A Song 48

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
nodded change;
high rises graving
a May morning sun,
clicking selfies
with laburnums;
sun on vacation,
moon snoozy,
earth in long pause,
karma charkha still.

Me Mumbaikar

Calcutta; a paribarton Kolkata; on TV channels in the evenings with Pallavi Ghosh winding up riding a Bihari-pulled rickshaw. For me, nothing has changed as on view were many parked rickshaws, wheels pasted in fear to edges of pavements. For 24 years from 1946 to 1969, lived in Calcutta and never rode a Bihari-pulled rickshaw. Me boasts. Today it is more than 11 years went to Kolkata and do not have plans. On TV screens, Kolkata has not much changed though surprised over a Big Ben being built somewhere in the city; Lady Mamta wants Kolkata to be London. Like Mumbai politicians want Mumbai to be Shanghai or better still New York. Also saw Malayalam film, Balyakalasakhi of Mohammad Vaikom Basheer with Mamooty lost in Kolkata. Living in Kolkata mostly was addressed by Bengalis - Medru - a kick no Marathi gentleman or gentlewoman in Mumbai dressed me in. Ahead of Pujas home was raided by young demanding cash; escaped a pasting once. For then young me (maybe, they have changed; do not know), Bengalis (middle class) had a dislike for everything non-Bengali; for them literature rested with Tagore, films were Ray, Ray and Ray, religion Ramakrishna and Vivekananda. A Bihari bhaiya dragging a Bengali-family laden rickshaw was never given the fare promised; and then the abuse of the Hindi speaking non-human at the pada where the family lived. On TV Channels the city has become a bit blue; Coffee House there is with intellectuals, mostly fakes, teaing and smoking; did not see any adda session, a big miss for me. Football has lost to cricket though the East Bengal Club and Mohun Bagan Club remain at the Maidan; Sourav Ganguly has dribbled past Chuni Goswami. Usha Uthup croons Kolkata .... Gautam Ghosh (maybe wrong) says the city is secular...am not sure as India is no more secular. Like tea waste, Kolkata remains. In Bombay and then Mumbai, none, surely not a Maharashtrian, has called me Medru. Of course, Shiv Sena did hurt Tamils and all other communities. Yet on a leave alone basis as living is that, me has more Mumbai, very little of Kolkata. An hour ago, was talking to friend Narayana Karunakara Kurup from a quick Kerala run. 'Kerala is gone; its money, cheating, a coarseness and bite of a coir rope ...Mumbai is, of course, any day better.' Kurup should know and is confirmed by morning walk friends with homes in Palghat and Trichur towns; they go for short Ola rides while based firmly in Mumbai. A Mumbaikar faiths. Long local rides do deny Mumbaikars addas; but a Mumbaikar does not preen; Marathi literature is on par with many literatures, he and she are prone to contend. A shingara or a rosogolla (me likes both) does not define Kolkata as much as a vada pav Mumbai. And everybody in Mumbai picks up his and her vada pavs, chews on it, walking Azad Maidan with a Kabira, Tuka and a Kolatkar. At least, there is no boast. Mumbaikar does not boast. Between a Mother Teresa and Baba Amte, am all for Amte. Mumbaikar prefers aloneness; a Kolkatan peeps.   

