same result; they paused at the lift and there was a third whistle, the same result; the security staff were laughing; as the lift doors opened wide, a fourth whistle from near Aji; Aji turned and there was Chiyu, gleaming a toothless laugh; she has lost her front teeth and yet the whistle had a tonal quality reminding Ajoba of the first time sighting a Malabar whistling thrush at Masinagudi. Dear old Salim Ali writes of the bird: 'In breeding season male has a rich and remarkably human whistling song, rambling aimlessly up and down on the scale, whence the bird gets its popular name of Idle Schoolboy.' At Borivili, it is an idle schoolgirl; at the new society, she has many friends and one lady taught her to whistle; she worked on it and now whistle calls Dakhi; most of the time she is at the playground with her friends and her parents can do nothing about it. Well, nobody has a say. At school, when the class was still, into a semester exam for maths, Chiyu whistled; a wondering teacher tried to trace the call; failed at the first attempt but caught up with Chiyu as she was on her third whistle; seemingly, she had finished her maths paper. Mobiles rang and on the appointed afternoon, Dakhi met the class teacher; 'Janayi (Chiyu's school name) whistles in the class and that during exams. What should we do,' asked the teacher. Dakhi breathed hard, never realised Chiyu was more into whistling than maths. 'Sorry,' said Dakhi and she has said many a sorry for Chiyu. Having won three bronze medals for the school in relays, the teacher couldnt do much. A compromise. Chiyu and all kids can whistle during recess and in the school bus; not in the class. Last heard, Chiyu and her friends are happily whistling. Aji is also whistling. 

The Adivasi Will Not Dance ....

2016 India. First shot: A ladder rests on a wall; the best and smart climb to the roof top to fly kites, pull away the ladder. Second: the best and unsmart Dalits and Adivasis wait silently, afraid to call the ladder; they also have kites; the roof toppers demand a dance; promise the ladder. Adivasis and Dalits refuse to dance; walk away; their kites do not take the skies. Yes, The Adivasi Will Not Dance writes, Hansda Sowvendra Shekhar. After 69 years, Shekhar is brave refusing to dance. The collection of 10 short stories is bleak; women sexed for cash; land robbed for power development; living in Gujarat without meat; yes, Gujarat is a Hindu state. In the last two years, Indian literature can be proud of two books:  Baluta by Daya Pawar (English translation by Jerry Pinto) and The Adivasi Will Not Dance by Shekhar; they are political statements on an unequal nation priding imbalance. And there is a literary lilt; Dalits and Adivasis have rhythms in them; there is abuse, madarchod...; there is hurting lyricism...' When Basanti had first heard of the accusation, she had been shocked. A long-buried, agonizing recollection had assaulted her, like a thin rubber band which snaps as one is trying a chignon, and stings the fingers...'.; a three-page November is the month of Migrations crunches with its brevity....'The policeman heaves himself up and helps Talamai to her feet. He throws the used condom away and wears his clothes. Then he gives Talamai two pieces of cold bread pakora and a fifty-rupee note and walks away. She re-ties her saya and lungi, stuffs the fifty-rupee note into her blouse, eats both the break pakoras, and walks back to her group.'  That's what we have been doing to Adivasi women. Its not as if they are against development; are they consulted before their lands are snatched; has any minister thought of talking to them about coal deposits below their fertile farm lands; has any member of Niti Aayog consulted them?; politicians dine and dance with industrialists in New Delhi for their Budget views.  Ah, that's not done? Will any of these gentlemen and women read Shekhar: 'Johar, Rashtrapati-babu. We are very proud and happy that you have come to our Santhal Pargana and we are also very proud that we have been asked to sing and dance before you and welcome you to our place. We will sing and dance before you but tell us, do we have a reason to sing and dance? Do we have a reason to be happy? You will now start building the power plant, but this plant will be the end of us all, the end of all the Adivasi. These men sitting beside you have told you that this power plant will change our fortunes, but these same men have forced us out of our homes and villages. We have nowhere to go, nowhere to grow our crops. How can this power plant be good for us? And how can we Adivasis dance and be happy? Unless we are given back our homes and land, we will not sing and dance. We Adivasis will not dance. The Adivasi will not ---' The power plant will keep Mumbai and me cool; GDP will be 10 per cent, Sensex up 20 per cent;
corporates owing infrastructure will make money, email it to Swiss banks. They will dance the bars of New York. The Adivasi need not dance....he need not be in 2016 India.

