A Song 56

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
Ms. Parsi and Mr. Parsi,
at
open windows, doors
of Peace;
in aged, wooden arm chairs
on breakfast snores
of
brun maska, kharis, chais;
walk in wind, sky, sea
to the table,
slop into cushioned sofas,
snooze.
May chimes.
May tolls.
May asleep. 

Aggobai, Daggobai...

'Aggobai, Daggobai,' hail two school girls a video take, cycling Link Road, May morning; 'Good morning, Aji' they take off as Aji laughs not knowing laughter is banned in Mumbai. Laugh is treason. Laugher is a traitor; Laugh and Laugher to be hanged with or without Court. Aji lent on Ajoba, who lent on a walking stick, guffas. Oh! sinners did not realise their sinning. Cycles paused, girls got off, hugged Aji; cycled away. Aji and Ajoba hobble to the St. John Bosco church and further to Lord Ganesha, mutter something called prayers, and back to Jayaraj Road corner arguing vegetable prices with Gandhari; the Saphale lady does not drop a paise try as much Aji; buy a pumpkin or lauki for a lunch Ajoba will not relish; but Ajoba has to go along. Outside Aura Hotel are stone seats populated by the aged and ancient, mumbling their good times and heroic acts; an old regular was strapped to a ventilator for three days, escaped and is at home, said an old of his friend who had visited him. Another, it seems, came late, a morning, got jittery on one of the seats as all the olds gathered the old, took the old to Karuna Hospital, informed the old man's son; the old is no more; all the olds gathered at the crematorium; praised the old; when the burning was over, walked away, pondering their turn. A third old, a regular, opens the Times, announces headlines like some TV anchor; they would all like to come on TV but no TV channel has obliged; they are not newsy; they protest over high prices and low deposit rates; disagree with Dr. Raghuram Govind Rajan; realise they cant do a thing. It is Virat Kohli and de Villiers today, 'kai chhakka marthat', not a tongue for Bhuvi and Mustafizur. Tendulkar or Tendliya remains the favourite whether Tendliya laughs or laughs not. Another old sends a water bottle around as they wait for the dosa-upma Bai. Her son, rushing to the office, places the packed food on one of the seats; all the olds circle, form a fort; by 7.45 a.m., Bai walks in; for some olds its is two dosas and chutneys, Rs. 15 a plate. Stumble in Aji and Ajoba for paper plates of kante pohe, Rs.15 a plate; not the class of good friend Vasu at Girgaum; yet, okay. Aji is offered a seat to chew her pohe when Aggobai, Daggobai wheel in. 'Aji malapan pohe,' they claim and Aji-Ajooba do not reject the demand, foot the bill. And in quiet, they breakfast when Aggobai breaks in: 'Aaj May gaya; aree school opens on June 9'; Daggobai adds: 'Homework, homework, homework, rank, marks, Deva, Deva.' June will come. No Deva will stop it. Olds are into a laugh shake. Aggobai, Daggobai ride away. May 31 morning. May fun-fair over. Aggobai, Daggobai....

A Song 55

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
at Peace.
No desires.
No prayers.
Songs.
Kabir on charka,
Tuka on tamboora,
Ms. Parsi on piano,
Mr. Parsi on violin,
cakes and wines,
Quiet.

Waiting

Kalki Koechlin spits Fuck and Shit on the screen; smears the screen. Nasee Babu responds: 'You mean wonderful', and the few in the theatre laugh. In this Hindi film shot mostly in Cochin, there are laughs ... a relief. Rama and me opted first for Veerappan, when son Ganesh debunked the choice. After Sarkar, Ram Gopal Verma has not done anything, he pretends, said Ganesh. But we wanted to see a film; we did not want to read reviews; Nasee Babu flashed from the ad for Waiting; and we went and waited in the Waiting Room, Waiting. An enormous Thank You, Anu Menon. Nasee Babu waits for his wife to revive after the doctors say: 48 hours critical, reports have to come in, the doctors disappear; Kalki waits for her husband and the doctors say: 48 hours critical, reports have to come in. And both talk; chat; trying to get out of their Waiting which they realise they cannot. ICUs, ventilators, Twitter ...new technology to sword Fate and Yama or Karma as Nasee Babu says. Prayers, Kalki an atheist mumbles some bumbles, Nasee Babu gets desperate; Panikkar's coffee and Mollukutty coffee and a drip of Malayalam delighting Rama; there is one needless shot in the film, Nasee protesting with a placard in a Cochin super specialities hospital. Nasee Babu is not comfortable with violence as his good friend Om Puri; in passing, Nasee Babu, Om Puri and Tilakan are world class, are with the best in the world of mime as film is mime. Nasee Babu holds on and with what verve....! Kalki matches shot for shot.... her Fuck and Shit and the younger generation which has little grace, claims Nasee Babu....but she is a dear...her Fuck and Shit makes her a dear. Me could relate to the film as over the last few days me waited as my Mama lay in two super specialities hospitals with and without ventilator; Babu, Anand, Lalita, Ranju, Shyamala waited outside and the doctors chanted 48 hours critical, reports yet to come, tests being done ....Am not the doctor in charge, the doctor in charge on holiday, ATMs running out of cash...We told each other: Wait. Me did not have the imagination to think up the film Waiting. That's left to Anu Menon. Yes, that's what we can do wait, wait in quiet like Nasee Babu or in disquiet like Kalki. Both okay in their own ways. In around 90 minutes, Anu Menon, you have done something you and viewers can be proud of. Thanks again. Thanks Kalki and Nasee Babu. 

