A Song 30

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
joyous sticks,
washed at public taps,
begged streets,
fed strays,
ate leftbehinds.
Tax exempt said
Budget papers. 

RBI....Quel de sara sara....

Quel de sara sara ...Reserve Bank of India is no more. On afternoon Feb.29, 2016, Mr. Arun Jaitley, the union finance minister, said Bye.... The RBI governor will have a casting vote in a 6-member Monetary Policy Committee (MPC), not veto power. The RBI will be a cricket team without a captain.The 6-member MPC will have three from the government and three from the RBI including the RBI governor. In Mint, Aparna Iyer and Jayshree P. Upadhyay write: 'The six-member MPC, once formalised, will decide on interest rates as against the current norm of the RBI governor and his internal team having complete control over monetary policy...The final composition announced by the government seems to tread the middle path as it tries to address concerns over excessive government influence on monetary policy. With the introduction of MPC, RBI will follow a system similar to the one followed by most global central banks such as US Federal Reserve and the Bank of England.' George Mathew in The Indian Express says: 'However, Jaitley did not spell out details of the proposed committee, especially if the RBI governor will have a casting vote.' Expected a comment from the former and best RBI governor, Dr. C. Rangarajan. In the Economic Times, the gentleman skirts the RBI issue with which he spent many years as deputy governor and governor. Sad. If the 6-member committee votes 4-2 on rate cuts with RBI governor in a minority, he does not have a veto vote to overturn the decision; in a tie he will have a casting vote; with that RBI and RBI governor will not decide on interest rates; it will be the Finance Ministry; the Finance Ministry will set the fiscal deficit, run the interest rates while the RBI will work the inflation target mandated to it; do not know whether it can be done; over time when debt management is taken away from RBI, Mint Street will not have an address. To Mint, A.V. Rajwade, an independent expert, says: 'RBI will still have control over monetary policy despite the committee deciding on rates. Looks like the governor got what he wanted.' Are you sure, Mr. Rajwade. Dr. Chakravarthy Rangarajan (Ranga to friends) was the deputy governor, RBI, from 1982-1991; governor from Dec. 22, 1992 to Dec. 21, 1997. In me books, the best RBI governor; he freed all interest rates except savings rate; allowed banks to freely price their loans and not wait for RBI okay; ahead of kharif and rabi season credit policy, met market players, bankers, academics, rounds of meetings with RBI staff apart from the Finance ministry, before taking a final decision. Dr. Manmohan Singh, unlike Pranab Mukherjee, P. Chidambaram and Arun Jaitley, let go; they did talk, they differed; they accepted each other. Today, RBI is superfluous; Dr. Raghuram Govind Rajan, is a dispensable extra. Why hang around, Doctor? Quel de sera, sera....

A Song 29

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
whiled over an
unfairness to wives and kids,
fariness to gods and sidekicks;
walked down to Chowpaty,
swam to a stranded fishing boat
on shaky waters,
sailed, to be with
grandkids in USA,
say Sorry.

A Song 28

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
kantepohe and Einstein,
equating
shunyatas of Rama, Krishna, Haris
with black-holed infinities;
violins with tambooras;
science with hippies;
unflagged, insufficient selfies,
knotting loose ends of infinities.   

Akshartap (Word fever)

At Marine Drive
on Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
down with Akshartap, word fever;
'virus without vaccines,
words will have to be tapped
or drained' said the municipal doctor,
taking no fees;
Said Vithhala and Rakkumai:
'Go missing, silently,
police will help.'
For a third opinion,
refer to
stars, sky and seas.
No answers: bad weather.  

Aligarh

Ahead of a dying and of a getting back of  the lecturer's job, Prof. Shrinivas Ramchandra Siras, talks of settling down in America, after retirement, as that country accepts differences. Many may not like it. Many may argue America being as blind a place as India. For me India 2016 is Dhritharashtra. The going to America does not happen. He is found dead. Prof. Siras teaches Marathi in Aligarh Muslim University and perhaps, the only Maharashtrian in town, which he is used to, loves and talks Hindi and English with a Marathi accent. He is different, he is gay and none likes that...like today, differences are not accepted, discussed. Low on most counts, Indian society prefers a straight line narrative without dashes, dots, curves even as the Earth has no objections. Prof. Siras unwinds to a Malayali journalist Deepu Sebastian. He protests. There is a shot of the two travelling in a boat, of Deepu asking whether Prof. Siras is gay....and the shot sticks like the early shots of Prof. Siras sitting and nodding to a Lata song with a chappalled foot arcing the air... The two hour film is tight, the film has no paunch, little sound, it is as if you are not watching a film, but being with Prof. Siras in the lanes of Aligarh...the hurt in being denied is ever under lock and key ....Prof. Siras always firmly locks the rooms from which he is ever driven out; me thinks a few, if any, can do better than Manoj Bajpai as poet Prof. Siras with rhymes and Lata music. Wikipedia terms him a method actor; do not know what that means; you walk back home with him; he does not leave you like the unfairness of it all. Perhaps the film is most important to the different humans living with us and also to the Supreme Court agreeing to discuss homosexuality. Others are human, as human as you and me and cannot be red carded out of living. At Maxus, Borivili (W), went for the first show, watched the film with about 15 others. Me rating: Many A.  