Bye, Vemula

Bye, Rohith Chakravarthi Vemula. Read twice over, My Suicide Note: 'My birth is my fatal accident twice over.' 2016 India is not for you, not for Dalits, not for Adivasis, not for the poor. You dont fit the 2016 India narrative. Hyderabad Central University did not like you; they finished you; newspaper reports do not offer a tangible reason for your being kept aside; sorry, 2016 India always kept you aside from birth to death; 'The value of a man was reduced to his immediate identity and nearest possibility. To a vote. To a number. To a thing. Never was a man treated as a mind. As a glorious thing made up of stardust. In every field, in studies, in streets, in politics, and in dying and living,' Vemula writes. 2016 India does not have the grace nor the heart for you; you are sufficent for her hatreds of the low, a measure created by her Brahminic civilisation. Rohith, your suicide note is poetry, Dalit writing; 2016 India allowed you to write a single poem; you hung by an Ambedkar banner; 2016 India couldnt take more. Me did not know of you till today; that does not apply to Hyderabad Central University. For everything with a touch of Andhra Pradesh and Telengana, have a chat with friend Ashok Reddy and he put it lucidly: 'It is ABVP vesus Ambedkar Students Association; Vemula lost; he had to; India is going nowhere; at least, there is some protest.' A committee has been set up to report in a day, assuming it does not plead for an extension; a second committee will go into it; and by the time, anything comes out of a third committee, Rohith Chakravarthi Vemula will be a misprint in history for scholars to quarrel. For 69 years, 2016 India has honed her committee skills to quash any and all; nothing goes into it, nothing comes out of it as everything is a secret. Vemula and Ambedkar Students Association, should not have protested the hanging of Yakub Memon; should not have dissented ABVP attack on the screening of the documentary - a Muzzafarnagar Baaqi Hai - in Delhi University. Vemula, you stood on your legs. Daya Pawar in Baluta writes: ' If I had only stood up to them, their opposition might have crumbled. But its easy enough to write revolutionary poems, poems that challenge the status quo. Its different when you must live the challenge. That I lived without self-respect is still a matter of regret for me. At the time I felt: Is it true? Am I really spineless? Damn it, why am I such a cowardly custard. Who put this fear into me?' Daya and Vemula stood up. Odd, an RBI governor, an establishment icon, Dr. Raghuram Rajan should stand up without having you, Vemula, in his mind. He was not even referring to you. Yet, what he said applies to you and and 2016 India: Dr. Rajan said: ' Not only are we accused of not having the administrative capacity of ferreting out wrongdoing, we do not punish the wrong-doer -- unless he is small and weak. This belief feeds on itself. No one wants to go after the rich and well-connected wrong-doer, which means they get away with even more.'  Vemula, you were poor (fellowship of Rs.175,000 remains unpaid) and you were a Dalit. Today, Vemula you can sleep without dreams and fears. Death has no Dalits. Bye.    

A Song 6

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
waddle under samudra phools;
stepping on fallen, churring leaves,
stamp themselves,
paper-backed in bhelpuri flavours.  

A Song 5

A Song 5

At Marine Drive
on Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
Brahma's Beatles tootle,
give whistle to winds,
vibes to waves,
dance to strolling legs,
lilts to Ram, Krishna, Haris,
rev designer reveries
of dohas and abhangs,
dipped in dal, rotis
with licks of Cadbury curries.

A Song 4

At Marine Drive
on Arabian Sea,
Kabir, Tuka
lay on their backs
chewing gutka packs.
Rejected as temple priests
for having too less of god;
Denied entry in heavens
having too much of god.
No mention in celebrity list,
being second has no merit. 

Til gud kha, god, god bola..