A Song 54

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
in retreat at Peace,
an apartment
of Ms.and
Mr. Parsi,
with Mozart,
marigolds,
mangos,
mawa cakes,
Mays.

A Song 53

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
dissenting believers,
believing dissenters,
crisping rice bhakris and chai
with mocking squirrels.
A May morning
Amul ad. 

Lichis....

Amuly May moments. Every May. Lichis sighted at Borivili market. Will be around for a week. Bright red. Ruskin Bond and lichi trees in Dehra Dun and Mussorie. Lichis are poesy fruits. Me paused at the bhaiya lolling lichis in bamboo baskets. 'Rs.50 a dozen, Muzzaffarpur se hai,' the bhaiya tempted, offering a lichi for a chew. Hard to trust bhaiyas; they are loose change versions of Indian corporates; the customer is doodled on weight, quality and price; and quite sweetly, too; Facebook postings are against debating prices with bhaiyas baked in May, wet in July and drying in October. Am not so sure. At the Borivili markets, bhaiyas, severally, have denied Amuly moments; stepping home and Rama is at her critical best over the purchases. Turned down the lichi offer and walked away in search of Rama. She is keen on mookku mambazham for thokku, raw jackfruit and roasted jackfruit chips; plastic packed banana chips bought from Bedekar Stores carting delicacies from Konkan; and then for making avakkai, Rama selected a few palm-size raw, green mangos; a team of young bhaiyas edit them into eatable pieces; avakkai making is on. At 11, the Borivili market turns mango; young bhaiyas scrape mangos for moramba; women argue, remain unsettled over prices; chopping and scraping costs Rs.20 per kg, spurring Parliamentary violence; but bhaiyas have seen many Mays, mangos and lichis. My friend was not at his stall in the municipal market; 'chodke chala gaya, kya,' me asked; his neighbour returned: 'koi chodke jaata hai kya?'; nobody leaves. To beat the bhaiyas me switched on the computer and surfed vegetables and fruits at big basket and godrej; big basket blinked with lichis while godrej sported items me never has heard or seen. A month ago, ordered vegetables from big basket; they were not particularly good; they are as tricky as bhaiyas though big basket may offer the best to King Khan. Prefer, buying from bhaiyas to food sites as the bhaiya allows a pick and select. Lichi bhaiya stuck on; he did not allow me to wander; 'saab taaja maal hai';' bought lichis, skinned the red skin, popped them at home with Shreya and Chiyu; and they wowed, Amuly seconds; Chiyu brought out ice-creams, dipped the lichis, lost in the funning. For Shreya, lichi comes ahead of phanas. Yes, the bhaiya played fair. Will there be lichis, next year; is Ruskin Bond having lichis with ice-creams for breakfast and lunch; unsure as fires eat away Himalayan forests. Anurag Behar in Mint writes: 'The vacuum of collective imagination on a sustainable model of development and effective governance, for the most magnificient mountains in the world, is driving their demise and abandonment. This is an exemplar for how not to do it. An exemplar of how to do it is not far away in the Himalayas: Bhutan. In her long essay, Vandana Mishra says: 'To tell the truth, I have begun to worship Nature a little more than God in the past few years...We have a tree right in front of us. I offer a namaskar to it each morning, without fail.'  If there are no lichis in May, there wont be Bond, bhaiyas absent and me wont be. Whom to pray? Lichis, lichis please dont go away; dont take away Amuly Mays. 

