No, not a dream

On Link Road, a stranded auto urged on by the left foot of the bhaiya of a working auto with the right foot on the breaks; they move together, side by side; share tambakoo; traffic police do not bother except when it is month's end; then, they wave down the autos; bhaiyas walk over to a policeman with a receipt book; pay a bribe, ease business; the two autos move on to a repair shop on Link Road; normalcy is restored. That's can be said to be the norm. On Adinath Marg, where me stays, the morning threw up a variant; a stationary bullock cart with two tall, white bullocks; the cart driver hollered, whipped, got down, leaned against them; the bullock cart with Kabir and Tuka on board stood unmoved; the cart driver hand-waved a passing auto searching for clients; the bhaiya and the cart driver talked for a time, do not know what; the cart driver tied his bullock cart to the auto with a girthy coir rope and got the bhaiya to start the engine; the auto whirred and fumed, but the bullocks refused to be positive; they had had their breakfast, claimed the cart driver, a fact hard to cross check (all journalists are told to cross check) with silent bulls, a bit irritated. For about an hour, the poor bhaiya tried his best, honking the auto; he could not be expected to stay the entire day with reluctant bulls; he untied his vehicle, got a client, drove off; he would not be plying after 7 today; has booked a TV chair for Rs.20 (Rs.10 for each half of the T20 game) at the Maruti Chai Bhandar of his friend; will be cheering India against West Indies. It was getting on to some urgent time as middle class women and men were driving out in cars from housing societies; the bullocks acted as speed breakers and Adinath Marg was tearing down the summer skies; koyals paused in mid-flight. The cart driver ran out of clues; Nepali gentlemen, opening and shutting gates of housing societies, were amused over the free funfair; they had nothing to do with India and West Indies but kept to themselves afraid of a patriotic middle class in Tricolour pants, shirts and sarees. Something the same can be said of the bullocks. For months now they stand up as me set our for morning walks, munch dry grass for breakfast, set out without a bath, dragging twisted rods down Link Road. Today it is not so. Kabir and Tuka slid out, patted them, sang dohas and abhangs into their ears; the white bullocks nodded in appreciation; that was not what their owner wanted. With the okay of their owner, Kabir and Tuka, freed them of their yokes. They squatted, went into a deep meditation. Me rushed to the window. Adinath Marg is empty. No, not a dream. What's it?  

A Song 42

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
tossed an 18 th century worn coin
without head and tail;
a sea wind blew it into the sea;
life's like that, quoth they
when a Gayle six
thonked them out of their say. 

A window is all

A straight line is hard to come by. It is noble. A mix of curves tied by straight lines may be traits of the National Institute of Design, Ahmedabad. Between the fifth and sixth hours, the tarred Link Road stretch between Hotel Aura and St. John Basco Church, approximates a straight line; standing at the Hotel Aura end, the traffic signals breathe and blink; the satisfyingly wide pavements pillared by peepals, copper pods, rain trees arcing into a skylight; down the centre is a hedge with arali flowers, Australian acacia and two peepals, one imposing; traffic, the doodhwala's cycle and sometimes bikes; early morning walkers, take the road, not the pavements; a peepal talls over a street light, is about five years old; have been tracking it from the first shoot. The 90-year old gentleman and his wife, ran the stretch when it was not a road, years ago; they dropped to a walk when the wife broke away; today, the 90-year old gentleman, uses a walker at home and a wheel-chair to sit, says his daughter who is a doctor. Some time ago, Rama and me were friends with the couple; now not. Walked into the dispensary for a BP check up; normal, 120/80, said the surprised doctor; inquired of her father and she had leftover minutes with patients yet to take the long, wooden bench; the dispensary has a painting of a deer to normalise anxious patients. 'The window in his room is framed by a tamarind and rain trees; and Link Road flows by; and he spends staring the window from the wheel-chair,' she said, and added 'he is weak, quite alert.' Nights no sleep. He gazes and gazes, sometimes, lighted by a beam from a car turning into the housing society; he has given up on the internet,TV and newspapers; alerted out of nods in the wheel chair by the yodelling of koyals; mornings in Borivili (W) on Link Road are taken over by koyals, hard to sight; towards the end of March, cattle egrets are booking sites on the the tamarind for nests for the old man to recall the day, when with wife, they booked a nest in the housing society, long ago when there was no Link Road. Afternoons into long snoozes after daughter serves him lunch now cut to dal and rice; 'digestion at 90 is nearly absent,' she says. The only time he is sad is when daughter wades into a i-phone; thats the time he feels lonely, not alone; but none can do without an i-phone, he does not realise; an i-phone is a man for every woman and a woman for every man; that's how it is; when she gets to talking, the old man vibes without leaving the window. Somewhere Albert Einstein has said: A table, a chair, a bowl of fruit and violin; what else does a man need to be happy. For old man, A window is all. 