'Til gud kha, god, god bola,' said the Lady offering me two til guds on Makar Sankranthi. At home, Rama is half-ways into Pongal with pongal, avial, vadai and Makar Sankranthi rolled in til guds. In Mumbai, we are like that, half-ways into many. The Lady is no different. On the walk, we paused at Thampis for vada and chutney to cheers for Pongal and at Bhagwans for tea; Thampi wished us Pongal O Pongal. Long since Lady and me met; she coughed and colded, the usual in Mumbai without a winter. Today, winds are weak for kites and there are no kati patang tumults on housing terraces as schools are into maths and history. What's Mumbai coming to -- a city of no joy; India, a country of no fun. At street corners, kite shops were into early openings and the Lady bought a dozen kites with colour manjas for her birds and Dinesh the Donkey at home; 'they told me to get some to have maja, band-baja,' the Lady said smiling hoarsely. 'Over the last 10 days they have been in bed; took them to our family doctor Dr. Buddhu and he prescribed Vicks cough drops and some white homeopathy pills; they are better after passing on the unwellness to me,' the Lady explained. The Lady seems to have had a tough time with Dinesh the Donkey refusing Vicks medication; he coughed and brayed together. 'Things are normal; hope my cold does not go back to them,' said the Lady chewing a soft, warm wada dipped into a sambhar and chutney mix. She burped loudly for Borivili to hear and had no regrets; perhaps, she was not civilised by school teachers and college professors. Let's go to the Shiva temple and Church; hope you have time,' the Lady said. Loaded with surplus time, me went along first to the empty Lord Shiva temple; we prayed with the Lady mostly patting two stray dogs, the temple regulars; then to an emptier Church as schools and offices were working. 'So what did you pray for,' me asked being ever curious. She laughed and laughed, her stick fell off, vehicles stopped. At home she has a problem; this staying in bed for cold and coughs has turned her animals into Dilwales; a crow is in love with Dinesh the Donkey; a house sparrow with a myna; weird for the Lady; she has not been able to grasp it; she has read enough of Salim Ali and watched birds to know a male crow dancing a female; a male sparrow fitting a wedding ring to the toe of a female; but this? 'Not a mess really,' she explains. The Lady is on the mobile with wild life experts and top class vets; 'never heard such a thing, Lady you need a check up,' one vet told her. Nobody has an answer and the Lady prefers to let things be; if Dinesh the Donkey croons a crow, so be it. We wished Good Day and went our ways. Read Alice in Wonderland for clues, found none...searched Dahl ... no ...not being able to forward the tale. Closing shot: her room mates, munching til guds, flying kites with Dinesh the Donkey reeling phirkis.  

Jeene bhi do yaaron

Nitish Kumar pounds samosas and kachouris with a 13.5 per cent luxury tax. Amma offers subsidised dosas, idlis, vegetables.... Fadnavis has not yet thought of taxing vada pav and usals. Heading to a state elections, Mamta will not brand shingaras with a tax. Backed Nitish Kumar in the state elections. Regret it. Deeply. Me has not learnt a lesson: Every politician is a sharper. Samosas are luxuries; what are dal and roti lunches? will Nitish tax dal-roti? living in Bihar is a luxury; Patnavi Khushboo Narayan is furious. 'Saab, abhi Ranchi mein Kellogg khayenge; garib ko jeene nahin denge,' says Ram Shukla, the vada pav vendor. A better and quality thinker, Shiv Vishwanathan in Mint says: 'What is the rationale that Nitish Kumar is giving for this tax? What is wrong with the Chief Minister of Bihar? Imposing a tax on kaju ki barfi is something I understand but tax on samosas and kachouris sounds ridiculous to me.' Is there a rationale to taxing kaju ki barfi and kaju katli or any food? Between samosas and shingaras made on the dirty roads of Kolkata, me prefers shingaras; in Mumbai, there are no shingaras, only samosas with Madhuram near Borivili (W) station offering the best at Rs.18 a piece; no single samosa order, two being minimum. At around 4.30 p.m.walk into Madhuram and samosas come floating out of glass cases. Ram Shukla predicts a samosas and kachouris morcha, fresh and hot, in Patna today with the two eatables threatening to walk off the dining tables of Nitish and Laloo of aloo fame. Never understood this taxing business; does not a low tax garner more funds? Prof. Fr. P. Turmes used to inform the economics class in St. Xavier's College of the virtues of a low tax rate: more collections and less dishonesty; better than low collections and no honesty. The same was said and practiced by an old man called C. Rajagopalachari as Chief Minister of Madras. Less controls, less taxes. In Bihar, samosas and kachouris will generate black money for tax collectors and the government; everybody will be happy as the next elections are 5 years away. There is a loss of revenue in banning liquor and Nitish wants to make up. A Parvathi could not get Shiva off drinks, try hard as she may. No woman and no Minister can stop a man from drinking; this is not an ego clap as dear old Rama loves a Breezer; a liquor ban helps everyone to pack purses; it is happening in Gujarat, happened in Maharashtra; Patna will be hell. There is a way to give a hand to the economy, it is by chipping away or abolishing taxes; economists need not wince over fiscal deficits as the burst in revenues will more than make up. A 14 per cent service tax on everything except births and deaths yields New Delhi huge funds; in 2012-13, actual collections were Rs.132,498 crores up from Rs.23,000 crores in 2005-06. A punitive 20 per cent interest rate tax on bank deposits is a second killer; if these two can go in February 2016, India will be into an economic boom, topping 10 per cent GDP growth; and perhaps there may be less need for the editorially hated MNREGA. Yet, the poor in Bihar will not be able to chew samosas and kachouris. Surely, your mother did make samosas and kchouris for you, socialist Nitish, as a kid and they had no tax. Jeene bhi do yaaron ...jeene do. 

