A Song 67

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
open the door at Peace
to knocks of
a coughing turtle,
a feverish snail,
without rainwear,
dumped by a rowdy July Sea.
Strepsils for turtle,
Vicks Vaporub for snail;
Ms. Parsi prepares a steamy,
ginger tea;
Mr. Parsi brings out ginger
biscuits;
put turtle and snail in bed;
snooze in deep-Sea sofas.

A Song 66

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
Ms. Parsi and Mr. Parsi,
in anti-clockwise time,
pray prayers in reverse,
start on back covers
of books,
blank calendars on tables,
in a cross-over living
angling for smiles. 

Admen and adwomen

Businee Line was born in Chennai on January 1994. No dummy runs, as understood. Unknown. No billboard told its birth. A boast seemingly did not fit the Boss, Executive Editor, K. Venugopal; perhaps, the editor in the world, always absent from the imprint line. For a year and more, BL had few ads, sometimes never. Honestly, BL grew without ads. A newspaper, a product (for admen and women, the world is a product) alive in 2016. 22 years old. Namma Ambi Parameswaran of Nawabs, Nudes, Noodles, could look up the BL case; chat K. Venugopal at Kasturi Buildings, Anna Salai, Chennai. The Hindu, born once upon a time, rarely walled the streets. Nawabs....is India through 50 years of advertising, an easy read of the 50 years me grew up an Indian using Lifebuoy, Bata, Colgate, Vicks and of course, The Statesman, Calcutta; enjoying forever the Maharaja of Bobby Kooka....and today Lenovo. Perhaps Nariman Point and Air India need a Kooka sculpture...'the little Maharaja was not born suddenly, as people imagine, but rather he evolved serendipitiously over a series of many avatars. The first one was in 1939, on a poster that showed a turbaned character being carried aloft by four eagles -- a take off on an old Persian legend. There was an immediate outcry from Bombay's Parsi community, who protested to JRD Tata that it insulted a much revered Zorastrian figure... In 1946, the Air India Maharaja first took the form in which we recognize him today..' writes Ambi sar. Maybe, the Maharaja needs to change his wardrobe... a mundu and jibba...with an ipad in hand...thats if Air India is around. Have 50 years of adding altered the Indian... he is changing ...will nawabs have biryanis and maharajas pulaos or will it be nudes and noodles....kantepohe is a breakfast must for Maharashtrians; dosas, wadas for Tamilians; paranthas for the wild north.... weddings were and are loud ...a Malayali wedding was a five minute affair at a temple; today, there is sangeet, mehendi, parties, Kalyan jewellers and at last the thali kattu....with food on contract; payasams and avials not cooked at the pandals by fleets of cooks; buffets. Ambi sar makes a lone confession: ' Indian food habits are among the most difficult to change and marketers have over the last fifty-plus years been trying to chip away food habits and attitudes that have been deeply ingrained in the Indian psyche for the last two millenia.'  Some relief. Rama goes to Uday Stores in Jayarajnagar, selects the wheat grain for the chakki ... Aashirwaad, Quaker Oats, Kellogg she passes by .... Shreya and Chiyu wangle Dominos and Maggis from Aji and Dakhi when father Rajesh goes to Pune on business ..When that happens, an Indian breakfasting, lunching, licking fingers, will not be. Our dear Nawabs and Maharajas and colours, no more. No laziness. No lovable paunches. India on diets, measuring vitamins, marathoning to stay fit.  Ads, Admen and  Adwomen will Cheers. Presume, Ambi sar will regret the shift. For rainy today, Ambi saar's literary output is enough. 