Pyre by Perumal Murugan

An yellow copper pod spins on its axis dropping the air  settling at the foot of the parent tree. A thin breeze dropped more yellow dots. An April morning sun glazed mango-filled mango trees. First bright reds of gul mohur. Pagoda trees in whites. Car rush had thinned; a few cycles still dared to take the sun; there was no haste in the air. Empty cement benches on the pavements of Link Road. We sat and watched. 'Would you like to be born a human in the next janma,' Rama popped. 'Yes,' me said a half-way believer in rebirth. 'Why,' came the second question. 'To be with you, watch copper pods, ear koyals and read Pyre of Perumal Murugan,' me said. 'Many janmas for a many reading of Perumal Murugan, Saro (Saroja) and Kumaresan,' Rama came back. She is keen on the Tamil original, eager to read all his Tamil writings, now out of print. The Lady has read twice Maadhorubaagan and the mention of Perumal lights up her faint wrinkles. A gentleman at Kalachuvadu informed Perumal saar denying them from running his editions. English translation of Pookuzhi by Aniruddhan Vasudevan is kuzhambu with the Tamil tang; Vasudevan admits ...'the difficulty is because there is more direct speech involved in Pookuzhi; the characters speak a lot and their streams of thought too bear the distinct mark of regional speech patterns. In the Tamil text, Kumaresan's and Saroja's people speak differently; their speech is marked by rural and semi-urban variations.' That alone is the reason that India cannot produce English writing; its art and culture can and will have varied lingos but never English; English is no literary tongue for most Indians. When Kumaresan fondles Saroja (the village thinks she is named after B. Saroja Devi, the Tamil actress), 'Pilla', me paused savouring Pilla; Pilla has no English; in Chennai me has heard Pilla but it is now the term glows; keen to call Rama, Pilla; hope she agrees. 'The sun was blazing overhead when Saroja and Kumaresan stepped off the bus. Beyond the tamarind trees that lined the road, all they could see were vast expanses of arid land. There were no houses anywhere in sight. With each searing gust of wind, the white summer heat spread over everything as if white saris had been flung across the sky. There was not a soul on the road. Even the birds were silent. Just an ashen dryness, singed by the heat, hung in the air. Saroja listened to venture into that inhospitable space.' A sun burns. A pyre is lit. Caste casts a shroud. Villages are sour spots; towns are less sour; towns and cities have their terms of hatred; Mumbai has Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Dalit pockets, making hate easy and killing easier. Perumal Murugan respects his readers, their imagination; leaving the thinking to them; he, as a writer walks the writer; gets them to debaye. There is no thunder in the writing. A well-crafted newsreport. Wish me could meet Perumal Murugan, one day. 

A Song 47

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
runaways from faraways,
shorn of puja-pat,
phewing, chewing koyal
Aprils,
mop bald, sweaty heads
with hand-spun, red gamchas.
Fingers plying palms,
Kabir weaves lemon yellow
kurtas, to a fated design;
Tuka strings tampoora,
tweets notes,
decreed.
Weave or song.
Weaver or songster.
No takers.

Co-optex, Borivili

Singara Chennai, where it seems me dear writer Perumal Murugan lives and whose Pyre is scalding me, is in Borivili (W). Malathi, belonging to Rama evening adda near Aura Hotel, threw a heard news of a Tamil Nadu Co-optex shop off Chandavarkar Road; the first in Borivili; she had not gone to the shop; Rama decided to search it with me following at around 10.30; after asking this man and that woman, located Tamil Nadu Co-optex of the Tamil Nadu Handloom Weavers Co-op. Society offering 20 per cent discount on all items, going up to a festival 30 per cent; a neat, quiet shop with one attender, a Madhav; no clients, yet; liked it. He spread out the sarees, chudidars and towels; allowed Rama to bring out a few from the open shelves; 'made of extra long staple cotton,' explained Madhav. Suvin is the extra long staple cotton growing in Coimbatore, derived from Egyptian Giza 45 grown on the banks of Nile, an information given me when covering the textile industry; Suvin in those years was priced at around Rs.12,000 per candy; me is boasting; Madhav should know; yet a doubt over handlooms weaving extra long staple cotton yarn nagged; maybe 2016 technology is doing it. Rama waded into the shop with Madhav obliging, pulling out a fleet of towels, churdiars and bedsheets mostly made in Erode and perhaps Gopichettipalayam. Credit card flashed, Rs.3,000 moved in a cashless economy. Packing the items, Madhav informed of shut downs of Co-optex in Matunga and other places; the Borivili shop is a few months old. We wished Madhav the best and walked to the Borivili market in an April sun on some more spending ways. Near the Borivili police station sat a young ragged fellow nursing a basket of clay tavas with wooden handles. Rama as usual spotted the item for inquiries to start; made of burnt brown clay with a wooden handle, the tava cost Rs.100, going down to Rs.80. But Rama has stopped haggling with street Ambanis and Adanis under roiling suns, she paid Rs.100. The young fellow told us to place the tava in a bucket of water for an hour before use. Me handled it for everyone to look and ask. The last stop as usual was Madhuram where me became a curiosity; no questions, a large amount of stares; bought badam and kismis; took an auto for the driver to subject me to a questioning; 'saheb, buddhu banathe hain, ye log'; Rama smiled, graduated to easy laughs. At the housing society, eyes were politely glued to the reddish clay tava; Madhavi came up with her joyous invectives; her laughs were made. Placed the tava in a bucket of water for an hour; took it out for a dry; Rama made a dough of wheat, nachni and jawari for two bakris which she placed on a warm tava; the clay tava stood the heat; the bakris came crisp. Made clay sense of Rs.100. Earth is okay.