IC Church, St. Francis school

Germany opens the first three-mile stretch of a 62 mile bicycle highway thats car and lorry free. Sunny Skyz says it will be like a traditional highway having passing lanes, overpasses and underpasses for cross roads and even streetlights. 'Its just a clear path for miles and miles.' Me am a non-cyclist, but drooled over the colour pix of the cycleway. Khushboo Narayan and Ravi Krishnan could be the first Indians to trundle the cycleway; a month or so ago. Khushboo fell off her cycle, cracked her wrist and is recovering to cycle again in Mumbai where cyclists, runners and walkers are shunned. Maybe it is irritating news for Gadkari and Javadekar keen on building 10-lane highways through wildlife sanctuaries; or Devendra Fadnavis insistent on a coastal road for cars. How is it Germany is more imaginative than India; more compassionate, when India claims to be the oldest and greatest civilisation. Will something similar work in India? If even-odd is making sense in New Delhi, a cycleway in Mumbai could well be applauded. Kick-off could be with modifying LIC Colony road into a 24x7 cycleway with runners and walkers. Have been on this piece of arcing road for near to 16 years, many mornings, being an irregular walker; a cyclist, a runner and a walker need unhurried  lengths of cement or dust tracks to pause and stare at trees, birds or nothing; booming cars disturb the contemplation; a Ruskin Bond will tell you a little bit of aimless-ness is healthy. If that is not possible, have a request for Linus Chettiar, an active pilgrim of Immaculate Church at Mount Poinsur in Borivili (W), housing in IC Colony. We have worked together at Business Line, Mumbai. A narrow up and down one-way tarred strip, some six feet wide, runs between IC Church and St. Francis School; bikers generally make it a two-way facility; BEST buses run the road, taking it entirely; cars and mini lorries push aside walkers and school children; at around 5.30 in the evening parents crowd the area to pick up their children from the school as vehicles try their very best to run them down. Can this five-minute walking stretching be turned into a no-traffic zone? Request Linus Chettiar to discuss the subject with Church monks and nuns as alternate routes exist; school kids run the piece of road in fun and me prays for them to no one. And then there is St. Francis ground -- these days, more plastic waste than green or brown grass. Mornings, school kids kick more plastic than footballs. At one end of the ground is a cement stage and elders have turned the behinds of the stage into a urinal when there is one in the ground. These parts fall within IC Colony, with a signboard for cleanliness and greens. Am prepared to offer services to collect the plastic waste at the St. Francis ground. Now, dear friend Linus, please can you help; its just a request; you know the Church. 

Parsis

Tariq Engineer, the laughing Parsi, and me were good friends for a time till he quit for a better job and me retired. For sometime read his pieces in ESPNcricinfo and now do not know. Mostly will come in whites with a tie and a bag, doctors carried long ago; today they do not own stethoscopes. He wrote on marketing in Business Line while his computer had more, if not all, of cricket. A luxurious drinker, we met up at Press Club, for drinks; best friends are made by plenty of rums and gins; a Saturday evening we sat on Press Club lawns, ordered rums; on the sixth rum Tariq contrasted batting styles of Mark Waugh and VVS Laxman, bowling subtlities of Bedi and Warne; next, we met on Monday at the office with Tariq sofly inquiring: What happened? and me having no answer. Today miss him a lot; am comfortable discussing the game with Tariq, Sanjeev Sankaran, Ravi Krishnan and son Ganesh. Tariq surfaced Sunday, reading an Indian Express long essay on Parsis: Keep the Fire burning: The sleepy little coastal town of Udvada in coastal Gujarat is where the earliest  Parsi imigrants from Iran settled ..  as a sub me would have headlined: Keep the Laugh going as that makes Parsis entertaining and possibly the finely civilised Indian with a taste for birds, grass, books, silence, ...grace and compassion ..a wonkish delight in life and a grand civic sense. No community has done more good to a city than Parsis; Kabira and Tuka at Marine Drive in Arabian Sea will testify; they are me thinks Laughing Zen Masters. When me is born into a new janma, me would like to be a Parsi in a bunglow like the grandfather of Shreyar Ookerjee in Altamont Road and other true stories; ' I remember my grandfather, whom my sister and I called 'Mohtoo', having his morning tea, wrapped in a dressing gown, on the first floor verandah outside his bedroom, and casting, as he drank, breadcrumbs to the sparrows. He drank out of a "moustache" cup, so called because it had a little ledge inside it with a vent to prevent the walrus moustaches of Victorian gentlemen dripping into the tea.'  There is the tale of Avabai, the large lady, and Dali. 'How large can be gauged from the only risque remark I ever heard from my father, that her ample bosom could easily support a tea tray. The couple dwelt on the first floor of the building and she increasingly found it more difficult to manage the stairs. Dali being a sort of Renaissance man, seriously offered to rig up a pulley on the verandah and let her down and haul her up in a basket. Avabai rejected the gallant offer,' writes Ookerjee, a wierd, if not a funny name. Me thought he was a Bengali with M missing from a Mookerjee; a Mookerjee in Calcutta will surely be upset and announce a revolution; a Ookerjee will smile like the likes of Tariq, Lyla Bavadam ....Ookerjee was born and grew up in Altamont Road... 'a quiet locality....no through traffic...no building of new houses'..... Parsis will always be around, Parsis will be seen in Udvada....Parsis will be always.....as ..... Parsis are decent. 