A Song 26

 
At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
more kustikars,
less poets;
patrons Vitthala, Rakkumai
were like that;
kept out of litfests.,
chasing foodfests. 

T20s and 420s

Two sports pages for cricket, one page for UK football and for The Indian Express no other sports exists even if Rio Olympics is only 5 months away. No problem, cricket to an Indian is the Eleventh Avatar of Vishnu; the God comes with bat, ball, stumps, pads, gloves, helmets with Tricolour embossed and slangs. The Indian Express has to sell, to get ads and readers; also exist; journalists need to be paid, even if underpaid. Cricket is critical to the balance sheet of The Indian Express. So, the sports editor leads today with a T20 Asia Cup opener: India versus Sri Lanka. Me may see it. Cricket writers, commentators and players will turn patriotic bullfrogs; sports is all about patriotism, pet hates, pet loves; for an Indian, Sachin is always better than Lara. In these times of 2016, every Indian will be measured by his oomph for Mahendra Singh Dhoni, more a businessman, less a cricketer and captain. But India you better cheer; when India plays Pakistan, India has to applaud India and Pakistan, Pakistan; there cannot be any cross connections. In Meerut long ago, a few students backed Pakistan to lose their scholarships, reports The Indian Express in its Anchor story. Admit to being scared; never a comfortable feeling. Me has always backed West Indies in cricket, Brasil in football; in 1983, World Cup, me bet on West Indies and lost with Kapil Dev touching the World Cup; hockey and athletics, India, though not being the best. None bothered me,  20 years ago; none bothered any 20 years ago; Imran Khan is the best, said many and lived free. When Laxman and Dravid knocked out Steve Waugh in Calcutta, me cheered for Laxman and Dravid. When Ricky Ponting cheated and abused Anil Kumble in Australia, me was for Kumble. Me can be an inconsistent Indian; not a Sunil Gavaskar and Sachin Tendulkar (there were hours when me walked away when Sachin Tendulkar lost his wicket) with national flags on their mast heads. One thing, readers (if any), may watch Asia Cup and World Cup, alone in me room; sure to be beaten up if accidentally appreciates a Pakistani cover drive against Ravichandran Ashwin. Till perhaps March-end cricket writers and cricket commentators will start the day: Good morning, India waving the Tricolour. To avoid unpleasantness, BCCI may ban the flags of other nations when the World Cup starts. Can India play Pakistan in Wankhede? Will there be Pakistani umpires? What happens if India loses Asia Cup and World Cup? Will Mahendra Singh Dhoni be dubbed unpatriotic, Kohli and Ashwin, seditionists? Sad for the poor fellows. Or, it could be best, switch off sports and watch Room. Perhaps, there is one sport with minimum of thumping and that could be tennis. Roger Federer, Djokovic, Nadal, .... they play under no flags, play for cash, play for wins. Ramanathan Krishnan and Vijay Amritraj were gentlemen playing for themselves and they continue to be so. Hope am not charged with sedition and put behind bars; have no cash to fund lawyers. In the family, Rama, Ganesh, Shreya are patriotic, Maybe, will not watch T20. Delight in Atul Gawande's book, Better.

3 films

Good morning, cot; good morning TV; good morning, full moon; said me waking up at 4.30 when Rama asked 'what's happening'. She knew; we watched Room in the night and could not get Joy and Jack out of our minds. Good friend, Kartik Iyer, alerted me to the film and me do not set aside his advice; son Ganesh came up with a download and a feverish appreciation; yet we sat on the download; having nothing to do, played Room in our Room and wow....A mother and her son locked in a Room; for Jack everything is unreal, a TV camera; flight out of the Room and clicks of Jack eyeing live, a dropping, browned leaf on a green lawn are lines from some Haiku poetry. Wonder whether Room is a fable of modern times with everyone having a Room and none the Earth. Mostly done in silences by director Lenny Abrahamson, Joy and Jack impress; showing up surprised and glad faces from living unreal to living real could not have been easy. Will it win Oscars? Do not know not being a technical film expert; there are many things to watch and note; Rama and me may have missed out on some; on my morning walk, a dry leaf from a jamun touched down on the road to be flattened by a speeding auto; yet living outside the Room is worth it; and in a manner applies to my country locked up in a Room with the key in safe custody of jailors and no rescue. The film flows easy, snatches you and you stream along. Between Room and One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest, me prefers to live in a Room. Jack Nicholson and Louise Fletcher fly over you, come back, peck you and Jack harms the viewer; to avoid a long prison term for rape, Jack gets relocated in a mental hospital and takes you along     ..Wikipedia says it is one of the greatest films ever ...me is not sure except for Jack Nicholson, the lobotomy done on him and his death. There is no joy in A cuckoo....And then came the viewing of Malayalam film Shutter. Granted it is not on par with Room but does hold its place in a regular mix of mentally retarding dishhoom-dishoom outputs from Kerala. We liked it with Srinivasan doing it his way; there is no effort in his movements in front of the camera; its about a night in a locked, shuttered garage for some quick sex. Critics liked Lal as the hero; for me it Sajitha Madathil as the woman on sale. The film has little excess, a must for most Malayalam films; it is not a tight film but worth a watch. Room: a banana leaf saddhi; One flew: rice gruel; Shutter: a crisp masala dosa.                                                                                                                
  