Wash hands

Best way to choke disease flows. Wash your hands. Do doctors and nurses wash hands, not maybe with Dettol or chlorine but at least with water? Most of India today has not water to drink; a wash of hands is out. At blood testing labs, none washes his or her hands; or at least, me has not seen it happen. Each year, according to the US Centers for Disease Control, two million Americans acquire an infection while they are in the hospital. 90,000 die of that infection. The hardest part of the infection-control team's job, Yokoe says, is not coping with a variety of contagions they encounter or the panic that sometimes occurs among patients and staff. Instead, their greatest difficulty is getting clinicians like me to do the one thing that consistently halts the spread of infections: wash our hands. Writes Atul Gawande, a US surgeon in his book - Better; Malcolm Gladwell says: A gorgeous writer and storyteller. In 1847, at 28, the Viennese obstetrician, Ignac Semmelweis said doctors were to blame for childbed fever 'by not washing their hands consistently or well enough.' Doctors did not like the suggestion. 'Far from being hailed, Semmelweiss was ultimately dismissed from his job,' mentions Atul Gawande. Never thought washing hands is best. Atul Gawande comes from Uti, four hundred miles east of Mumbai. Dr. Ashish Motewar at the Nanded hospital, serving 1,400 villages including Uti, is ever under stress of ailing patients; on one day morning he saw 36 patients in three hours. 'With no time for a complete exam, a good history, or explanations, Dr. Motewar relied mainly on a quick, finely honed clinical judgement;.... at least 50 of the 250-some patients seen by the surgeons in Nanded that morning turned out to need an operation. The hospital had operating rooms and staff, however, for only 15 such operations per day. Everyone else had to wait,' flows on Gawande. At All-India Institute of Medical Sciences, Delhi it is no better. A senior resident was queuing patients six months ahead with cancers first priority; the queue can be jumped, broken or avoided by the rich - ministers and other assorted power points. 'By necessity, he accomodated them -- and pushed the least connected ever further back in the queue' owns up Atul. Increasing private medicine and medical treatment will keep the rich in, poor out; in terms of power and cost. Then Atul Gawande, who should know, winds down: ' New laboratory science is not the key to saving lives. The infant science of improving performance --- of implementing our existing knowhow --- is. Nowhere though the government has recognised this....These realities are without question demoralising. ...All the surgical residents I met hoped to go into the cash-only private sector (where patients with the means increasingly seek care, given the failure of the public system) or abroad when they finished their training -- as I think I would in their shoes. Many attending surgeons were plotting their escape, too. Meanwhile, all live with compromises in the care they give that they cannot bear to tolerate.' Atul Gawande, me has always gone to private hospitals; never public hospitals; had cash; most of India prefer to breathe their ailments on the streets. Off hand picked up the book at Oxford Book Stall. Atul Gawande is worth it. 