I, the Salt Doll

For 17 years lived in a chawl, Anand Arunoday Co-op. Housing Society, Dombivili (West); 330 sq.ft of cement floor holding five of us; water had mostly to be picked from a tap outside with cackling hassles; it did give a perspective, rather learnt one. But me is no Vandana Mishra and her book I, the Salt Doll. Written in Marathi --- Me Mithaachi Baahuli --- and translated into English by who else but Jerry Pinto, it is the finest longform essay writing on Bombay, Mumbai, with laughs, no grudges; possibly, living in a chawl, speaking Marathi, are musts for an affectionate cakebite of Mumbai; many may disagree; but I, the Salt Doll, is a May delight; took it in bits, tried to think over it, a living in a Girgaon chawl to Borivili as a theatre actress and a houwsewife, a soft note feminism ... Malabar Hill, cricket, English language are nearly absent. 'I end my simple story here. As I take leave of you I feel a little strange. I have accepted, without complaint, my lot in life. I lived as I thought it best. You will no doubt form your own opinion. Try not to judge me too harshly,' Vandana Mishra pleads. Well, Lady, me hugs your book, as much as Marine Drive, Arabian Sea, Tuka, brun maska, vada pav... Ramji Purushottam Chawl, where the Lady lived, led by a gully to Khotachiwadi, in Girgaum. 'This is one of Mumbai's jewels,' she writes. Some crank in Mumbai Municipality decided on renaming the place as he probably did not have anything to do. Vandana Mishra writes: The Christian community, known for its socegado - its fun-loving and peaceable nature -- came out on the streets. They declared that generations had been born and lived in a place called Khotachiwadi and generations to come would die there or they'd know the reason why. They would not let the name, which was how everyone knew the area, be wiped out. The Mahapalika backed down.' Every one had a name; was known as that. Then the Lady lived in Maangalwadi. 'I lived there for twenty years.It was like a little village. Three clinics, two grocers, one goldsmith, a laundry, a flour mill, two milk shops, one coal store, a printing press, a greengrocer, a haircutting saloon, a paan shop and a Muslim graveyard. What more could one want?'  In those times, Bombay had its doors and windows ajar; sea winds blew; when Gandhiji was killed, the RSS held a maidan meeting near the Lady's home. Explains the Lady:  'Kashi came to see us. She threw open the windows and shouted at them. At least today they could call off their meeting. They left quietly. Gandhiji is still blamed for much these days, especially for his role in Partition. I dont know enough to comment. All I know is that when you say terrible things about Gandhiji, his followers do not burn your home, they do not seek to make your whole life not worth living. This is his legacy which is still alive with us today. Try it with any of the other political leaders and see what happens. Their followers wont let you live. Here's another thought: The tree that bears the most fruit has the most stones thrown at it. So it is with Gandhiji.' The Lady is fabulously contemporary. Mumbai, Bombay, today is walled. From chawls to the green village of Borivili. 'In no time at all, Borivili has become Bombay', she mentions with a tear. Friends, please try out the the book. Wish me could meet her and son Ambarish Mishra to chat the Lady and her writing. 