A Song 41

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
priced out at Wankhede,
gamed with Meera, wicket-keeper;
Kabir tossed a torn, coloured, cloth ball,
Tuka packed it to the sea;
unlike abhangs, the ball sank;
Cricket laws do not cover cloth
balls at sea, ruled Panduranga.
They protested;
'if abhangs can float,
why not a cloth ball.'
Docked, locked for dissent.

A Song 40

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
koyals koyalling,
psalms. 

Shams Qayyum Wazir

Father Shams Qayyum Wazir breathed the azan into one ear of a new born Maria Gulgatai Toorpakai; into the second year, 'Your given name is Maria, for purity, because the cruelty of our world has yet to alter you. Inshallah, it will never succeed. Second, I give you Gulgatai, as your pink face even now is pinched tight and betrays only the innocent promise of a rose bud. We have yet to know the great beauty that lies hidden within you. Lastly, you'll be known as Toorpakai, a girl with black hair that is the envy of the darkest night. Maria, you have three names,  but one life. Live well and with meaning. Never be afraid, because you are my daughter. Above all else, in your blood, you are Wazir.' Born in spare and bare Waziristan in Pakistan, the little girl bumps into a mullah with the plea, 'I would like to play'; the Mullah turns violent and blusters 'Dirty Girl'. In A Different Kind of Daughter; The Girl Who Hid From the Taliban in Plain Sight, Toorpakai, the androgynous girl, gets into weight-lifting for a year; then into squash; chased by itinerant Taliban (Brother); ever in fridging fright; plodding along protected by a thinking father; becomes Pakistan champion, makes it to Canada to be trained by Jonathon Power, twice world champion. She and her sister make it from a society best told by Maria: 'Every memory I have of our first house, with its mud-coloured pucca bricks, begins the same way: a slow film opening in the silent morning, warm sunshine thick over everything. In my home there seemed to be magic in the way the day was born, though it was always the same routine, like a family anthem of activity playing out in every home and in every village. All Pashtun mothers woke very early, before the first crow of the rooster......In everything a Wazir mother did, she followed in the long, rutted path of the mothers and grandmothers and great grandmothers who came before her. She was permitted no other way.....Knowledge itself was a stranger, not to be trusted - or even invited in.' I grew up with the accepted practice that a Pashtun woman remained in the home and only ventured out enveloped in head-to-toe garments called abayas or burqas, or big shawls called chadors and with a male - even just a young boy - watching at her side.' Me mother (plus self) did fear Father; sought okay for every move; uncomfortable; a well made, baked dadgiri with paternal grandmother harmed by grandfather in Ashramam village. Between scholarly tomes on Taliban and Pakistan society and A Different Kind of Daughter, prefer a a Daughter's say with scents of a Waziristan village wafting .... When Maria is sick in a hospital bed in East Asia, her mother slaughters a black goat; Maria gets well. For her mother, Written is Written. Am not sure if Maria agrees. Tossed me to Kabir. In Songs of Kabir (translated by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra) Kabir says: 'Cut the throat of desire,/Not a poor goat's, if you must.' Thanks Ravi Krishnan for lending the book. 

A Song 39

At Marine Drive in
Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
on Good Friday stillness,
at Afghan Church
draped in banyan quiet,
for Sorry, Maria, Mercy be.
  

A Song 38

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
munching puran poli,
packed in jaggery
by friend Meera;
passed polis to
Husain dabbing the sea
and skies
to tablaichi tals of
Alla Rakha.
'Holi re Holi, poornachi poli'
aalaped a chewing, Bhimsen.
Vittala, Rukumai waited for
a share
from the ensemble.
Not their morning. 