A Song 3

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabira and Tuka
peeled boiled aloo,
skinned kanthe,
to go with plates of
kanta pohe,
for watching India-Australia cricket,
gappa at Gabba,
about swings and spins
in abhangs and dohas. 

Naman, me friend

Naman makes Monday a Sunday. Am trying to sight and track a warbler inside a jackfruit tree on Link Road when there is a lick on the right foot. Naman, the Labrador, is wanting a pat. Naman is in no hurry not being owned by clocks; me pats him, he licks me, we chat up; he leaps; me hugs; yes it has been long and we were miserably missing each other. Link Road, the Borivili (W) stretch, is kind with old and young caring for strays, crows, house sparrows, cows ....the old, disowned by a Mumbai in a hurry, loll around with milk and biscuits; creamy coated Naman, being handsome, has a following; maybe his easy laze is his scoring point. Exchanging a Good Day me thought of the absence of dogs in some of the signature books me go back and forward to; in Swami and Friends, Swaminathan has no dog; R.K. Narayan does not give him a dog; in Jungle Book, Mogli has no dog; dogs do not live in forests (except the dholes or wild dogs) and Rudyard Kipling is aware; in Kim, Kim has no dog. Perhaps, the first mention of a dog is in the Mahabharata, walking along with Yuddhishtra to heavens; denied entry being a dog; Yuddhishtra protests, rejects heavens. In Ramayana there are no dogs; Ithihyamala has no dog story. Famous Five of Enid Blyton has a dog Timmy. Naman reminds me of Labrador Retriever, Zanjeer, also dubbed Ginger, for its coat colour. He smelt out bombs during the Mumbai bombings; born in Jan. 7, 1992, died on November 16, 2000, was given full state honours. Roald Dahl denies space to dogs in the three books me has read: The BFG, Matilda, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Sunday me is sundaying with nothing or at best something equal to The BFG (Big Fat Giant) and the funny, sensible chats; some gems: 'What I mean and what I say is two different things'; 'Meanings is not important. I cannot be right all the time. Quite often I is left instead of right; 'Now hang on a minute,' Sophie said. 'Where do you get these dreams?' 'I collect them,' the BFG said, waving an arm towards all the rows and rows of bottles on the shelves.'I has billions of them.' That's the job this blogger will readily apply for, the keeper of dreams and surely not get it. But the Britishers, in their loving ways, put Dahl on a stamp. The Royal Mail issued a set of special-edition stamps-starring the BFG and Her Majesty the Queen. Am making a plea to India Post for putting my friends on stamps; not honour, that's too pompous a word; just pencil drawings of all for all dreamers brave enough to dream dreams. India Post should start with Yuddhistra's dog, preferably a Labrador; me can lend them a pix of Naman; follow up with Swami, Mogli, Kim, Zanjeer. Perhaps a Wildlife series with Sultan, Machchli ...  

A Song 2

At Marine Drive on
Arabian Sea,
Kabir, Tuka missing.
Kabir picked up as terrorist,
Tuka as activist;
found Das Kapital on Kabir,
Mao on Tuka,
detesting development
protesting moksha,
attesting poor,
holding up Cadillacs
loaded with patrakars.
Sec. 144 put down as
police shutdown for
corporate upside downs.