Trams at Flora Fountain

On Saturday afternoon stood at Oval Maidan with a packet of sukka bhel, gazing the prettiest University Tower; an old daily rite for years; dont know why me did it and do it on my City trips;the Tower has watched over many Bombays and Mumbais; will be around when me am no more; with its many contentious books, absent professors and students (the University is now at a classless space in Kalina), chiming Time at an unhurried pace for Mumbaikars with mobiles; the Oval was full with cricket and the mobile had to ring with Paul Noronha on the line. 'They have found tramlines at Flora Fountain; are you interested.' Said Yes. Ryokan verses: ' To an old man, dreams come easy.' Dreamt of tram lines as we walked to Flora Fountain to find a digging machine dig tram lines; double tram lines; an old Muslim gentleman said it was the Pydhonie-Colaba tram line, the run costing two pais; someone else said something; and from somewhere came Behram Contractor with his midnight piece on the last tram ringing away the city in 1964. Behram Contractor, Mario Miranda and Olga Tellis are Mumbai's best chroniclers in English; they took (Olga Tellis still does) trams and trains, traipsed the coast lines, danced to offices located in winding lanes. Paul ran up and down the parallel lines clicking; 'they will take it,' he said; but Business Line Monday edition has not the pix. The Indian Express has a front page Anchor by Vishwas Waghmode and pix by Prashant Nadkar; the story has a prosaic headline, City's lost tram tracks surface. On a summer visit, has boarded a red (?) tram at King's Circle in the 1950s. My city like me has many fatelines: Train lines, tram lines, coast lines, ... and sad that son Ganesh does not know Mumbai; for him suburbs make Mumbai. When we made it to Flora Fountain, it needs a wash, there was the digging machine and three diggers...then in ones and twos they walked over with mobiles clicking but not a crowd being Saturday; today, Monday, there will be a crowd. Tramlines will be pulled out for a museum, Vishwas Waghmode reports. Hey, why not just leave them undisturbed; it might slow down car traffic; so what; a public display of tram history is needed for Mumbaikars, something to stare into the past ...That wont happen. After the shootings we walked past Bombay House with young 100 year old Parsis looking out of windows asking 'what's that digging' and on to Horniman Circle. Paul called a taxi to Press Club for a Business Line lawn party...reached home tipsy with tram bells of Calcutta (sorry Kolkata) clanging, operated by Biharis.....in Calcutta they still run at the pace me mind thinks and dreams .... Born in Kolkata, brought up in Mumbai, like me?  

A Song 25

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea
Kabir and Tuka,
into their kismet
lighting diyas
against seawinds.

Insaniyat

On Friday (February 19, 2016) at 9 p.m. NDTV Hindi channel went blank and dark. Not a power cut. Just a nation in eclipse. In a darkness, said the brilliant Ravish Kumar. For about 40 minutes he spoke in darkness of dissent, decency and democracy before coming out into lights and pleading ' abhi aap so jaiye'. It has not happened ever on Indian TV. Ravish Kumar has a pleasant madness. Did not or rather could not sleep; woke up ahead of koyals and sparrows; am not brave Vemula and Kanhaiya Kumar and Umar Khalid; cannot stand up as Ravish Kumar, Rajdeep Sardesai, Barkha Dutt, Sagarika Ghose, Swami in a ET blog and the IIT-Bombay faculty; ever scared of a police constable and a government clerk. Friday morning was at the Borivili post office to get to know the fate of a saving certificate of daughter Vidya; the clerk at the counter bawled Rama and me out; he explained once; we did not grasp; refused to repeat. That's India today: India bawling. You are safe if you hold a national flag, have a Hindu Brahmin name, pray and seen to pray to Ram, buy Patanjali products, stand upside down in Yoga at Rajpath, pack your wife in a veg kitchen. With Pakistan and Bangladesh on either side, BJP wants India to be a Hindu Rashtra. Thats it. BJP wont say it, it will do it, is doing it. A long ago looks like today and tomorrow. A black Indian by the name of Gandhi was necked out of a train in Pietermaritzburg, South Africa by a white man. That old man and his good friend Jawaharlal Nehru made a space, a nation for all, with all, the same; or at least they worked for that idea. In 2016, the same old man called Gandhi and Nehru have been red carded by the nation they were born in. They have no place in India. Rambhakts alone have a place in India. It is not right versus wrong. It is many rights and many wrongs and an unsureness. Ravish Kumar and The Indian Express are musts for me. The Indian Express writes: 'By seeking to wrap itself in the national flag, as it stands on the wrong side of a building confrontation between those who seek to protect the citizen's constitutional right to freedom of speech and those who would curb it in the name of nationalism, the government does a disservice not just to its mandate, but above all to the tricolour.' For a change, Mani Shankar Aiyar in The Indian Express invokes Atalji. Yes, me misses him, badly; his compassion, his laugh, his dearness. Atalji could never be crude. CN Annadurai demanded a separate Tamil Nadu; a Dr. C.P. Ramaswami Aiyer declared Travancore-Cochin a separate state; they are not styled seditionists today. But a Vemula, Kanhaiya Kumar and Umar Khalid are. Prime Minister Mr. Narendra Modi, you were fair, when the other day you flew into Pakistan for peace. You talk with PDP in Kashmir. Perfectly okay. Is it then so wrong to declare peace with Kanhaiya Kumar and Umar Khalid, call them for talks, have tea and a few laughs. A long ago looks like today and tomorrow. It need not be, Mr. Modi. Some Insaniyat, please.