Coconut at Rs.10

March Summer stirred on Link Road. No cars. A 6 morning, put spurs to the heart. A tall, paunchy Muslim gentleman pushing a handcart calling out pocket-size coconuts at Rs.10 a piece; the first walkers stood round him, feeling and picking the hardware to all Indian cooking; yes, there is less inflation, proving right the economic scholars writing in business journals; yes, scholars are happy as they could also be consumers of coconuts and coconut wisdoms; Kerala wisdom comes from coconuts; think of it, a coconut at Rs.10; Rama stood satisfied; at the cart, counting chillar (coins), the Muslim gentleman in flowing clothes and a serene, silent beard, flicked me to Shams Qayyum Wazir in Waziristan, father of  Maria Gulgatai Toorpakai. Ravi Krishnan recently lent the book A Different Kind of Daughter - The Girl Who Hid From the Taliban in Plain Sight, for a read; being slow on the intake, am savouring it softly and slowly, keeping aside the remains of the day; thank you Ravi Krishnan. Writes Toorpakai: 'My father, Shams Quayyum Wazir, not yet thirty himself, was a liberated man of noble blood, which meant that he was a renegade among Pashtun men....Together, we adhered to our Muslim faith, observing feasts and fasts and praying five times each day, but my father taught us the people world over found many ways to reach God. My family were freethinkers, and it was that quality that would eventually make us outcasts within our conservative tribe, at the same time as it liberated us.' Me watched the Muslim gentleman not complain over chillar as the coconuts rolled off his handcart. Rajan on Yogi Nagar Road, selling coconut at Rs.30 per piece was observing the loss of business, but that is what free market economics is, Mint writers will say. Turning into Yogi Nagar Road for milk from Jain Dughdalay and Amul Taza from the Amul counter, watched the kadamba in new birthed greens; along with laburnum, favourite trees on Yogi Nagar Road; the kadamba (Neolamarkia cadamba), should be middle aged, tall like the six feet Muslim gentleman; the Yogi Nagar public has not strapped gods to its trunk unlike the many peepals which are today temples with old men and women offering aarati and water to them and their gods; today, the peepals have drops of soft green with koyals calling; stood scanning the skies for a noisy kingfisher as a few curious strays collected round my feet, wagging tails. On the trudge back home, spotted the Muslim gentleman pushing an empty cart, the day's business done. Rama split the coconut in a neat two halves, chopped raw mangos for a blistering, mango chutney to go with adais for breakfast. Life is not Maya. 

Cooking times

Cooking times. Rama has decided to take a break, fly to Bengaluru to be with the Sreevatsam generation for a week. And has put me in the kitchen, never in charge of the kitchen, to make moong dal, snake gourd bhaji and kadalai or chana dal mix, on net practice basis; to go with rice and chappatis; the menu decided by Lady, not me; like the Eden Gardens pitch decided by Souravda not the cricket game; around 12, she sank into her sofa, switched on the TV, surfed Malayalam channels, before settling on Naran by Mohan Lal or Lalettan, as she addresses the gentleman; for the 13 th sighting of Naran; me in the kitchen, Rama giving orders on ad breaks (and for a Lalettan film, every Kerala gold corporate, rushes with ads); started with moong dal; chopped onions, tomatoes, dropped them in a vessel with a dash of oil (dont waste oil, came Rama's voice over); the cooker whistled like a football refree; one switched off; waited; the dal lay half-cooked as Mohanlal was into the first round of a dishun, dishun, dishun.. with Rama tense; a Joyalukka ad flashed, Rama stood up, made a kitchen entry; she tasted the dal, made a face (as bad as your unread blogs, she said), advised salt additions and further cooking; me did as told; on the morning walk, me had bought 250 gm snake gourd at Rs.15 from Gandhari, under instructions from Rama; sipping coffee, chopped the snake gourd into half-moon pieces, neatly dumped it in the frige; me am no connosieur of snakes and gourd, but these days am getting used to everything from Zampa leg spin to Ashwin distortions to snake gourds and tapioca curry; the dal nearly over with the cooker off whistle, focussed on snake gourd; an Indulekha ad break; Mohanlal in plaster and stick; Rama in a bad mood; quick fire measure of work done and to be done; me placed a tava on gas with oil and moved ahead forgetting the kaduku; Rama winced; the job was repeated and in a way the snake gourd lost its greenness to a brownish, salty idea; 'nothing can be done about the extra salt,' said the Lady and was back with Naran with Mohanlal swimming a swollen river exclaiming: 'Ende Amma'; maybe, the gentleman is a poet; the end was coming, pumping arms, Mohanlal beaming having quashed all including the film director (wonder whether Mohanlal films need a director as he styles himself The Complete Actor). Naran ended; Rama made her presence, went over the cooked mess; did not like it a bit; me, after a late noon bath to still the strains of cooking, dressed up to be with Rama; the Lady decided to have lunch at air conditioned Aura Hotel: fried rice, aloo paratha, bhendi sabhji with roasted papads. Last came faludas and diabetic Lady glowed. Bill Rs.800 minus tips. She called Madhavi offering me handiwork free but she, again, was at a marriage, a polite lie. 'Hope I have cash to go to Bengaluru?', she said. We stepped out of Aura. 