Mama, Bye

'Ennada eppadiy irikaay. Romba naal achchu,' the pleasant monthly call from Mama. A few easy words, family happenings; and the open laughs. We will go off the phones. 'Vishu aashamsakal,' on Vishu to Rama and me. The first Onam call. Mama will not wait for me calling, he will call when he felt it. Mama for all, R. Venkitachalam at the offices he worked, Mama for me. For 70 years we knew each other; an intensity kept hidden; he was not senior, me was not junior. In Calcutta years, a morning did not become noon, till me walked over to Panditya Road to say Hai to Mama and Mama returning, 'Va'; Mami will make coffee; smiles bartered; an elder, he gave me space and me liked his soft, undemanding ways. Mama enjoyed music, films, sports, Malayalam writings and Malayalis. A wholseome Malayali. Me hit Mumbai, he followed, we were the same. We did not gatecrash into each other daily; there was no fear of a relationship going away; we were always sure we will be together, a phone call away; there was no hugging, no praising, no nothing; just being. Growing in Calcutta he took me to cricket matches at Deshapriya Park; to Eden Gardens with tickets for the Bill Lawry Australia-India Test match and sundry Ranji Trophy matches. An early morning we sat at the radio over the Brisbane Tie Test between Benaud's Australia and Worrell's West Indies. 'Its a tie,' McGilvry said and me looked blankly at Mama and he explained; till today, me cannot explain his love for cricket, a Malayali born in Kottarakara; football matches at the Maidan; when man landed on the moon, he applauded, went over the moon. He had a strong liking for Mathematics and science, taught me algebra and geometry; me failed at it without regrets. A B.Sc. (Honours) in Maths from Maharaja's College, Trivandrum, he taught at a school in Ezhukon a few miles from his dear Kottarakara with Patti's pothi chor lunch in hand. Tickets were bought for Calcutta; did B.Com at Asutosh College and AICWA; duelled numbers as accounts officer at Agarpara Jute Mills and B.N. Elias; his Zen moments were when the balance sheet balanced; jute he knew and at some moments fondled the fibre. Marriage to Jaya, children. After all the years in Calcutta, he was unsure with Bengali, sure with Bengalis. There was a Bhattacharya at B.N. Elias, his near friend with Sankaran of Kottarakara being his best. He belonged to a group which met on holidays near Lake Market to chat and coffee. They are all gone. We kept in touch; fated. Perhaps, Mama might have had some complaints, natural; but he never told me anything. He selected my wife, dear old Rama from Alleppey, a daughter of his Mama, H. Gopalakrishnan. Yes, to his Alleppey mama, he wrote letters. He knew me being a journalist; certified me to H. Gopalakrishnan. At particularly joyful moments, he rolled back to school times at Kottarakara; hours with his boss G.P. Goenka and corporate twists and turns and tremors. Of my wayward drinkings and smokings, he was aware; never, never raised it with me; he never upended me; me was a human to him; that was me Mama, the man, a gentleman.  

Haiku poetry

A magpie robin rolls out haikus every morn. Haikus away.  Today, the magpie robin seems to have shifted office and home leaving me with The Classic Traditions of Haiku: An Anthology edited by Faubion Bowers and coffee. A omotenashi, a Japanese way of life and hospitality. Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902) writes: I've turned my back/On Buddha/How cool the moon? Does Shiki prefer moon to Buddha, asks the anthology. And me prefers, 'the tree cut/dawn breaks early/at my little window' to 'Men are disgusting./They argue over/The price of orchids.' When in America, son Ganesh sent a few volumes and me these days go to them again and again. Over time, me has shifted, perhaps forever from Shakespeare and Keats and Yeats and many European others to bhakti, Rumi and haiku poetry --- in English translations; for me Dubeyji is back; he reached me to Kabir, Surdas, Rahim, Tulsidas; and then came English poetry at St. Xavier's College; Pinto with Shakespeare and Prof. Lal with others. Around those years, me bought the first book, owned it and still have it. Shakespeare: Complete Works by the English Language Book Society, a quartercentenary, bound edition, from Deshapriya Book Stores near Deshapriya Park for Rs.10. Read quite a bit with Hamlet the favourite; no surprise matter. But today, me finds it hard to refer back; Shakespeare does not seem to satisfy; tastes change; bhakti, Rumi and haiku are short; read a few lines, carry them as loose change, take them out when the need is felt; they are portable as two or three lines do not weigh much. Reading a haiku is like the Pune-Mumbai passenger train ride, years ago, halting at most stations for vada pavs and bhajjias; the compartment mostly empty and me making the trip curving the ghat section with monkeys on the hills; the trip was not to any time table; or that trip with friend Narayana Karunakara Kurup in a slow train from Thiruananthapuram to Kanya Kumari; he at one window, me at another, the train in no hurry. Yes there is no haste about bhakti, Rumi and haiku. Perhaps they are unfit in 2016 with wars and bloods; they do not spur; they can at best put any on a long, slow walk in the skies. A friend says me am morphing into a Buddhist; hey, that's not so; me go to Vazira Ganesh temple; also the church of Don Bosco School; the church opens at 6 and at 6.10, when me steps in there is an empty, quiet; car honks at the traffic signal sometimes walk over; a piece of haiku poetry. Yosa Buson says: 'Springtime rain; together/intent upon their talking, go/straw-raincoat and umbrella.' Or Masaoka Shiki: Spring rain/browsing under my umbrella/at the picture-book store. Maybe prefer Japanese living styles; yes, they are quiet, silent and have a word - kamorebi, for the way sunlight filters through the leaves of trees. Waiting with Kabir, Tuka and an umbrella to clap in the rains over Marine Drive. Mumbai haiku.  