A Song 24

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
of a mapless land,
rivers,
leaves,
birds,
nests,
seasons,
poems.
Chased by flags
On the run. 

A Song 23

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
missing;
a torn, cloth bundle
of dohas and abhangs,
sniffed by sniffers,
in police custody,
sent to forensic laboratories.

HOPE Kanhaiya Kumar

An elderly, upper caste Hindu turns a Communist, in the Malayalam play of Thopil Bhasi -- Ningalenne Communist aki. Today at 70, me became Kanhaiya Kumar, a seditionist, a Communist and every other political abuse. In the 1950, Thopil Bhasi wrote a Malayalam play: 'Ningalenne Communist aki (You made me a Communist) under the People's Arts Club, leading to the first freely elected Communist government in Kerala under EMS Namboodiripad. 'They did not correspond to real Communists,' remarked EMS. After 85 days, the play was banned by the government (not EMS government) under the Dramatic Performance Act for being subversive. Today Kanhaiya Kumar is in police custody as a traitor. Wish EMS the gentleman was around at Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi. In the 70s. Calcutta students buzzed: 'Amar bari, thomar bari, Naxalbari (Your house, my house, Naxalbari); 'Amar naam, thomaar naam, Vietnam (Your name, my name, Vietnam); in 1974, students in Navnirman Movement in Gujarat threw out a corrupt government; followed the Bihar students movement blossoming into JP protests, leading to Emergency and the knock down of Indira Gandhi. Students can surely be proud, they made the critical change. Like today. JNU is shaking us. If students do not protest, none will, not surely a 70 year old me; not anchors; thanks The Indian Express. The Telegraph, The Hindu. In the last few days, police (they are in search for more) pick up a Bihar boy from JNU for sedition and today The Hindu quotes a senior official: 'Delhi police do not have evidence to back their claim that Kanhaiya Kumar was shouting anti-national slogans.' There can and should be a debate on Afzal Guru as Harsh Mander has sensibly argued. Perhaps, the most scary is The Hindu front page report of Kritika Sharma Sebastian: 'Students of JNU ate beef on the campus and worshipped Mahishasur instead of Goddess Durga and hence they are 'anti-nationals', said a Delhi police report on Afzal Guru event held on the campus on Feb. 9. The report reveals how the police have been snooping the campus for the last two years and wanted the authorities to install CCTV cameras on the campus to monitor activities.The Special Branch of the Delhi Police has always kept an eye on the activities of students, student organisations and people who have a stake in JNU...' In the A.K. Ramanujan essay Many Ramayanas, Ravana is also offered prayers. Peeking your and my children; tracking their thoughts; following them; all to be ever in paternalistic Power. Jawaharlal Nehru would not have admitted to blatant indecencies. Say what you may, he was not cheap. In sunset times. Also sunrise times. Always good times. Me became Kanhaiya Kumar. India needs many Kanhaiya Kumars. Many protests. 

A Song 22

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
god's own seditionists,
at New Delhi,
shaved of discontent,
feeding Vemula and Kanhaiya,
varan-bhat,
cooked by Vittala and Rakkumai;
god's own truant kids,
swing to drums
tuned to Marx and Madhav,
Rumi and Rakoyan;
across centuries
times and protests,
ever same,
hard times.
No free times.

A Song 21

A Song 21

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
cold quiet,
over a police fiat,
scared of sunrise
hide in sunsets.

ONV, Ottaplakkal Nilakanthan Velu Kurup

A poet with a home, Ottaplakkal, for a name. He is not at home. A poet's death is an 8 column lead in Sunday Mathrubhoomi. Poet Ottaplakkal Nilakanthan Velu, ONV, Kurup died on Saturday evening. Sunday Mathrubhoomi is an ONV edition. The world is short of a poet; a friend of Thakazhi Shivashankara Pillai of Chemmeen; Sunday Valentine is minus a lover. Rama took out a collection of ONV poetry and Sunday morning is into ONV verse; a poet needs readings; on Saturday, Malayalam channels played ONV pleading for Malayalam a space in the Malayali minds living in dear old naadu. Me do not know any Malayalam; nor have a naadu. Born in Chavara in Kollam in 1931, Kerala was a naadu of deep clevages; he grew into a EMS style Communism....traces always remained.... He perhaps is the second poet Kurup with the first probably being poet G. Shankara Kurup. An industrialised society or an India mimicing the West can build the sky with cement and steel; can or will it emote; can or will it be teary for a Vemula and a Kanhaiya Kumar, can it verse....will it always place youngs in prisons without qualms...will it shut down prisons...will it change 2020...ONV, the poet, sadly does not belong to a shut down us. The Indian Express has a ONV column by Amrith Lal; Lal quotes ONV:

In the quest for something, without the search,
Gaining something, missing others/
In the vision of something, blind to the rest
Singing a few tunes, silent otherwise/
I enjoy this journey.