Cool, lassi days

For years, more than 25 years, two old gentlemen and a lady, owned and ran Jain Dughdalay on Yogi Nagar Road, and turned it into a compass point; for auto rickshaws, Jain Dughdalay is a reference point to every Yogi housing society; by 4 in the morning Jain opens and rests with blinds half-drawn midnight; attendants mind the business at odd hours; otherwise, it is two old gentlemen and a lady, in wooden arm chairs and a wooden table piled with bound longform, red, ruled, notebooks; the books lie open with the owners noting down every sale of milk in blue ink; the table drawers surge with fresh cash and me likes their sight; milk costs Rs.66 a litre, Alphonso mango pulp in summer is priced at Rs.380 per litre, Amul icecreams, Rajesh faludas; regular, steady business with Gangetic cash flows. Attendants are fed by the family, say some though it is hard to confirm anything as the owners do not go beyond 'ardha litre, ek litre'. In the 90s, me was a friend of two old arthritic attendants; they limped all over Yogi Nagar delivering Jain milk; they retired to their Konkan villages; Rama and me were irregulars; with Shreya and Chiyu at home, made trips for alphonso aam ras and icecreams; but now they come less often; with their friends visit Dominos or Guptas for bhel puri, bhel sandwich...; and there was our doodhwala from Rajasthan; two months ago we delinked as the milk had no appeal; Bhayyaji tried to make amends; did not work; are regulars at Jain Dughdalay. Over March, Yogi is in spring. A wigged, young man (below 30) is behind the desk, maybe related to walking away elders; a corporate doing over; me walked in one morning to a Good Morning from the smiling young gentleman and ordered a litre of milk instead of the usual half-litre; Rama heaved in protest, a habit; wished back a Good Morning and on Sunday, a Happy Sunday; if it is evening he is prompt with a Good evening; unlike the 24x7 aged and young chorus of Jai Sri Krishna, Jai Sri Ram, Hari Om, Bharat Mata ki Jai of yogis at Yogi Nagar. On the second day, the fella was tapping a freshly invested computer, feeding it milk data...the bound note books are still there, little used ... the elders refer to it on their rounds, like an old habit of living; for me, the thing about the young man is expanding the menu, a vertical integration without licences, say economists: freshly made chaas (Rs.20 a glass), lassi (Rs.30 a glass), cold covers against the March and then April and May suns; these days, the young man does not wait for me order: morning, it is two glasses of chhas; evening two glasses of lassi, thick and sweet; Rama is always fine. Management change at Jain Dughdalay has made a change. Evenings the place is crowded and the young crowd of women, men and children like it. Do not know his name but that does not matter. Cool, lassi days.  

A Song 37

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
in fear and fever
tended a horse put
down by horsey politics;
rode away, ducking look out
notions on wind and sky,
as Adil Jussawalla dreamt a
horse falling from the sky.

Shaktiman

Have been following the beating up of a horse in Dehra Dun. BJP, MLA, the honourable Ganesh Joshi in a collective fury beat up a horse, broke its leg, the horse kept quiet; the honourable Ganesh Joshi, as usual, denied it, just about coming close to claiming his kissing Shaktiman, the horse. Today, The Indian Express reports PTI from Dehradun: 'Police horse Shaktiman, ...had its injured hind leg amputated in an emergency life-saving surgery ...The surgery was conducted at a veterinary hospital here by a team of doctors led by surgeon Feroze Khambatta, hours after Army doctors from Pune gave their opinion that one of the hind legs that was fractured will have to be amputated. The animal otherwise might die by Friday due to spread of gangrene from the wound, they opined.' The surgeon seems to be a Parsi and well it could be as Parsis are generous souls; he may be into 24x7 nursing of the horse at the hospital. Shaktiman will take a month to get back on three or four feet? Thank you, PTI reporter and The Indian Express; perhaps, the PTI reporter should interview Shaktiman, who reminds me of the white horse, Amitabh dreams up in Zanjeer; it will be interesting to talk to a silent, hurt horse; none has written a third edit on a horsey happening, a horse hurt for unhorsey reasons and lucky to be Shaktiman, the police horse, as none would have cared for any other horse. Luck is a must for animals, maybe why Shaktiman seems not to talk; not all the TV debating shows will urge Shaktiman to open up. Some grace. In the 70s, The Statesman, Calcutta would have written a first edit and M.V. Mathew in the Times of India, a famed third edit, puffing non-filtered Panama cigarettes; Adil Jussawalla mentions M.V. Mathew in an essay -- Kill that nonsense term --- 'the public's favourite third edit writer, the late M.V. Mathew. On Eksar Road, in the mornings, stand friends of Shaktiman with their owners, mostly Muslims, looking 75 per cent hungry, belonging to the Below the Poverty Line category; in the afternoons, the horses are employed  to carry Gujarathi and Marwari bridegrooms; if not, Jain saints on festivals; and sometimes, the owners speed them on cemented Link Road, racing cars and bikes; never are the horses left alone, not even when munching dry grass from their jute bags; sometimes they chat, a hoarse chat, me on morning walks; most of them have a coin-sized grudge: the aged women and men of Borivili feed crows, house sparrows, stray cats and dogs, but never us, a horse...some carry-over sin from a previous birth. They have heard of Shaktiman, ponder his future; perhaps, Dehradun policemen will give Shaktiman a patch of resting green .. as three legs cannot do much. Maybe, Feroze Khambatta will adopt Shaktiman? Hope The Indian Express furthers the cause with a Third Edit.  