A Song 52

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
shared Mumbaikar Times
rippling with SSC results,
Mahalaxmi Derby postings.
Siya ki Ram tops with 99.99 per cent,
Ram, Krishna, Hari, 99.98 per cent;
May Sunshine wins Derby.
Chuckles.
Schools were not in Big Bang times.
Said Kabir:
You are abhang-wise.
Said Tuka;
A farce, large-size.
You are Ram doha.
Said Kabir;
A torn, hand-woven jibba.
A Parsi couple,
hobbled across
with good mornings,
brun maskas, kharis, chai.
No schools for them.
Laughs lapped sea. 

Allah Hu

Morning, was on the wooden bench at Murari Yadav Dairy Farm, waiting for tea boiling on the Primus stove.'Do minute ji,' said Muari adding to the wait. Two squirrels came up to the wooden bench for chana dals spread on the cement floor; watched as they sat on their hind legs, held the dal in their forelegs and got to nibbling. Lost in a Zen moment, stirred out by a 'chai, ji', got to sipping the chai with a bidi smoke kindly offered by Murari; me and Murari were at our tea cups, the squirrels at dals; 'aathe, jaathe rahte hain', Murari said of the squirrels. Beached in peace on the wooden bench. Patil walked up, unloaded fresh copies of Mint, The Indian Express and Mathrubhoomi. Saturday Mint can be interesting and this morning it was with eyes dropping on an essay: The death of a gravedigger: The passing away of a graveyard caretaker marks the end of an era in this city of tombs; by Mayank Austen Soofi. A contemplation on death it is and when Mayank Austen Soofi writes, me reads; a new writing generation of Mint. Soofi me guess is a Sufi with all that Sufism brings to humans; like Bhakti poets offers to humans; a quality of quiet. 'He was always seen in a green kurta, this lean man with deep-set eyes and a long beard. Allah Hu was a gravedigger at the Batla House Qabristan in south Delhi. Over the last 40 years, he had dug or supervised the final resting place for thousands in this sprawling Muslim cemetry....' Hung around the Soofi strand of thought and desired being buried at Batla House Qabristan after the final whistle. It has been a wish with me having been at many crematoriums. When ago, poetess Kamla Das said bye, she was buried under a flowering, gul mohur tree; in the film Dr. Zhivago, there are early shots and sounds of earth being dropped on a grave at a Christian burial; me favours a burial as the body is at least feed for worms. Reading Soofi, the Biblical lines rumbled: To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under the heaven; a time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and pluck that which is planted. Wandering the Qabristan, Soofi would surely have thought of death, its grammar and verse. Allah Hu planted neem trees, said prayers and dug the resting places for Muslims. That's what Allah Hu did all his life till his turn under at the Qabristan on April 25 after a heart attack. Some lines from Tukaram:Says Tuka, a Dlip Chitre translation: 'We go back to our native place./ Good-bye, God bless you./ This was our only meeting./ We wont be born again.....' Soofi does not reveal the gravedigger who buried Allah Hu. Brings me to Tuka lines Am a regular reader of Soofi pieces and today's could be somewhere at the top. The piece goes into my collection. 