The Jungle Book

A little girl asked Ajoba: 'Uncle, you liked Bhaloo?' 'Yes, yes,' nodded Aji and Ajoba. A thin crowd exited Maxus Borivili after The Jungle Book with popcorn and coke. There was a lilt about aged Aji and Ajoba. They do not much know the imperial politics of Rudyard Kipling. They enjoy a story simply said; a story written by Rudyard Kipling for his daughter Josephine Kipling in May 1894; Josephine died at six. Oooos and aahs as the 3-D glasses brought Mogli and the Seeonnee forests near to their souls, nay grazed their souls. For lazy Ajoba, it is easy Bhaloo, moseys the forest, slurping honey and fun, taking Mogli for back rides in rivers. Aji and Ajoba do not want more out of a story. The Jungle Book and Swami and Friends of R.K. Narayan -- Aji, Ajoba and many have seen on Doordarshan. They will be around till there are girls and boys in the world. Become children, turn story tellers, when the mood darkens hum their signature songs...Son Ganesh saw it first and he had to see it as The Jungle Book is his childhood. He went to Wadala for a special experience. Seen the 1990 version, the Doordarshan take as a family on a colour TV; Aji and Ajoba are familiar with the Walt Disney 1967 version; and today the Walt Diseny retake with technology. Thankfully the story remains in the telling. When Shere Khan roars into their faces, Aji and Ajoba cowered; when Mogli and Bhaloo take to the waters, they laughed; when the bandarlok snatch away Mogli, they suffer an infraction. In slopy chairs, they watched Mogli running into them and the deep forests reminded Ajoba of Pench and Kanha Tiger reserves with Kishor Rithe and Nishibhau spotting Shere Khans. Maybe, in another 20 years, Walt Disney will come with a version of The Jungle Book allowing the public to roam the forests with Mogli and Bagheera; the public will participate; some new tech. Some may not have read The Jungle Book; but none at least in Mumbai could have missed on Gulzar's ever, ever lines: Jungle, jungle pata chala hai; cheddi pahan ke phool khila hai; the current version of The Jungle Book has English songs and poems, dubbed 'propaganda' by Bhaloo; but nothing, simply nothing, nothing can match Gulzar; perhaps, Walt Disney should have stitched it into their cinematic versions of The Jungle Book; The Bare Necessities is neither poetry nor song. Yes, Bhaloo, it is 'propaganda'. Aji and Ajoba slipped into sloping, comfy chairs and failed to struggle out to stand for the National Anthem; luckily were not beaten up. 70-year old Ajoba as an 8-year old saw the first film in Kottarakara on a two annas bench ticket; some MGR film; jumped the bench when MGR sworded M.N. Nambiar; and today, Aji and Ajoba felt unbalooned when the film ended with Bagheera, Bhaloo and Mogli at one place. In 1894, the forests and its citizens loved humans for Kipling to imagine and ink pen The Jungle Book; today humans have no forests and its variety shows; a Jungle Book will not be written; there is no Jungle. There will always be jungle, jungle pata chala hai ..... Mogli, Akela, Shere Khan, Bagheera, Bhaloo, Ka..... Tks. Walt Disney.

A Song 46

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
dived the sea
to beat the heat;
sea refused;
walked Chowpathy sands
to pocket the breeze;
sands refused;
took the air,
for a spell of cool;
air refused.
No clean-ups for
a pile up of
God refuse.  

Pooram and IPL

A 3-column front page pix in The Indian Express of Pankaja Munde, Maharashtra Minister for Water Conservation, Guardian Minister for Beed and Latur, taking a selfie reviewing drought relief work in Latur. Top half of the front page of Mathrubhoomi is Trichur Pooram with unfortunate elephants, sorry our and me Lord Ganeshes (me goes to Kottarakara (when in Kerala) to say thanks to Lord Ganesh and where me was born).  And IPL eats up the Sports Page. Trichur Pooram and IPL twin souls the Indian middle class to which me belongs. Trichur Pooram consumes made in Dubai souls of Malayalis. IPL chews up the post 1993 middle class souls of Dr. Manmohan Singh. On Sunday alternated between live Trichur Pooram on Malayalam channels and IPL on sports streams; with short rests in the air conditioned comfort of the bedroom; elephants demeaned by chains and crackers cannot protest, cannot charge; they are stuck; for the Indian middlers, prayer hours for a job in Dubai or New Zealand, a forest bunglow built chopping trees and with it the animals, two Mercs, five Harleys, a swimming pool, 10 kg of Joyaluka gold for the locked limb and mind Lady at home ... and liquid cash, not cashless Rajans; of course, the prayers and the Pooram come a week after 108 died in a temple cracker fire at Kolllam in dear old Kerala. Mathrubhoomi 8-col. headlines: Peruma kaaththu Poorathilakam (Pooram pride). If in Trichur, children and the sick and the old and Gods are upset so be it for Pooram pride. Nay, Gods be blown; it is entirely of Indian middlers paperconed in middle class swindles. At 8 in the evening, the IPL was lapping beered souls of Indian middlers; in Bengaluru, Virat Kohli lost to Zaheer Khan; or that's what me read in Monday morning papers; IPL is a parallax of Trichur Pooram; there is fixing, there is drinking, there is sexing, there is abundant Muslim hatred (Pakistani cricketers cannot bid); there is no cricket as cricket cannot be called cricket if the bowler is to be chained and whipped like the Pooram elephant by an armed batsman; but the Indian middler likes it because he is like it. Fixing he does a plenty in the office to get a rise or a foreign trip. Footabll is a contact sport said K.Bhaskaran; IPL has become a contact sport with abuse aplenty; crowds serve abuses; its a part of their literature; click selfies more than sixes and fours; TV cameras more on Ambanis, Tendulkars, Bachchans, less on a disabled IPL game; the Indian middler does that in and out of the office; at all hours. Marathwada farmers can die; its their kismet; its a rain fault; why shift IPL? how does it help farmers? And the Indian middler is a firm believer in kismet. Trichur Pooram is kismet. IPL is kismet. The Indian middler is kismet. Anton Chekhov in the short story, My Life writes: 'I did not know one honest man in the town. My father took bribes, and imagined that they were given him out of respect for his moral qualities......' For Indian middler, Kismet is also amenable to bribes. Kismet is Trichur Pooram and IPL raised to Infinity.