Maybe one day India will set out on a walk; enjoy it like ONV.

Plus four pages on Love in eye of Indian Express ... an entire page to poetry... for Valentine Mumbai ....

and A Song 20

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
trim Valentines, Wait.
Sunday.
Valentine saints,
never currency of exchange. 

St. Valentine

Son Ganesh at Pench sighting tigers. Kartik Iyer at Kyanis into mawa cakes. At home, me into celestial chirps. The Guardian put up a video on gravitational waves with the chirp; went over it, a chirp, born a billion years old as New Yorker wrote, as two black holes moving round each other, became one to justify the science of two old Ajobas, Galileo and Einstein; time and again one listened to the violins in the skies, a faint bowing.... by whom? They, the reporters, know their science when they wrote Newton and his apples are not enough. It needs LIGO. David Reitze, executive director, LIGO, told a conference, ' We have detected gravitational waves. We did it.' For a brief, sighted God? Reader, if there is any, me did not understand an equation of the science in Guardian and New Yorker, yet read them for styles and flows; and sometimes, me reads things without knowing anything like Ulysees of James Joyce or Until the Lions, Echoes from the Mahabharata by Karthika Nair. In the physics class at school, the science teacher filled the blackboard white with Newton and Galileo; one law stays in me, every action has an equal and opposite reaction; applied to the teacher and me; me failed in physics and am sure will never pass in my next janma. Science is an artistocracy; will not age or go away like Latin and Sanskrit; they live in infinities; ramble in equations; Gates and Job a meritocracy; making living easier, earning cash. The Guardian hopped from gravitational waves to DNA to why, when, what God; in the west, science and their honed minds will talk around campfires, toss up many alternatives to Toy God;  and there will be seditions without arrests; if a Neils Bohr equivalent is around, he may quote a Rig Vedic rishi, much after or around the time the chirp left the black holes:

'That out of which creation arose,
whether it formed by itself or it did not,
He who oversees it from the highest Heaven,
only He knows or maybe He does not.'

Over the last two days, sampled the New Aristocracy and the good luck of the Guardian and New Yorker to chronicle the future; the New Aristocracy admits dissent; the New Aristocracy has Compassion; the New Aristocracy has no bias, or rather cannot afford to have; the New Aristocracy is socialist. But my country is different. If the Rig Vedic rishi was around in 2016, he would have been picked up for interrogation. The West has touches of the New Aristocracy; my country has not. It has police and politicians to conduct debates, students to be slapped in jail or be suicides. Kanhaiya Kumar has been picked up; is he an Indian they ask?  On Sunday, St. Valentine will land up; the West will kiss. Will young crowds at Marine Drive and Connaught Place share flowers and kisses? Will they Valentine to unaged chimes? 

A Song 19

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
wrote the Laws of Levity
as Alphonsos thumped their heads
in gaiety;
police vans rushed up,
placed them in permanent custody.
Citizens felt untidy. 

A Song 18

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
clothed in flowers,
draped in hand-written Valentines,
tending to citizens smudged  
by Heavenly chirpy chimes,
tacked their ears to celestial
lines of pianos in blue skylines,
sounding like raagas and alaps
in Vaikunt times.
Life got living.  

4 films

'Madness', 'Madness',...yells a British soldier walking the ruins of a blown up railway bridge in The Bridge on the River Kwai; towards the close. The film is about Britishers against Britishers with the Japanese having a few camera minutes. Have seen it twice in Calcutta, saw it again on Wednesday; much less of violence and a psalmic quiet towards the end howling a 'Madness'. Is it a war film? From around 12.30 lolled in the arm chair with The Bridge on the River Kwai; followed To Kill a Mocking Bird; next,Witness for the Prosecution and last Marathi film Shwas. It was 10.30 evening; through the night Atticus and Vichare roamed the head as there is a Madness to all the films; perhaps, Madness is a necessary qualification for a top class film; me is not talking of Oscars and all that; a film is good without awards; ask any director: a film is serious fun. The AAA scene in To Kill a Mocking Bird is when Jem places his sister Scout, inside a tyre and rolls it down the road; the girl goes round and round reminding me of the deft, improptu scenes from Ray and Adoor; didnt we do it as kids?; these shots could have been spontaneous; and Gregory Peck as Atticus reminds me of my cousin Ramu and son-in-law Rajesh Patil; Rajesh is never upset with Shreya and Chiyu, do what they may and they scrum a lot; at worst, he smiles a 'jaodiya'. Ramu never hectors sons, Aditya and Kartik; hope Kartik Iyer confirms; Atticus (wife dead) is the father, wished me had one like that; Jem and Scout pull up Atticus, call their father Atticus and always wind down with a Yes Sir; murders cancel murders; there are no truths to search and dig for; like it happens in Witness for the Prosecution with the pappad-like British humour sponging blood drops; Charles Laughton perhaps noses ahead of Gregory Peck, for the fun; and the court scenes in both films are real having reported Ambani-Wadia cases in the Bombay High Court; courts are closer to tombs; not the thundering speeches of Mohanlal and Mamooty to absent judges in Malayalam films; perhaps many will not agree but the court scenes in the Marathi film Court are the best me has seen; Rama enjoyed To Kill a Mocking Bird and the Peck sentence: Mockings birds are not to be shot as they sing the best. Yet the film which put holes in me was Shwas; sure am sentimental, yes wept with Vichare and his grandson Parshuram. Own up, Shwas is a dear, me could relate to and when there are drops and dashes of Konkan, me breaks up. Shwas (Breath), seen it twice and by 10.30 it was all over. Rama and Ganesh find it hard on their emotions but the story happens. Hours of films uploaded me to a dream of directing a film. Thanks Ganesh, for the show. 