Po Mone Dinesha

A like for May. May made to like by Po Mone Dinesha. Go son Dinesha. A huge bubble in a wide arc of water; a bulky, lushly moustached, Mohanlal surfaces like some wild Tekkady elephant; in wet white dhoti and blue jibba, he, Narasimham, strides a sand stretch to a pack of villains, brushes them away with a low-note Po Mone Dinesha; a piece of immortality; a Lalettan gift to humanity. Rama and me watched and watched the youtube clip of Narasimham. Is Po Mone Dinesha better than Mere Pass Ma Hai in Deewar? And what about 'Tera kya hoga, Kaliya ....jo dar gaya, samhjo mar gaya' of Gabbar and Sholay. Debate may be fiery. Could be on. Rama is still atop a chuckle and chuckling believes God's Own Country should allow overtake by Po Mone Dinesha as a tagline for her dear Naadu. 'English does not fit. Mohanlal is the ultimate fit,' she and Sethumadhavan believe. Rama is not into Modi and politics. Does not care. 'Like it or not Po Mone Dinesha delivered in exaggerations by Mohanlal or more appropriately Lalettan, is ende Naadu, ende Keralyeeam,' Rama emphasises softly. Sethumadhavan concurs. Narasimham,Deewar and Sholay were hits; tipsy men dialgoue them at bars. Lalettan is branded The Complete Actor. Citizens of Sreevatsam in Alleppey nod in agreement. For, Po Mone Dinesha land, Mohanlal is ahead of Amitabh. Then the white mundu, the Narasimham mundu. Walk in Kerala today, at least 50 per cent of the males are in white mundus folded above their knees (for sufficient airing) and during election times as now every male is in a white alakkiya mundu and jibba. Imageries have to change with change. God's Own Country is temples, coconuts and boats; Po Mone Dinesha is rials, dirhams, pizzas, mehendi and sangeet at marriages, Joyalukkas, speeding Mercs, a clutch of fresh social indicators. Poetess Sugata Kumari may not like it. But the change has been made. It simply cannot go.  A Jisha has been deleted; she is not, even for Mathrubhoomi; Kerala Police, they say, is more into crime than solving crimes; that maybe a touch unfair. Surprising, Mohanlal is not standing for elections when KPSC Lalitha and many other actors are beaming promises in 42 degrees heat. 'He is clever. Why waste money in elections when there is a good chance he may become a Rajya Sabha MP?' mentions Sethu and he should know as with Rama they have seen every Lalettan film many times over. With Malayalam TV channels fooling the viewers with old repeats and never a fresh release, Rama spends noons with Mohanlal and also Mammootty. There is little left unknown (except finance) about Lalettan; his son did not click in films; thousands, including me, follow him on his own (his claim) Malayalam blogs; Rama waits for fresh instalments; understand he is on a family vacation. Po Mone Dinesha is Kerala today. None will dare tell Lalettan: Po Mone Dinesha. None will dare tell Kerala: Po Mone Dinesha. Made in 2000. That is Mohanlal Kerala. A fresh note for Kerala: Po Mone Dinesha.  

A Song 51

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
shooing house sparrows
from May drenched beards,
brooded.
Souls, browned in earth faith,
packed in flowers and prayers,
air-lifted to rooftop skies.
Do gods grace rebirthed souls,
return the favours? 

Ek chai

A Big Friendly Giant (BFG) of Roald Dahl vintage woke me up early; unwaking none at home, me stepped out with the Big Friendly Giant for a 5 a.m. walk; Sri Adinath Marg, for a change, quiet as a parked car; BFG left with the first morning burrs as BFG of Dahl disliked days; 'wish they served chai midnights', said a disappearing BFG; a few friendly strays hopped around as me settled down on an old wooden bench of an unopened Murari Dairy Farm; lay down on the bench to watch the sun flicker over a cocktail of yellow crowns of copper pods and bright red of gul mohurs; to koel lullabies dozed off till senior Murari shook it out; his sons had left for Gorakhpur on vacation, leaving old man in charge the way it was when he first boiled tea over a Primus stove, which still burns and well. 'Neend khula nahin; abhi chai banaunga,' senior Murari said with a sorry tinge. As is the rite across tea addas in Mumbai, the first tea is splashed on the road for none in particular, with a prayer; stray dogs keep off the yellow outpourings; with a broad laugh, senior Murari, Ramji for all, came over with a glass of hot tea and a bada Goldflake filter; taking in the unstirred moments, me sipped and smoked alone as Ramji left me loose. Yes, meditated the running away time as 5 a.m. became 6.30 a.m. for the autos to buzz; parked cars unparked. May is an easy month, no schools, large populations migrate to tourist spots, no festivals, locked apartments. Ordered a second ageless glass of tea; the glass by me measure should have seen many lakhs of fingers and palms; that morning me did not chat; listened as friend Sethumadhavan talked of quitting Mumbai for Palghat; 'will miss Murari,' he said as Ramji probed for details of the Palghat acceptance. 'Baris ke pahle,' Sethu said as me heard. Four wooden benches, a Primus stove, glasses, tea, cigarettes and sometimes freshly fried samosas; plastic cups a new addition. That has been the unshifting menu; no diversifications management experts talk and write of; Chats over Chai and Chai and Chai; 'gaon mein paani nahin hai' is the refrain of every bhaiya staring into a glass of tea in every chai adda; auto drivers park their autos, order ek chai, settle down to mobile chats with wives in waterless villages far away. Water is the talk. Water is the concern. Water is the no hope. Years before at chai points in Calcutta, bhaiyas exchanged khabbars from home brought by friends; no postcards, no air mail letters, no mobiles; just khabaars travelling ticketless in unreserved trains. A particular favourite was the chai adda opposite Menoka Cinema abutting the Lakes in south Calcutta; a bhaiya from Bihar in front of a kettle on a charcoal-fired chulha, manufacturing teas after teas; looked like a priest in front of the holy fire; an artist has yet to film or paint or write of him; served in mud cups; me sat on the footpath sipping chai with beedis; beedis and not cigarettes go well with bhaiya made chai. Chai addas are meditation homes on the streets for strays. A proletarian democracy, entirely home made, no rules. Marx would have been delighted. He might have added a fourth volume to the 3 volumes Das Kapital at a chai adda. Have heard of tea ceremonies in Japan; a rule-based event. Murari and Marx over chai suffice.