A Song 45

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
in a one-on-one
under an April sun:
Kabir:
When will gods die?
Life live?
Tuka:
Pavus in Marathwada;
Earth unloose,
never gods. 

A Song 44

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
kept aside verse,
tending an old woman
from Marathwada
in a torn navvari
and a holed tummy,
with yesterday's bakri.
She gave up.
They gave up.
Ram,
Krishna,
Hari,
poetry. 

A Vishu Saddhi

Fun strode in on Vishu. Chinnu,Chiyu, Dakhi banged the door not the door-bell for Aji to exclaim from the kitchen, 'Kuttikal!.' Shreya snapped open the TV for Tarak Mehta ka Ulta Chashma and the quarrel with thugs (who always have to be Muslims); and when the serial got over, chatted Rohit Sharma, who the other day batted through an IPL innings and won against Kolkata Knight Riders in amaar Eden; Rohit Sharma, the TamBram of Borivili and the best batsman for Shreya; he sure is the most stylish Indian batsman. From Chiyu, learnt a bit about gymnastics: duck walk, frog jump, rope climbing. Everyday the school bus takes her to school for two hours of gymanstics and running. Ajoba and Aji call her Usha after India's best lady athlete, Pilavullakandi Thekkeparambil Usha. Ajoba and Chiyu went down to practice starts among fleets and fleets of cars in Dharma Nagar Co-op. Housing Society with Ajoba on the whistle in the absence of the starting gun. And then came Kai Neettams and Saddhi. Aji in a particularly buoyant Mubaikar mood of having snatched a window sea in the local, unloosed Rs.500 notes; Dakhi grabbed and stuffed the purse cricket-style as Shreya and Chiyu could be spoilt by cash. Saddhi: Rice, avial, potato bhaji, Madras Onion sambhar, Guruvayur pappadams, dal vada and Aam Ras. Aji took the centre seat, Ajoba out on the outsides, generally streaming supplies of pappadmas and wadais to Shreya. Chiyu opened up with games at her Sree Mandapeshwar Kripa Co-op. Housing Society. Mouth-fulls, talked of football, box cricket, athletics, scheduled by society members for summer vacation mornings and evenings. Cars will not intrude playing space. Unlike, the car godown at Dharma Nagar Co-op. Housing Society. (A confession, son Ganesh owns an apartment and a car, bought on fleecing bank loans). When me settled at Dharma Nagar in 1993 there was space and space for Ganesh, Kevin and all his friends to romp. Outside were open, green fields; it was a slice of bliss in Borivili. Today, in 2016, parents have usurped the playing spaces of their children to park not one but two and three cars; a badminton court has been cursed by Mahindra SUVs; two years ago a tree was cut down and when protested was shouted down; today, citizens cannot walk straight; they earthworm their way past cars; perhaps one of the many insensitive housing societies of Borivili. Today, girls and boys are warned by their parents for playing box cricket in between cars. Me would like to quit this society. Well, it is almost unlivable with drumbeats from Kutchi Society, Narayani Gardens, Padmavati Gardens and many more without a tree or flower. But cannot as there is no cash. Would like to shift to green Holy Cross Road.  On Vishu day, Shreya and Chiyu promised to buy me an apartment at Sree Mandapeshwar Kripa Co-op. Housing Society with the Rs.500 given by Aji. 'We can see you when we want. We are not coming here anymore. Your society is boring,' said Shreya. Am picking up Shreya offer. 