3 short films

A tiled home on a patch of land forming a bank of a slow river ... a quiet... memory of a train ride ... a Film slide, rolls and unrolls in me...at most times ....these days; the Film owns me sometimes......me does not reject the usurper; park with it ...In morning walks, the Film pops up before being saved by the March spring of a bordered, early green on a peepal in the middle of Link Road..the top bare...as there is no traffic, one waits and watches the peepal with traipsing leaves in absences of breeze ...no birds, yet...three spotted Gliricidias (Gliricidia sepium) with pink, papery flowers... 'The scientific name Gliricidia is derived from the Spanish name Mata Raton, meaning mouse killer. Gliris means mouse and caedo means killer, sepium means hedge, the tree is at times planted as a hedge,' writes Marselin Almeida and Naresh Chaturvedi in The Trees of Mumbai; and a few fragrant Pagoda trees (Plumeria rubra); the scientific name is in honour of the French botanist Charles Plumier, says The Trees of Mumbai; have a small, impractical wish of lying buried under Pagoda trees dotting an open green space with pink and white flowers dropping. So the spring is in, like it is every year and will be every year; it never misses the schedule though walkers and runners plugged to ear-music may miss it or worse not care for it; when the Laburnum glows gold in probably April...ah spring will sport summer lines...will be in T-shirts ....they go well  with the Film in me head. On the way back, a white-breasted kingfisher calls from the terrace, exciting Rama, urging her into a mobile click...and the house sparrows wait on window grills for Marie biscuits. With years, losing the rush for newspapers...prefer to keep them away for afternoon snooze and use the mornings to stare and stare from my sofa...when the Film show starts with filter kapi...This day, skipped newspapers, has been mostly with short films uploaded by Kartik Iyer ... 2 plus 2 equals 5, a 6 minutes Farsi film; a 20 minutes or so Marathi short, Kevada and The Red Balloon by Albert Lamorisse; the films are good per se; and me is still clutching to The Red Balloon floating over a Mumbai of me longing; the idea of a Red Balloon giving a ride to a child is tiny tot imagination; Kevada is of an aged lady, caged alone. Do not know where Kartik gets these films from but they are good; they take you away from me; perhaps, 2 plus 2 is 5, fits India 2016 well as Rambhakts rephrase us; for Rambhakts, two plus two could be 10 or 11 depending on the fiat from the top. And it is evening, looking out of the window moments,  with a Film playing inside ..... A tiled home.... 

A Song 36

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
in rollovers of janmas,
makeovers of karmas,
souls cleansed of god-particles,
fresh Yezdi brun pavs dipped in tea,
wrapped in chadors of
Vittal whispers,
dawdle in March chatters.   