The Legends of Khasak

Enjoyed the book. Could not make much sense. A reading spins the reader. Perhaps, large parts of Kerala are familiar with Khasakkinte Itihasam by Ottupulackal Velukutty Vijayan with the first release being a serial in Mathrubhumi Weekly in 1968. Wandering amazon and flipkart booksites, me tripped over The Legends of  Khasak, an English translation by the author, something irregular. The sure thing that can be said of the book is Ravi; stubbles of characters pop up, off and on; anything can happen to them, Vijayan whims being the critical factor; Muslim images and beliefs form an avial with Hindu thought and the tale goes on ....Vijayan perhaps allows the reader to travel on board for an emote; the reader can add on. Pausing at the varieties of madness, me joined up with Vijayan to intern the telling; took some time to read the 200 pages book -- a novel, a Vijayan berserk ...me is still unsure. Seemingly, Vijayan is reported to have started on the Legends in English, tore it up to start in Malayalam. Kuppu-Acchan ...a toddy tapper ....'And so ended the epic of the toddy-tapper, an epic from other times, when flying serpents rested on palm tops during their mysterious journeys. The tapper made an offering of sweet toddy to please these visitants...He left flowers at the foot of the palm for the clan's well being. In those times the tapper did not have to climb, the palm bent down for him. It was when a tapper's woman lost her innocence that the palm ceased to bend.' When the toddy tapper has more than his wife, the palm might shrivel -- Vijayan does not say so but allows reader the width to join company. Yes, the book is a refreshing eeriness reminding me of Gogol, Kafka .... the madness threaded in immense style, songs of words...Is Ravi, the school teacher, O.V. Vijayan, in a one teacher school? That's me reading. 'Having spent itself in the first blinding onrush, the monsoon lay over Khasak, indrawn, in samadhi. The single-teacher school was now three months old, its strength an unstable twenty. The children came like moving huts, sharing the shelter of large handleless palm-frond umbrellas, heedless of time, as they stopped to play in the rain streams...Helplessly, Ravi watched the palm-frond thatches stray back into illiteracy...' Ravi, the astrophysicist, is the bird in the sky over Khasak. In an Afterword, the author asks: Will the Newtonian physicist be upset by the Einstenian equation? There are no upsettings, only acceptances of a many-way mayhem. Yes, there is something in it, what it is me do not know. Better readers may be of help. Useful to tell ourselves, Vijayan was a A grade cartoonist.

Ajoba's beard

Ajoba had nothing to do. He never had. To beat the heat, the peepal tree shook a wind and Ajoba took the cement seat under it on Yogi Nagar Road. Couple of months ago, the peepal was a peepal; then came a crowd of gods; hung themselves on the trunk; no suicides in these times of hangings; the devout after morning walks, lighted diyas and agarabattis to the gods or tree, Ajoba was not sure. But they did and Ajoba watched, waited for fleeing prasads; one old lady kept in reserve a modak for Ajoba and Ajoba, like the many strays on Yogi Nagar Road, wagged his torso; did a Salman Khan. Ajoba delights in modaks. Evenings, no prayers, no diyas, no prasads; windy, adda sessions with Ajoba playing bass notes like Mohini Dey; he packed the gossip in peepal leaves for unloading to Aji who did her jugalbandhi nearby on Link Road. But this evening, Ajoba strayed from routine; Aji was complaining his beard; 'go and shave it all,' was her refrain. If Ajoba has to start on anything -- reading, writing, gazing, talking - he has to play the beard, scratch it, tap it ...it helped Ajoba to think, rarely. But the beard was crawling over face and torso, dropping to the legs; he ate more of beard than food. He stumbled over to Alam's barber shop of years, dipped into an arm chair with a Salam alekum to Alam who returned an Ale kumsalam. Alam ran his fingers on Ajoba white forest, held it in his palms, said: 'Bahut din ho gaye.' Ajoba nodded and whispered, 'jara trim kar do. aur kainchi, machine nahin '. 'Hanji' said Alam thrusting into historic research: 'Kabse dadi hai?' That spun Ajoba to the day when he sighted the first strand of hair on his jaw. It was in Calcutta and he was at Hindi High School. The sighting was accidental; he was combing his long hair to be presentable to girl friend Padmini when a black strand upped itself. He did not know what to do; decided to refer the matter to Padmini; 'grow a beard, you will look good into it,' she said; he did not know whether it was a jest or a judge. The face got forested, the family protested, the beard went. Padmini also left with a 'Tumi amar sunbena (You wont listen to me)'. Oh, it is all faint. Padmini and Calcutta gone; Bombay came with a job. At the work place his Muslim friend, Rehman, donned a beard shawling his entire face; he was tall and the pounds of hair handsomed him. Ajoba took up again on the beard; Padmini blessed him, thanked him. Black is today black and white; not any lush growth; but suffiicient for Rama to protest and Alam to make some money. As Alam scissored, Padmini came up to remind Ajoba of his first beard, first love and first shave. Stopped, she exclaimed. Alam stopped. Padmini dusted Ajoba put a bit of smartness into him. 