A song

At Marine Drive on
Arabian Sea,
waters shiver,
traffic on reverse.
Kabir, Tuka content stilling
unstill seas,
unsure winds,
with dohas, abhangs
scribbled on skies
without horizons.
Untuned Ram, Krishna, Haris
cantillated unhurried,
going well with Cadillacs and Marutis.  

Hashim Amla and Eden Gardens

Wept over morning filter kapi. Hashim Amla, me favourite cricketer, will not anymore walk in whites to the pitch for a toss. That ultimate gentleman of international cricket, who still walks and waits not for the umpires, will not captain South Africa. Thankfully, he will continue to play for South Africa and hope South Africa keeps him. And Eden Gardens will have a name change proposed none other than by a Bengali and former India captain Sourav Ganguly. Amla has style, maybe not as much as Azharuddin and Laxman; but the leg glance and cover drives with little of bat and legs are there; Amla is Rumi of world cricket. Associated Press in The Indian Express says: Some of the criticism of the softly spoken Amla's leadership style was that he wasnt aggressive enough, a characteristic out of kilter with some recent Proteas captains, who favoured an in-your face kind of style. 'If you try and copy anybody, you'll never be a success', Amla said. 'There are many forms of leaderships.' Yes Sir Amla; you are a man me will walk the greens with and chat cricket. Not the convict behaviour of Ricky Ponting or Virat Kholi with boxing gloves. Firdose Moonda in ESPNCricinfo, South Africa correspondent, quotes Amla: 'Temba and I have very similar careers. The first time you play Test cricket everybody doubts you because of the colour of your skin. Even though you've got the stats to back it up domestically, everybody doubts you for various reasons.' Sad. And this in Nelson Mandela country. Those who count cricket like loose change, Amla has a batting average of 51.13. From Amla to Sourav Ganguly is a steep drop. For Rs. 5 crore and more, Sourav Ganguly, president, Cricket Association of Bengal, proposes to do away with Eden Gardens. Eden Gardens will be sponsored with the highest bidder nailing his name plate to the door. The scoreboard will be sponsored by none other than Reliance Jio of Mukesh Ambani. The Indian Express correspondent writes: 'More precisely, Eden Gardens is home venue of Kolkata Knight Riders , a direct rival of Mumbai Indians, which is owned by Mukesh Ambani. Will the KKR accept a potential threat of ambush marketing? The franchises pay Rs.30 lakh per match to host associations in the IPL.' With my uncle (now residing in Khar Road) have watched Test cricket at Eden; relished Pataudi and his team at net practice at Eden; have walked the Eden turf, never played on it; on Test days, a Bengali will ask another: ' Eden jachish (Going to Eden).'; and a Bengali doing the damage. Now there will not be Eden Gardens as there is no Calcutta. Sourav Ganguly will style himself Sourav Ambani to find favour with Mukesh Ambani and Anil Ambani.  Thanks Sourav for the insult. No Eden, No Gardens.   

Palwankar Baloo, the Dalit cricketer

Watched the first black South African, Temba Bavuma, score a century at Cape Town and most appropriately against the Englismen. He steered the ball past first slip to the third man boundary, joyran the pitch with helmet off. Makhya Ntini in the stands cheered loud and long and why not? Bavuma walked to the pavilion, not out at 102; a short, strong build, he seems to prefer shots to the mid-wicket region; he stretches forward more than using his feet for the classical back and forward sway. Enjoying the cricket amid drinks, dances and kisses; yes, the female audience is a delight; wish our fans could do the same at Eden, Chepauk and Wankhede. South Africa and England are playing for the Basil D'Oliveira trophy. John Arlott writes on Basil: 'He did the impossible. He broke out of the bonds of apartheid which rendered him a second-class citizen in his native South Africa to reach the highest level of his chosen profession in another country; and to be decorated by the Queen of England with the OBE. That was his message of hope to all the under-privileged races in South Africa, that escape to emancipation, liberty, and success, though still remote, is not impossible.' Temba Bavuma has made it and if South Africa wins the series, Bavuma should be requested to accept the trophy and Hashim Amla, cricket's best gentleman, will surely agree. For me, there are two fine cricketing humans in international cricket: Hashim Amla and Moieen Ali. A genre sharing with Bavuma is an Indian cricketer deleted from Indian cricket memory: a Dalit called Palwankar Baloo, dealt with sympathy and in detail, by Ramchandra Guha in A corner of a foreign field; perhaps, the best book on Indian cricket and may boast of Rahul Dravid, as the lone reader. As Guha admits, Palwankar Baloo is entirely off the screen, not a blink. A Calcutta journalist of those times details: A fine left-hand bowler, who possesses marvellous stamina. Breaks from both sides. Has the easiest of deliveries. Seldom tires. Can bowl all day long. Keeps an excellent length. Never sends down a loose delivery. Understands the game thoroughly. Places the field to a nicety, catches come (to the fielders), they have not to go in for them. Decidedly a head bowler.' Being a Dalit, was treated a Dalit. Invited to play for Poona Hindus, on humiliating terms. 'On the field the upper caste cricketers touched the same ball as he, but off it they observed the ritual taboos. At the tea interval, that ceremony sacred to cricket, Baloo was served the liquid outside the pavilion, and in a disposable clay matka, while his colleagues drank in white porcelain cups inside. If he wished to wash his hands and face, an Untouchable servant of the club took a kettle out into a corner of the field and poured water from it. Baloo also ate his lunch off a separate plate, and on a separate table,' details Guha. Baloo knew C.K. Nayudu and Dr. B.R. Ambedkar. BCCI annual awards has a trophy in the name of C.K. Nayudu: Col. C.K. Nayudu Lifetime Achievement Award. No award in the name of Palwankar Baloo. Sorry, Baloo. 