Vishu Laburnums

On Yogi Nagar Road, the Laburnum (Cassia fistula), has signed the muster in flowers on time. Sufficient they be on the parent tree, not be plucked for Vishu, April 14. At six in the morning, stood under the tree, toting three lemon yellow bunches on air. For me Vishu is on. Rama is searching for elavan, chakka, chena, snake gourd, raw mangoes, Guruvayur pappadams, banana and jackfruit chips; she will arrange them at the altar to her Guruvayurappan, in front of a mirror with some gold ornaments and manjadi in a uruli. Early morning April 14 ahead of the sun and koyal calls, she will light diyas and pray to her Guruvayurappan; every year, every same day, every same time. Today, Rama is in trouble as she has no loose cash to offer Guruvayurappan in a silver plate. With every banker and every banking editor turning Wordsworthian on a revolutionary cashless economy, me read up pages and pages of columns and reports on what Dr. Raghuram Rajan styles a revolution. The Quick Edit at Mint reports Dr. Rajan mentioning revolution twice. Important observation. Me has heard and read of revolutions --- Lenin, Mao, Fidel Castro and me dear own Charu Mazumdar and Samar Sen of Frontier; but Dr. Rajan's revolution does not belong to that disgusting genre. Stepped into Corporation Bank to get loose change against a one hundred rupee note; being a public sector bank the clerk at the counter did not offer a seat nor a good morning; just a gruff, 'nahin hai; app kijiye aur cashless payment kijiye; change ka jarurat nahin hai.' Stepped out into a 10 a.m. April Mumbai sun, trudged to Raju, the coconut seller, pleading on bowed feet for change. The gentleman smiled.....'Vishu nallakki ...illiya.' and offered Rs 5 and Rs.10 coins against Rama's hundred rupee note. Grateful, ordered a nariyal pani, Rs.35 a coconut; some relief from cash, cashless economy and Rajan revolution. With clients scarce, got to talking the revolution of cashless economy with Raju and a bhaiya, who had paused his auto for a coconut water; they did not know what me was talking; well, nor did me know; to make it worse, me explained about the mobile for all buying and selling, no banks, no nothing; the new Brahmastra, Made in India at RBI Towers; just press a button and release a nuclear weapon. 'Saheb, mere ko kuch samajh mein nahin ata hai (Do not understand anything),' said the auto bhaiya and added, 'chutta nahin milta aur savari jhugda karte hain. (without loose change get into fights with passengers). He pulled out a pile of currency from his pocket, paid Raju, went his auto way; Raju added the cash to his pile in his dirty shirt pocket. Dr. Rajan revolution has not reached the streets; it will one day after the rich of Malabar Hill get used to it and misuse it. Maybe some revolutions bypass the commoner. They are that way. With the heavy coin pile, me walked home happy, holding cash is divine. Rama, in glee, usurped the monetary treasure, poured it at the feet of her Lord Guruvayurappan. On April 14, she will dip into the cash pile and offer them to her grand-daughters, Chinnu and Chiyu..... this day no counting, an unlimited offering; the vegetables will become sambhar and avial with paruppu wada, pappadpoms and Aam ras from Jain Dughdhalay....Revolutions will or will not be. Vishu will be forever. Happy Vishu. Happy Laburnums.