A Song 17

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
without birthdays,
chortled a game of dice,
not the Mahabharata vice;
chalked the earth:
Compassion is fair priced
Kyani mawa cakes,
made in Parsi ways,
served in trays,
by suns, seas and winds,
all days. 

A Song 16

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
fool with girls and boys
without schools;
tap to Kishore and Lata;
mime Deewar and Sholay;
Ajis and Ajobas chip in
with Garden and Lays.
On Fun Street,
giveaways clatter and chatter;
takeaways for Mumbaikars.
A Mumbai Katha. 

A Song 15

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
nibbing autobiographies;
slap thighs
watching kabaddi;
file reports to media sites,
cracking news;
when their heads had no whites,
met for kabaddi in Jejuri;
Kabir for team Varanasi Shiv
Tuka for Pandharpur Vithal;
winning games,
losing games,
flexing pangas,
became friends;
graduated in kabaddi,
flunked an honours course in Varkari;
Rama, Krishna, Hari,
Kabaddi, kabaddi ...
share a tonality,
taste same.

Zen of sports

In recent times, am getting closer to the Zen of doing nothing; not fixated to the idea; seemingly, inching towards that grandness; there are a few ways; leaning into one's sofa, watching house sparrows feed on Marie Biscuits; setting aside newspapers, slurping filter kapi in yellow metal glasses, staring out of the window for at least an hour; and evenings watching sports - hockey, kabaddi, football, tennis with Djokovic skiing the skies - for hours on mute. Try it for Zen; a Sardar Singh, a Jamie Dwyer, a Turner, rotating on their axis with the yellow ball; trying to get used to kabaddi and its muscle men with hints of Rama's vanar sena; other day touched bliss watching Zidane the coach walking a football pitch from outside; and common to all sports is referrals, technology armed; may not, perhaps will never be, perfect, but there to settle screaming, doubting participants. Yes, professional kabaddi has referrals plus yellow and red cards. These games work on the premise that science and technology are never perfect though that may be the need; again, science does not promise correct answers; science is liberal, offers doubts. In all these games, the players cool down, accept the verdict. Except of course, cricket played with some ability by five nations: India, England, South Africa, Australia and Sri Lanka. Cricket alone exists for our sports editors; it is like Sensex for business editors; but sports editors, honestly, are not entirely for technology referrals. When the God starting dealing in ducks, he whined against DRS - Decision Review System; followed naturally Sunil Gavaskar with a demand for a perfect DSR to track lbw (leg-before-wicket) decisions realising, there cannot be perfection; a loud hoot of protest followed from Mahendra Singh Dhoni; in master style, Sourav Ganguly also got away with hollering at curators to prepare brown pitches; all these gentlemen -- termed legends by our cricket writers - have not yet objected to DRS for run outs and no balls; being creative, Indians always prefer to be selective. Will there be DRS in the T20 World Cup to be played in India. Dont know. And should not there be red and yellow cards for cricket as most are goonish; they will shout, they will abuse, they will undress and do it all with pride; never a regret; of course, Hashim Amla is the honest customer; our Virat Kholi, or is it our Viv Rchards going by Ravi Shastri, demands an yellow card in every match. In Melbourne Slam 2016, a Serena Williams hugged Angelique Kerber; how many times has that happened in cricket? The End of the Earth is when every sports is or suspected to be fixed; yes, when that bugs me, shuts the TV; plays snakes and ladders with Shreya and Chiyu. When Chiyu hits a snake, she walks off. Zen is over.

A Song 14

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
swung to mosquito hums
recalling grandma thumps
on mosquito bums
in droughty slums;
stitched them to poetic strums
of doha and abhangs,
lending an mosquital eternity
to them. 