Seema of Mulund

Seema, born in Matunga, brought up in Mulund and living in Mulund is a Mumbaikar ever looking round sharp corners for funspots. Speaks Kannada, Marathi, Hindi, Tamil, English. She is fun, funs, always. Hard to be consistent, but Seema is. She is the family amulet. She knows Mulund as Behram Contractor knew the City. Morning it was chatter, chatter, chatter oiled with laughter, laughter, laughter. Talks swung from Vijay Mallya, T20 World Cup to end up on food and Seema is delicious at making food. For lunch, her kitchen waited with classy keerai porichheri and pappadams; Rama and me also waited for the clock to touch 2. Food talk hovers before a touchdown on murukku, thattai, tapioca papad ....'I will take you to the best shop in Mulund,' Seema said and we went to AdiGanesh Stores; in Borivili West, there is no distinguished pottikadai offering what the Tamils and Malayalis long for more than their ancestral homes....Yogi Nagar, housing Yes Bank to Kotak Mahindra Bank, does not have a pottikadai....Rajan sells coconuts and is not sufficiently Ambanish to widen business with equity or oh, ah bank loans. The signboard has AdiGanesh Stores in English, Tamil and Marathi, keeping all politicians away. In a way like Giri & Co. in Matunga; a dark, ill-lit cave with Tamil and Malayali delicacies piled up anyway and advised upon by a team of young ladies; consumers have standing, no turning, space; the ladies stand all the hours,  brisk at work with some smiles; are they well paid?; Rama and Seema, picked up what TamBrahms are heir to --- their fates; an art lost time ago; fryums, pickles, Rajam's Thattai; the March sun was hard in the enclosed space; customers bumped into ladies in no incorrect ways and me stepped out watching the street, its men and women, more interesting than the boring faces at the do of The Indian Express for Dr. Raghuram Rajan; celebrities do  not need photographers as they cannot be clicked; and today The Indian Express has one page of mediocrity, Talk, Page 23. A part of the pavement has been taken over by AdiGanesh while others took the rest and they cannot be blamed as they are not lucky Vijay Mallyas or bankers supplying cash. Took my seat on a plastic box and watched; there was no gloom on the streets or its men and women; a bus rolled up, stopped and out came a man looking a Joyalukka gold ad, picked up a bhayya (who else); led him to the bus packed with pheriwalas for a morcha at Azad Maidan; the Joyalukka gold did not give a chance to the bhaiya to shut his vegetable stand; the bhaiya (never be born a bhaiya), perhaps more unfortunate than a Dalit in modern times, a torn, jute sack to clean one's feet, did not protest; bankers shun him; he was smiling; his friends spread jute sacks over the collection of vegetables; waited; after, five minutes, the bhaiya was back in laughs; he might or might not have paid a cut to the Joyalukka ad; a crowd collection for a pheriwalla morcha against police and municipality harassment; 'hafta dena padtha hai, nahin tho dhanda bandh', said the bhaiya without regrets, a truism Indian corporates tattoo on their new born souls. Bought bhendi for Rs.15 as Rama and Seema stepped out of AdiGanesh; Rama damage: Rs.863. Fingers crawled into a lunch of rice, keerai porichheri and papads. Thanks, Seema for the outing.

A Song 35

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
avoid snapping flowers,
walk round fallen flowers;
make it to Chowpaty beach
with Bhimsen,
on an unsung, 9-note,
rag alap;
a crowd of three,
in a sandy, windy do
without ado.

Paul Kalanithi

Lung cancer tore up Paul Kalanithi. Paul tore back with words. When Breath Becomes Air is about, 'After thirty minutes, we let him finish dying', a Paul line for a patient. As he negotiates life walking to death, is into poetry, thought, trying to squeeze a hope out of lung cancer. But he starts not a doctor. 'I knew with certainty that I would never be a doctor.' His mother served him books...'she made me read 1984 when I was ten years old; I was scandalized by the sex, but it also instilled in me a deep love of, and care for, language...'; a Masters in English literature from Stanford; 'I didnt quit fit in an English department'. One day walking away from football, Augustine in the garden commanded: 'Take up and read,' but the voice I heard commanded the opposite: Set aside the books and practice medicine. Paul becomes a neurosurgeon, making a sharp distinction: 'While all doctors treat diseases, neurosurgeons work in the crucible of identity: every operation on the brain is, by necessity, a manipulation of the substance of our selves, and every conversation with a patient undergoing brain surgery cannot help but confront this fact..' Between the brain and heart, me was told long ago by a surgeon, heart is a tad more touchy and without blood pumped by a heart, a brain cannot hold....cannot think (does then blood think?) and if there is a soul does it go with the brain or the heart....for Tuka, Kabir, Ramana Maharshi, Basho.. the heart is imperative...what happens in a coma? .. scared to raise the query ...or as Paul asks: 'What makes life meaningful enough to go on living?' Paul somewhere styles himself  'the gravedigger with the forceps'. On the third Sunday of Lent, Paul goes to church after walking away for some time. But is Jesus of help though me relishes a quiet seat in an empty church. 'Phrases of doubt fell from my mouth,' Paul writes on his screen; at a second place he chimes in: ' Doctors, it turns out, need hope, too.' In an Epilogue, Lucy Kalanithi, his wife says: 'Paul was buried in a willow casket at the edge of a field in the Santa Cruz Mountains, overlooking the Pacific Ocean and a coastline studded with memories...But Paul is revealed by Abraham Verghese:  'I recall the sun filtering through the magnolia tree outside my office and lighting this scene -- Paul seated before me, his beautiful hands exceedingly still, his prophet's beard full, those dark eyes taking the measure of me...' The thing about this book for me is me wants to see him Live, just once....at surgery, at reading T.S. Eliot, in his bed, with his daughter Cady ...with the Air. 

A Song 34

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
bundled dusty words,
for bangarwallas,
to count, weigh, discount. 