A Song 50

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
webbed a dog tale
for Goti.
Long, long ago,
once upon many times,
Kabira went to Tuka
at Pandharpur.
May days sans nights.
A stray chased
Kabir and Tuka,
tugging torn dhotis.
Kabir and Tuka swivelled,
ran down the stray.
Pandharpur astray,
impounded
Kabir and Tuka,
loosed the stray.
Aeon janmas ago,
Goti was the stray.  

Sairat....the heart is insane

'the heart is insane..' goes the first song of Marathi film Sairat (Wild) directed by Nagraj Manjule, maker of Fandry. Starts on a firm clip with humour and laughs triggered mostly by bow-legged Pradeep, friend of hero Prashya (Akash Thosar) and heroine Archie (Rinku Rajguru); the deep well scenes are done well; it holds enough water for girls and boys; perhaps, Pradeep is the best in Sairat, though most will disagree. A long three hour film ...goes on and on....and on with one song reminding of a Tamil hit (forget which)....Manjule does not edit, the camera rolls and rolls, some wideangle shots pleasing; Rama likens it to a Tamil village thriller; by the second hour, me is tired, Rama yawns; pray to God for the end, a clean one hour away. Clicked the mobile, it was 2.18 p.m. with the film unwiring at 11.30 a.m. at Maxus Borivili; Prashya and Archie were striding from love to marriage and kid.. the mandatory slummy, poverty; then a Big Bang Silent five minutes before the camera curls away; 'the heart is insane'... Yes, Manjule makes it; the cursing gave way to stuns. Viewers pasted to their seats watched and couldnt believe what they watched; yes, it should have been a two-hour edited telling by Nagraj; power and caste equations are largely left undebated, undetailed; years ago, the family in Kolkata was hit by a love affair between a Brahmin girl and a non-Brahmin boy; father lighted up like a gas cylinder; knock dead the woman, turn her out, went the cries; nothing beyond crying happened; the couple is alive and happy; a strong film on sugar barons of Maharashtra is a need in these times of drought; has yet to be made. Have seen Fandry and thought Manjule would be precise; he is haywire with melodrama ...the love chases from toilets to trees and dishooms (please can directors abandon disgusting and boring love plus dishoom-dishooms) in sugarcane fields and streets are a waste of abundant cinematic talent. If Manjule has to be make it, he has to be deep and crisp in the telling; with Sairat, Nagraj just about escaped. The Marathi is easy, me could grasp and the English sub titles helped. A shame me has not learnt Marathi in 40 years of Mumbai. Better talent than me can comment on the quality of Marathi films today; theatres are prepared to screen, crowds are coming and me hopes Nagraj Manjule will come up with a classy offering shortly. He can do it. Will he do it? ...the heart is insane.....

A Song 49

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
wiping pigeon shit from
bald heads,
breakfasted on Parle G
with paleolithic stray Goti,
gone astray.
Walked to Srinivasa Ramanujan
at TIFR,
inquiring Goti's DNA.
'Goti is familiar with shunya,'
said Kabira;
'Shunya knows Goti,'
added Tuka.
Ramanujan smiled, first smile ever;
indeed laughed.
Offered them sambhar, avial, pappadoms;
Said: 'Am into Finities and Infinities,
as my wife prefers her stray
to me.'