meenakshimami.com

Landed at meenakshimami.com; went through the Lady's offerings, drooled; mobiled meenakshimami.com at 09223393437; a gentleman Subramaniam came on and we talked of vettal (fryums), pappadams, murukkus. For lack of staff, Subramaniam does not make murukkus, an information which put me down,down; for years, have been searching for murukku supplies as made in times old by RamaAji; she has aged, and murukkus an old, distinct aged memory; sometimes thinking of murukkus, me just chews, works the jaws. But on Friday, me and RamaAji placed orders for mor milagai (two packets, Rs 20 each), manathakali (two packets, Rs.50 each), sundaika (two packets, Rs.25 each) and murukku vadams (four packets, Rs.40 each); orders over Rs.300 delivered free; at Rs.350 Subramaniam promised to deliver free on Saturday. meenakshimami is located at Ghansoli, Navi Mumbai and one did not expect the vadams to land up. Armchaired into a dream of times when women in the family at Calcutta and Rama in Mumbai, spent Mays making the dough for vadams, spreading them on coir mats laid out on terraces to May suns; mostly, the raw dough tasted better than sun-dried; and then wait for the fries to make rice-sambhars well, rice-sambhars. But at around 12 on Saturday, the delivery boy, an Andhraite called up, put up for eats the ordered items and me started pleading with RamaAji for a serving. Perfect and swift service. She agreed. Rice, sambhar, aloo bhaji plus a packet of fried murukku vadams to go with on Saturday noon; they tasted fine, of course, not for RamaAji; after technical analysis she placed meenakshimami in the okay category. No journalist appreciates another; Ajis dont clap for meenakshimamis. But that's okay as me side of the argument worked. At Rs.350, meenakshimami is fair; surely, Dr. Raghuram Govind Rajan and Mr. Arvind Subramaniam, could contend inflation is where it should be; they should know as me assumes they are vettal connosieurs; Dr. Rajan's wife may dial Ghansoli. meenamkshimami can be called a start up with no foreign funding; there may not be any innovation; but there is a forwarding of a tradition, which may simply not be there in 2020; for the Lady her competition could lie in mama-mami shops of Matunga, Chembur, Goregaon, Mulund and Dombivili; malls and supermarkets, meenakshimami need not bother, as they do not offer vadams; perhaps, stiff stand ups to the Lady's start up could be a few, fit Ajis, RamaAji excluded, with most relocated in the wide Americas. On Sunday me is planning curd rice to go with mor mulagai and roasted aloo. After all, there is nothing to upstage curd rice. Thank you meenakshimami and Subramaniam.  

A Song 13

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
tucked away a Gita book
to be on Facebook;
Like Schulz and Snoopy,
revel in Indian Atheists;
Comment on giving up Heavenly ways
for livings in sweet-spicy Kalyug age -
a film, a football match, a cricket fixing,
a faluda;
No Share. 

Kutumba Sangamam

Revathi is a superAji, an Aji raised to infinity, living in Trichur, 92 years old, part-deaf, whispering like the wind in the older peepal tree in the garden, in a dilapidated old manlike home, doorless and broken windowed; a dark brown teak cot is her residence for noting down in Malayalam a family history of the Menons. She has been there for 92 years. The book became a live show for 250 members of the family from Trichur to Toronto and of course, Dubai, last month with prayers and payasams. They call it  Kutumba Sangamam, a handshaking of generations across time for the first time; a 2016 Malayali rite; money does not count; status unsniffed. Me was at the near end of a morning walk when someone hailed an 'Edo'; me turned to spot 70 plus Akash Menon, fresh from a three months stay in Trichur and a 'naadu, naadu thanne'; naadu for a Malayali is not a nation,a state or a republic; it is a space in the heart with coconut trees, paadams (fields), wooden benches of a potti kada with tea and paruppu wada in scarred, glass cases; and talk of Oomen Chandy, Sarita as in printed copies of Mathrubhoomi and Manorama. Switching off a persistent ipad, Akash elaborated on paruppu wadas and chais in green mornings; 'oru sukham (some happiness); not to be had anywhere but in naadu. Took time out for a mandatory Guruvayur and then it was preparing for the Kutumba Sangamam. Revathi with a young great-great grand-daughter Neelam operating an ipad, got across the world for the Trichur Meet, a happier event than Davos. Revathi has watered a 4-generation old family tree, their mobiles, their addresses, their names and their placements on the branches and was surprised by her memory. The Menon family has many ghosts, some live and as many yet to turn ghosts; was not sure if the ghosts were around that day. Menon grew up in a family of 70 with a karanavar lording the show; none could trespass him except the occasional pranthan, madman; played with some 25 kids; had acres of land sprouting rice and every other thing a Malayali kitchen needs; there was a delivery room, for pregnant women, ' and it was never empty,' chuckled Menon; then EMS gave the land, which the Menons owned, never tilled, to the tiller; Menons stood in ration queues; but that was for about 10 years; followed the typewriter migrations to Bombay, Calcutta and New Delhi, throwing up in the flow a V.P. Menon, a close aide of Sardar Patel, doing away with kings and queens. Followed Dubai and in recent years New Zealand and Tornoto. 'As long as there are coconut trees in the naadu, there will be Malayalis,' affirms Menon. Akash Menon and Revathi walked daily to the family temple in a near-gone tharavdu space; earned blessings and the Kutumba Sangamam roared to videos and selfies; met, unknowns, met knowns; no Menon is alone.  