Maria O Maria

What to faith in? What to be sure of. Losing a religion, a belief is okay. But being unsure of what you see live on a TV channel or from stadium stands, is hard, if not impossible, living. For me, sports is that. When Maria Sharapova confessed to failing drug tests, it was news, like any news. And then the mestastasis. But Maria, with sufficient grace, has owned up; she did not fulminate, deny and all that muck. She accepts the forehand drive went over the lines. No need for a referral. And there wont be pall bearers for her; most of her promoters are jumping off. Reuters reports Swiss watchmaker TAG Heuer chopping ties with Maria Sharapova; Nike and Porsche are afraid being left alone; when somebody is down, owns up, wow, the rich land up for free punching bag sessions. Maria grunts irritated me; yet, liked the grunts as she tried to overwhelm Serena Williams; for me she is a tennis player, who became honest today. Wonder sports will be helped with legalising drugs. Maybe, an alternate Gita. A 2016, correct, E-society pushing hardest for success should not mind drugs; you cant be an achiever and not have drugs. For me the best lady ever played tennis is Martina Navaratilova and when she admitted to being a different sex, the world did not like it much. Now they are reconciled to her. Do not think we will see much of Maria; tennis is a player, set, match down. Then what do me do;  not watch sports on TV; read sports pages of newspapers; thats what me knows; thats all me life at 70. Only pray (to which god?) Usain Bolt is playing fair. He has been claiming a long distance from drugs. That's what cyclist Armstrong did, got me to buy his books, read him and write him, and ....made me and many fools. Maria gone, something still left. Because if Usain Bolt goes..... A Shankara Bhagavadpadar had Advaita; Tuka a Vittala; Kabir,a Ram; but a 70 year old me with nothing.... Living with doubts is stony, cannot work. Maria, you have done me in ..... Got up from bed to koyals and house sparrows...they were real. 

A Song 33

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
jhendu in khadi collars,
on a Sunday stretch and
yawns.
Annachi downloaded
wadas, dosas, chunteys, sambhars
from a creaking cycle,
given by grandma in 1816;
today, more an idea of a cycle;
a Bihari watchman joined
from night duty;
licking fingers taped in chutneys,
Kabir and Tuka,
slapped card packs
for Sunday rounds
of Teen Patta.
A Sunday do.

RBI over

'A new monetary policy committee that will move interest rate setting powers from RBI Governor to the broader policy panel is likely to start functioning by the third quarter, a top finance ministry official said. The six-member panel, which will include RBI Governor and three nominees of the government, will set interest rates to bring CPI inflaion to pre-set targets,' says a quarter inch item in Briefly on the Economy (page 17) of The Indian Express. RBI is a news in brief. Prime Minister Mr. Modi and Finance Minister, Mr. Arun Jaitley have zeroed a venerable institution, there is none left. Dr. Raghuram Govind Rajan, the RBI governor, does not think it worth a resignation letter. And the business press, business channels and all the banking experts do not think the issue big enough to broadcast their views; if Sensex drops by one point, they wail as if someone in the family died. Some could argue for merging RBI with the Finance Ministry, as has happened; but no comments, preferring quiet? Mr. Surajit Bhalla (if me am not wrong) in The Indian Express had doubts over the longevity of the Supreme Court as an institution and rested faith on RBI. Its over. Dr. Raghuram Rajan has given up. He who talks on everything, is not talking on RBI. He dissented bravely on dissent. Isnt that odd? Mr. Arun Jaitley has won a process started by Mr. Pranab Mukherjee and Mr.P. Chidambaram; Dr. Raghuram Govind Rajan has softened the headbutting beginning with Dr. Yaga Venugopal Reddy. A six member committee with three government nominees will decide interest rates; RBI governor will have a casting vote of the commoner, not the veto vote; if the committee decides 4-2 in favour of interest rate cuts with RBI governor in the minority, RBI will have to suck it. Pass and over. RBI an institution is dead. None is protesting, not the media, not the Opposition, not Dr. Raghuram Govind Rajan, RBI governor. Mint Street can now freely mint currency. 

A Song 32

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
tongues surfing music
(Kabir for Kishor,
Tuka for Lata)
for couples taped to sea-walls,
ever in generous defaults,
logging hours in a Festival,
sure as Churchgate locals;
merry vandals
of Marine Drive.