The Lady and Dahl

A wide-mouthed 'Happy 2016', from the Lady as she shook me hand and unhinged it. Did not mind having stepped into 2016 pulpy in the head after all the reading of Roald Dahl and his kids books - Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Matilda and The BFG. 'So how was it all,' me asked and she sat me on the bench at Bhagwan's tea stall. 'A long week my pets - birds, dogs, cats and Dinesh, my donkey - have slept; nights we chatted, sang and drank French wines, a friend sent me; two fruit bats, as you know, had no problems as they munch the nights and snore the days; Dinesh shook my hands with his forelegs for the good times; excited, kicked the sofa with his hind legs; and now, back to the ancient routine. The Lady was dressed, adequately covered, upside down-way - a T-shirt for her lower half and a frock for the upper half - with her walking stick bent into a purse. Tea session over we stood up to continue with the walk like writing a news report after stepping out for a smoke. Along the wall guarding the St. Francis ground, we were making our way, when out flew over the wall a five year old boy, landed on the Lady; apparently, the kid ran in to kick a football in the ground (a penalty), missed the ball, came over the wall; the ball stayed unmoved; oye, shouted his team and the coach as they came out in search of the Shandy, the kid. Shandy was not sure of the proceedings; had a belly laugh as his friends collected him and put him back into the game; as that was happening, an elder riding a cricket bat scaled the ball in search of a cricket ball, crashed into the Lady; this time the Lady fell while the elder had no clue to the happening. An amused Lady was thankful stones and birds were not falling from the skies as it happens when she is deep asleep in her bed. The last stop of the Lady is the Bun Shop opposite the Church whose owner, young Philip, is madder than the Lady; most of the time, he is at the Church in prayers leaving the Shop open and customers waiting in unison, praying; they wait as the buns are cheap, weighty and sweet; at 6 in the morning, the bun van comes, Bun Shop opens, fresh cakes, pavs and bread loaves are stacked on the shelves; Philip runs to prayers as then business flowers, he claims and the Lady and all nod yeses. Philip is brisk at the shop, neatly packs items in fresh, morning newspapers, the vendor, his friend, drops. No complaints over the food; ready with loose change; first cum first serve, no breaking lines. The Lady shuffles into the queue for her regular, vegetable puffs, brun pavs and Amul butter; Philip is sure, it is not for her but for her pets; on Sundays he gives a hefty discount to the Lady. Yes, that's what the chewing of Roald Dahl does to readers, unfixes a 70 year old. 

Kottaratil Sankunni, the first Indian columnist?