Happy Birthday, Dr. Raghuram Govind Rajan

Happy Birthday Dr. Raghuram Govind Rajan. We dont know each other, but a Happy Birthday does not need knowing. Of all the women and men governing or pretending to govern India, you Dr. Rajan are the best, in my estimates. Hope in September 2016, you become Finance Minister to put some fiscal sense. Would like to chat with you of this and that, bakers and dosas, not of RBI; but then you have no time for frivolities, me has lots of it; today explained Dosa Economics to Rama over morning coffees; of interest earned on fixed deposits being in the positive territory after discounting for a 5 per cent inflation and interest tax on interest earned. Rama breathed hard, 'what did you earn as a journalist to talk of fixed deposits in bust banks; and Mint says banks have gone bust'; me sipped more coffee as she came out with her version of Dosa Economics; today, rice costs  Rs.60 per kg, urad dal, organic from Tatas Rs.200 per kg; til oil, Tilsona (spoons) at Rs. 250 per kg; these days, she makes the dough and me spreads the dough on steel tavas to much objections from Rama and grand-daughters for their odd shapes; 'five years ago, when your friend Dr. Raghuram Rajan was not an RBI governor, prices were 50 per cent down,' argues Rama, no admirer of Dr. Manmohan Singh as Prime Minister; 'do you realise we make dosas, once a year and masala dosas (onions at Rs.30 per kg and aloo at Rs.22 per kg), once in two years,' she said grimly. Dear old Aji has not served Shreya and Chiyu onion sambhar (the Madras onion costs Rs.100 per kg) and chutney for months now and demand is persistent like MPs demanding free food in the Lok Sabha. 'Your friend Dr. Rajan is a Tamilian and I hope his wife makes dosas for him; at least, he should step into Anand Lunch Home on Sir P.M. Road, near RBI Towers, for a masala dosa at about Rs.70 per plate and that too not the best. Invite him home,' added Rama. Me reminded her of Dr. Rajan being closer to America than Mumbai. Not with any malice but just the fact of the gentleman walking more the streets of New York and Washington advising the Fed. Anyway, it would be impertinent to invite home Dr. Rajan. Have never won a debate at office or home and today lost it as Rama walked away to cook Madame's Lapsi. Sitting alone with Marie biscuits, house sparrows and coffee, me dwelt over his remark: 'A baker bakes for the money in it.' Rama again disagrees; as a 60 plus Aji she bakes rotis for her grand-daughters free to go with aloo bhaji; and she dips the rotis in home made ghee done by Aji. Yes, if at all Dr. Rajan comes home, Rama will put up Dosa economics and Bakers promises on the table. Me will ask him whether he reads Marx and Wodehouse for relaxation as his talks smell of both. And whether he is a reader of Swarajya or Economic and Political Weekly. Happy Birthday, Happy Times, Dr. Raghuram Govind Rajan. 

A Song 12

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
at a saints meet with
Meera, Rahim, Gauranga and many
with lost passwords to Heavens,
delight in kante pohe,
cooked lovingly by Vithala and Rakumai,
served in paper cones of compassion,
with waves of chai,
sugared hum of life. 

Rosy pastors (Sturnus roseus)

On Sunday evening, watched a wheeling crowd of  rosy pastors or rosecoloured starlings, colouring the sky. Early in 2016, as one usually spotted them late February, on their way to breeding points in eastern Europe, western and central Asia, going by Salim Ali. Resting atop a dry gul mohur tree on Karuna Hospital Road, rosy pastors were being pecked by crows, the ruling, political class in the avian world; the rosy-pink birds resisted the crowy intrusion but one cannot keep crows away for long, like one cannot do away with politicians; bed bugs. Till around end-March, one can spot them in the LIC Colony area; golden orioles, warblers, drongos will pepper the air; silk cottons, laburnums, will flower; spring is a haiku; an Horlicks for walking. On the footpath, two elderly gentlemen were watching the action, one clicking another binoing. 'Yes, they are rosy pastors,' they confirmed to the Lady, keen to make friends with rosy pastors; the Lady is into bird phonetics to dialogue with birds and Dinesh, the donkey, at home; the gentlemen were surprised when the Lady whistled at a collection of rosy pastors; 'yes, they will respond,' she told them. On Karuna Hospital crowd there were no takers for the Lady, except the Old Man. He went by what the Lady said. Mornings, both are a trifle busy, reaching crows, sparrows, Dinesh the Donkey to the primary school run by the municipality, which did not mind, as they had few children on benches facing a broken black board; also, municipal schools were free - books, notebooks, pencils; private schools turned down the the Lady and her wierdness; also it was bad business with their rich wards sharing benches and books with birds and a donkey; afternoon, the Old Man reached them home; at the dining table they sat with the Lady serving a dietary lunch; snooze in the afternoon and then classes -- crows teaching the Lady their lingo. Neighbours are upset, but then the Lady has no dues to pay to the housing society. The Lady has bought a thick notebook, to put down her feelings (she never thought), of birds and humans. On Sunday evening, she waved out an invitation to rosy pastors -- 'their pink is wow', she said; they did not respond as in a few days they were scheduled to wing over oceans and lands to bring up a new generation. On the way home, the Lady and the Old Man stepped into Monginis for sanwiches and vegetable puffs; they ate a couple with tea at Bhagwan's tea shop; rest, became dinner for her many street dogs and the poor resting against the church wall. Sun was in bed; moon popped two anti-depressants; Sunday was over.