TMKrishna

For a public intellectual, thinking is not a two-part coin. No sure yes-no; maybe, maybe most appropriate. Going by this measure, the 40-year old, musician Thodur Madaburi Krishna, is a public intellectual. He asks, has no certain answers. Not having a like for music, me cannot appreciate much of Krishna music; but his having a music festival with fishermen in Chennai is something no musician has attempted; and most, if not all, musicians prefer to dwell in notes; TM Krishna prefers to go for a walk, comment on this and that. In readable site, scroll.in, TM Krishna has an essay: The Thin Edge:  'I am not a nationalist. I am not even patriotic about this state created national identity. I refuse to be an unquestioning loyal servant of our political form. I am not vowed by the symbol of the State. I certainly dont enjoy watching the Republic Day Parade where every type of  killing machine is on grand display. I dont believe that the death sentence should be awarded even to terrorists. Yet I will say that I belong to this land and have an equal right to its embrace and no one, and I mean no one, including the highest courts can take that away from me.' Old man Gandhi walking Marina beach is nodding in agreement an old head as he was a public intellectual like TMKrishna; me agrees entirely with TMKrishna; in India2016, TMKrishna is still free and singing. It is not the first time a private TMKrishna is a public intellectual, pecking at everything within his reach. Two months ago, invested in a hard-bound copy of A Southern Music by TM Krishna; struggled but failed to read the book; like Mohammed Amir bowling a speeder to Sardar Singh, Indian hockey captain. He starts off: No one journeys through life alone. From nowhere almost, a companion joins in and keeps step right through - music......Even in those who believe that they are tone deaf or not musically inclined, certain songs and tunes rouse emotions.' Well to me music is a no-no. That alone me understood of the book; packed the book and have not got back to it. But when TM Krishna muses over politics, he is a changed man; rarely has a top class musician in India become a public intellectual. And his politics, verging to the Left, is pleasant and querying. David Shulman in a Foreword,quotes a Telugu verse:

The beauties of  a poem are best known
by the critic.
What does the author know?
The beauties of a woman are known
only to her husband.
What does a father know?

TMKrishna knows, not entirely; thats not given to mortals.  

Walking to Rio

Midnight. Landline shrilled. Ajoba rushed. Chiyu, Janai Rajesh Patil, born. Aji rushed out of home; midnights are not times to get an auto. At 4 a.m. Aji and Ajoba speeded an auto in July rains to a Dahisar maternity home and lay in the cradle their dearest Chiyu. Chiyu turned on her belly, crawled, stood holding Aji for support, the first step of a long walk and then the run, every Mumbaikar is fated. Today, every morning, Chiyu is at the school ground, running. Aeons ago, in a different context somewhere in Africa, the first human took the Chiyu step....leaving the world wrapped in a wonder. In 2016, the run, sprints and marathons, are celebrated; the walk to the starting line for the run is not a camera shot. A world increasingly decided by corporates favours a run; it gives ad space; a corporate run garners middle class and the rich; and sports writers prodded by sports editors. Yet, the Origin of Species began with a walk like Nihal Koshie and The Indian Express over the last few days writing of Indian walkers; not front page news, that is for J. Bomrah with a bharata natyam bowling action; more a dancer than a bowler; fillers, respectable, three and four columners; today, Nihal Koshie writes of Indian male and female walkers bettering Olympic qualifying times. 'Walkers take giant stride' says Koshie and thank you very much for that. 'A statistic from the men's 20 km event at the 3rd National Open Race Walking Championship serves as an indicator. The top 7 walkers clocked a time within the qualifying mark set for the Rio Olympics. Add to this number, the two women, Khushbir Kaur and Sapna Punia, both had qualified before Saturday's event. Two others, Sandeep Kumar and Manish Rawat, have been fast enough to be eligible for both the 20k and 50k events.' Over four to five years, the timing in 20 km has been cropped from 1:25.00 to K.T. Irfan 1:20.21 in London Olympics; the qualifying time for Rio is 1: 24. Yet, our coach, Russian Alexander Artsybashev predicts a top-10 finish at Rio; no medals. That's okay; years ago our batsmen ran away from Hall, Gilchrist, Marshal and Holding; they did not want to bat. A top class walker, Babu Bhai Panocha is quoted: 'I used to tell people in my village (Ambava village, Malpur, Gujarat) that I was a sprinter. This was because nobody understood why there was a competition for walking. Nowadays, I think they accept what I do.' Yes, Panocha, me did not know you till date; over the last few days have been picking up from Nihal Koshie. Government believes India will win 10 to 14 medals; my bet is five, no gold. And for walking to get a gold, Standard Chartered should organise pristine 20 km and 50km walk events in January, in my dear Mumbai. Thanks again, Nihal Koshie. 

A Song 31

At Marine Drive
in the Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
with a tenner fluttering;
a taxman, on a morning stroll,
winced at the untaxed income;
a seawind blew away the legal
currency;
leaving the taxman in an official
fury,
Kabir and Tuka in a
Rama, Krishna, Hari.