An ordination

Today, April 7, 2016, ordained an assistant cook by wife Rama at 10 a.m. in the morning. It happened this way. Rama flew away to Bengaluru to be with Mythili, Mala and Hari leaving me to mind the house: drop smelly clothes in the LG washing machine, dry out the final products; turn into an untended kitchen with a notebook of cooking notings, Rama version; sambhar, mor kushambu, safed bhopla kuttu, bhaji with dry newspaper thin papads; me was liberal with the papads to keep down the tension of cooking a good story; rice in the cooker; cooked with precision and passion in the evenings for dinner with son Ganesh, usually 10 p.m. Started the proceedings, lighting the gas oven, every day with a Rama, Krishna, Hari of Kabir and Tuka; that gave me the good luck and concentration to stare at Rama jottings in the note book; arranged the cut vegetables, done by me, in the morning... bhendi, beans, safed bhopla, Madras onions and of course potatoes. Gunpowdered potato bhaji made for the common denominator with the rest forming the surroundings. On the first night it was mor kuzhambu, beans curry, rice, potatoes and Guruvayur papads. Son Ganesh spread the manufacture on his plate, dipped a finger in the mor kuzhambu, sucked it with a Wow...mobiled the dinner to all ... and put me on the way to ordination. When Rama landed home to rush into the kitchen, son Ganesh told her to wait and added a spicy: 'Did not miss your dinners'. Rama gulped as if she had lost forever, her kitchen power; it is not a dictatorship nor a democracy, something beyond. Ahead of boarding the Mumbai flight, she phoned up the menu for a elavan kuttu - 'I am eager to have it,' she said, me do not know how as phones show no faces. The order came at 10 a.m. and elavaan was not on sale in Yogi Nagar; took an auto to the Borivili market to land up on a 500g slice of elavan; that day elavan was absent as Vashi market was shut. Did not know elavan has a tough green skin; me had to battle with it, cut my finger, yet made it; slicing raw banana is easy; and then started on the elaborate job of shearing a tougher coconut. When Rama landed in the evening, offered her fresh filter kapi with creamy milk from Shree Jain Dughdhalay; that rested the Lady; she had started at 10.20 a.m. from her Bengaluru home, an IndiGo flight as usual late, was at home by 6 p.m. and they say air travel is time economical. The coffee revived her to dash the kitchen to taste the elavan kuttu. She beamed, she laughed, she blessed. Set aside a portion for Dakhi, Chinnu and Chiyu -- super she told Dakhi. And Dakhi slipped into it as she slips into everything. Son Ganesh had a party to attend. At 10 p.m. Rama and me sat and ate, well what all do during dinner. With roasted papads, life became a journalist scoop with a byeline. With the bio data getting impressive, me was ordained an Assistant Cook. Somewhere getting nearer to a dear old Thiruananthapuram uncle, a reputed cook, a chamayalkaran of Pazhavangadi. 

Mumbai, Mumbai baat chali hai....

At Marine Drive in Arabian Sea, Kabir and Tuka welcomed -- Ya, Ya, Ya - a family of house-sparrows - grandpa, grandma, grandkids - 'kuthe hai, kuthe'. Grandpa, being a patriarchal society, led with 'Kaay nahin saheb. Barra hai ka' as Kabir shared a papercone of chana with the sparrows. Pecking a chana, Grandpa brooded over a news item in the last page of Loksatta, mourning the going away of house sparrows from Mumbai. Meera made tea in plastic cups as they chatted of that and more of that. Grandpa took out from his coat pocket a sparrowed notebook: The City Book on the lines of The Jungle Book of Rudyard Kipling; two new-born house sparrows chirped: 'Jungle, jungle pata chala hai... (Gulzar and Vishal Bharadwaj); pestered Meera for tickets to the latest version of The Jungle Book. Old grand souls, Kabir and Tuka nodded bald heads, smiled toothless smiles...aware of an irrelevance; the morning sun in suit and boot was rushing to office; the sea had no waves; there was no air, only hot air of women and men speeding bikes and cars.  A Fiat, the first made by Premier Automobiles Ltd., at Kurla, parked near the footpath at the drive; the car had no horns, the Lady clapped as the Gentleman drove; out stepped a Parsi couple (who else) older than the First Creator; they had tickets for The Jungle Book at Metro for the sparrows, Kabir, Tuka and Meera; first show, first day. The generous Parsi Lady brought out paper bags of brun pav, mava cakes from Kayani for Meera to unpack and share; the Gentleman Parsi and Lady Parsi sipped tea with the Parsi gent smoking a Goldflake, Large size, costing Rs.13 per stick. The sparrows had lost winging; some say they have lost it, wings and habit; boarded the Fiat for Churchgate Baug where the Parsi couple lived; their address before the first post office openend at Churchgate; live on Mozart and Wagner and piano; there was talk of dropping grandma and grandpa houses sparrows at a Hospice; youngsters protested; the Parsi couple decided to keep them; theirs is a funny home with small holes and nooks in the walls (all the creation of the Parsi gent) for sparrows to nest, breed. That happened when for months, no sparrows came to share morning Marie biscuits and tea on the balcony with the Parsis in their very own and inherited 1,000 year old rosewood rocking chairs; the Parsi gent stared at his Lady in Parsi distress for gone beasts and trees; even their pet dogs Naman and Saman were upset; in trimming trees, our municipal bodies in delight, had chopped them; nests went; no birds in the air. This Sunday morning, the Parsi couple were on tea, brun pav and the The City Book with a forward by Kabir and Tuka; Kabir and Tuka had put in a note favouring international publication; the grandfather sparrow in a housecoat stitched by their daughter, walked in, unaware. Kabir and Tuka in their forward:

Mumbai, Mumbai baat chali hai
Ped, pani kahin nahi hai,
Jeena mushkil ho gaya hai,
Are, kya karun bhai, kya karun bhai...  


Being influential, the Parsi couple have arranged sale of the first few copies of  The City Book on the release day of The Jungle Book, Friday, April 8, 2016, Gudipadwa. Venue: Taj Intercontinental, Gateway of India.

A Song 43

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
after Eden 6666,
flat on mats,
arms pillowing heads,
in a woozy snoozy of
bats, balls, grass,
scrabbling koyal-speech,
slap of seas,
swish of skies.
Edened souls.  

Chinnu-Chiyu

A blog to me is self-talk. With bread toast (surprisingly unburnt), Amul butter and filter kapi, settled in front of the window and the blog-chat began. Opened the computer for a blog which has a few good habits; sometimes it is read, liked, mostly by Kartik Iyer; mostly, unread; but blogging is a morning prayer, a Hanuman Chalisa on this Saturday morning. Rama is jamming the Sreevatsam family crowd in Bengaluru: Mythily, Hari, Rama and Mala. She could not ask for more from her Lord Ganesh; alone on Friday am getting used to do nothing but stand and stare; did not Milton (hope me is right) say: 'Those who stand and stare, also serve'; the mobile squeals and Dakhi, as usual invites, for  Friday lunch at her 8th floor look out at Mandapeshware Kripa Co-op. Housing Society; at the gates, a mango and jackfruit are overflowing with fruits, mangos and jackfruits; me stood and stared; a green pleasure chadored me; by 11 with Chiyu hugging and Shreya koyalling 'Ajoba'; life is on; the final exams are on, Dakhi is tense, not Shreya and Chiyu; they were packing their tiffin; Shreya stuffed cut water-melon into her lunch box; for Chiyu it is her favourite chopped raw mango and gunpowder; they settled down to Aam ras from Jain Dughdhalay ordered by Chiyu. By 12.20 they were in their school bus; Dakhi served dal-kichdi, beet root bhaji, raita and papad for lunch; with that sattvic food, me was sure will hit a century even if Virat Kholi did not. A powerful air-conditioner, froze me; am comfortable with fans; at 4, they were back from their exams and into Aam ras when Shreya debated India-West Indies T20; for the Lady, Indian cricket is about two Mumbaikars: Rohit Sharma and Ajinkya Rahane; more perhaps, Rohit Sharma of Borivili descent; 'Kya Ajoba, kya hua, ye two no-balls kaise ho saktha hai,' the Lady remarked as Chiyu nudged me for bhel puri and sev puri; had no answers for Shreya; well, not even all  our patriotic Indian cricket writers and commentators have; they bawled about a wet ball as if both the teams and all of them experts did not know of dew in the night, ahead of the game. India did not deserve to win but that me kept away from Shreya who had panned the match with 10 of her friends at home, according to Dakhi. With Dakhi okay, Chiyu and me autoed to IC colony to pick up three packets of behl puri and one sev puri; and we downed it all with chilled Coke. It was the moment for Dakhi to ask them, how the exams went; the door bell squealed and three little girls - Utsavi, Jhnavi, Prithvi - walked in; the Dakhi query fell off the balcony. The gang of Five, talked this and that and many, me did not know. Some five years ago, Shreya and Chiyu got me to play with them. Son Ganesh had named Shreya, Chinnu. Today, they have gone down to play in the open spaces of their housing society. Time to say, Bye to Chinnu-Chiyu and me Byed. Dharma Nagar to a bare home.