Evenings at Kottayam in the 1900s. Friends K.A. Varghese Mappila and Kottaratil Sankunni and a few others meet to chat. Something of a needy rite. K.A. Varghese Mappila, editor of Manorama and Bhashaposhini and Kottaratil Sankunni wrote, subbed, edited, brought out in a manner Manorama, daily; took a break at 4 p.m. for talks over chai and paruppu wada at a potti kada, not sure; at these sessions Kottaratil Sankunni unroped tales more imaginative than factual; one day Varghese Mappila offered to serialise the tales in Manorama and Bhashaposhini; Ithihyamala got birthed; later editor of Lakshmibai, Vellaykal Narayana Menon bound the columns into a book. That's the story signed off by Kottaratil Sankunni in a preface dated, Kottayam, 5-9-1084 (17-4-1909), to Ithihyamala. In Calcutta, father read out an old Malayalam edition on Sunday afternoons and me enjoyed the tales dipped in magic; in recent times, wife Rama helps with the Malayalam telling from a revised two volumes of Ithihyamala. Abraham Eraly has a compressed English edition Tales once told: Legends of Kerala; 'These are not folktales, but historical anecdotes of a legendary character. Most of the events described in them lack hard historical veracity, but they are nevertheless invaluable for exploring the psyche of Kerala lying beneath the surface clutter of manifest facts,' writes Abraham Eraly. Me does not claim a Kerala psyche but surely have been touched by Kerala psyches; a risible, doubting and cynical psyche; an architectural must for a newspaper columnist and cartoonist and Kottaratil Sankunni, perhaps, is the first Indian language columnist. Experts may correct me though the thought remains; tales crafted with mind and magic locked for company; easily written; menu deep and wide as the kayals flowing by Kottayam. 'But more than anything else, these are fascinating tales in themselves,' writes Eraly.  It should have been a fine adda under coconut lined skies; for me, Narayanaththu Pranthan, the favoured. Pranthan rolled stones up a height, roared in fun as they rolled down; an entire day; in the evening, he cooked what he got, mostly rice; one evening he boiled the rice over a fire taken from a burning body in a masan; a ferocious goddess asked him to quit, he did not; she promised to fulfil any wish put up by Pranthan; can you shift my death date, he asked; she said no; and Pranthan went his way or as the Tamils say: Chithan pokku, Shivam pokku. Pranthan is a part of me from the time Father told the tale; rewind him every day. Life is an absurdity; Pranthan is absurd; we are absurd. Now two requests to the Kerala psyche: a film on Pranthan, imaginatively rich with loudness absent; a biography of Kottaratil Sankunni in English. He may be best for journalists 2016. India 2016 needs Sankunni most.

Brijnath and sports

   

'Uncle, khelega,' smiled 6-year old Siyu with a bat and ball in hand. 'Haan,' me responded. Siyu handed me the rubber ball as she marked the crease, settled down to bat with the bumper of a car for stumps on a cemented half-feet of space. Me under armed a spin to the ball and she hooked it over 5 cars, scrambled past six cars for runs; me bent under a Mahindra SUV for the rubber sphere, not a kookabura. Within minutes, Chiyu, Niyu, Biyu, Hiyu and Kiyu joined up, teams were formed and a Test started among parked cars. That space in the housing society was a green park; now a cemented parking slot, with cars and SUVs stacked back to back, one on another; a rusty, tin board in a forgotten corner says: For children. Fathers and mothers pat, wipe, kiss and chat up their cars while yelling out their kids, spend more hours in cars than outside. That's living in Mumbai, New York style. Today, the Test match eased into its own rhythm with toss, Cokes and protests to me, doubling as the lone umpire. Parents were living their hangovers in bed. Dance and drinks had done them in, they forgot their cars; dreamt of cars. Their children were happy ..... or that was what me thought when a wrangle, green shooted, Chiyu refusing to field claiming the scoreboard to be tampered...a routine affair with adults. Maybe, Chiyu was at the TV for India-South Africa Test matches in Nagpur, Delhi and wherever. In India, India alone wins; in South Africa, England wins. The Test match stood suspended with no reference to dodgy ICC. The kids broke into another game setting me free to sofa rest weary legs ...it was not so years ago stamping the Maidan grass in Calcutta; Maidan youthed me; Maidan is in me; and as Maidan is sports, for me sports is everything; everything else can wait, waits; me faith; or rather, much better put by that elegant sports writer Rohit Brijnath in Mint today: ' Why I still have faith in sport'. Rohit Brijnath is the verser of sports and philosopher of sports, of all sports; he writes: ' ....And then there is Charlotte Brown. We speak of extraordinary athletes trusting their skills, but she stretches that idea of faith so far that it is bewildering. This year she, 17, hurtled down a runway, planted a vaulting pole and ascended 3.50m into the air to win bronze at the Texas state high-school championships. Which is unexceptional till one considers that Brown cant see the runway, cant see the pole-vaulting box, cant see the bar, cant tell where she is. 'If I am going to challenge myself,' said the blind teenager,'why only challenge myself a little bit. I want to make it hard.' Yes, that's blind faith in sports. Yes, Rohit Brijnath. Am not a sports writer (tried, got rejected); but watch all sports; when nothing is live on sports channels or in living, watch DD Sports with its last century clippings of  Indian athletics. Yes, sports is me faith, Maidan me prayer book.