Raddi

Month-end. Madhavi places a steel ladder to the loft, climbs to bring down newspaper raddi. 'Kadki hai, ma, dal Rs.200 per kg, aloo Rs.24 per kg,' she tells Rama. Dal-rice-aloo, the dietary minimum. A raddi walla from UP has a shack opposite Dharma Nagar CHS; she calls him up and then start a tussle over weight and price; both are sharp; raddi weighs 9 kg and Madhavi pockets Rs. 81 to last till July 1 when the salaries will flow in. Madhavi is not particularly delighted as she expected more raddi; she knows why; 'Ma, aaj kal woh mota paper nahin padtha hai,' she remarks referring to the absence of The Times of India in the raddi. Times of India with Mumbai Mirror yields Rs.100 alone, she claims and Madhavi is missing it. Lady is sharp. Rama subscribes to three newspapers: Mint, The Indian Express and Mathrubhoomi; a dietician's delight but not so for Madhavi. She is pushing Rama into buying The Times and Rama is pushing her back. She reads Kannada newspapers or rather glances them, but does not buy them. But then Rs.81 is Rs.81 in a cashless economy in the purse.'Ma,aaj idli aur smabhar bananeka,' she announces to Rama. Every morning, she folds the day's editions even before they are glanced at or read, packs them neatly on the loft. She reminds Rama of her days with her journalist husband, bare of cash always, month-ends, for years. In Dombivili, she would unload the month's raddi, month-end, to a bhaiya. It was a distressing rite, a routine, thanks to journalism; financials improved with the entry of foreign news agencies and salaries sky-high to earth bound offers from Indian managements. Recently, Rama told Madhavi of doing away with newspapers as Internet served news and scandals, juicy and readable. Madhavi protested strongly; for a week she made elaborate inquiries; if she did not sight newspapers on the table in the morning, she anxiously probed Rama. Her daughter is in Class 10, eldest son in Class 9 and second son Class 8. Madhavi needs cash as schools are not free anymore from Class 8. She works at many homes in Dharma Nagar CHS; Rama seems to be the lone newspaper buyer; others do not, done away with the habit.   

Rainbows

Will sportskies have rainbows? At St. Francis and Don Bosco football grounds, school kids kick and pass, slush and footballs in Messi jersies. Grand-daughter Shreya sports a Messi shirt for school football with boys at Rustomjee. Will sportskies have rainbows? Will skysports, stars? Football, cricket, boxing, athletics, badminton, field hockey, tennis are serving no freshers. Messi gone, going by his words. After Rio, athletics will not Usain Bolt. Sports magic is in magic players; the players do not realise their magic; and that is the magic. Wimbledon and Paris greens 2016 have no mystery, no divine craft; the little is with the aged as Djokovic sent off an opponent called James Ward; quarter-way switched off TV. Wimbledon is 130 years old and wears it youngishly; aged legs and arms scramble for yellow balls with high tech strings and little convictions. Class matters. Style is must. Creation, Big Bang or not, was in poetic style. There is none or little in sports 2016. Technology souped by corporates has put speed into sports; sports skids; speed crunches the art of games; every sports is techo quick and humans find it hard to keep pace; grace is an armchair. Governing bodies have tweaked laws to quicken games, not necessarily interesting. A T20 is not a Test match. Badminton is all pace; tennis is the same. Corporates have made players and managers immensely rich. They will be around forever. But will sports have Magicians or will technology produce look alikes. Will sportsmen and women slip and drop? Maybe, one good day in 2020, robots could be on display at Olympics. Robots outsmarting humans. Maybe, maybe. Something the same at literary and film festivals funded by corporates; films do not last a screening, books not the festival; but all are happy, corporates most; robots will write War and Love. Most of us today look the same, today, furiously buttoning i-pads and mobiles; monotonous; will sports become that. Corporates will like it as more ipads mean more cash. More robots mean more wall space for ads. Cheap ipads have made us commoners all. None different from none. Messi, of all footballers today, is the difference. Usain Bolt, of all, has a boast, a style. Corporate Tech will be swamping us. Sports will not be fun, simple and plenty. Me wants Messi to spin and swing and swerve the football. Will sportskies have rainbows?  

Ikiru (To Live)

Friend Kartik Iyer passed on Ikiru (To Live), a film by Akira Kurosawa. Ikiru lives, Kanji Watanabe (played by Takashi Shimura) lives, me lives, ordinarily. For 30 years Kanji Watanabe, a lowly bureaucrat, does nothing, like our IAS-IFS-IPS brigade; then one day some women demand a park; Watanabe hobbles past files and filed humans, gets a park done; dies; there is a shot of Watanabe playing the swings with a song -- perhaps the moment in Ikiru; a framed pix of Watanabe as friends argue him, a cinematic technique of Kurosawa, and Watanabe is many-angled. In between, Watanabe takes a young girl around the city he lives, buys a new hat which is reborn when a police inspector hands it over.... Kurosawa is a few jumps ahead of Adoor Gopalakrishnan... and Watanabe brings me to many bureaucrats. Perhaps, the first was Cotton Advisor, C. Sridharan in the Textile Commissioner Office, Churchgate and the few Textile Commissioners, all IAS. There were also bankers. In the last many, many years there has been not a bureaucrat of Front Pages; Dr. Raghuram Govind Rajan, in three years, became the Maharaja of Front Pages and Breaking News. Surely, most disliked the affection. Tavleen Singh in The Indian Express asks: Too big for his boots? ... writes: So the Indian economy has survived the imminent exit of the Governor of the RBI. For months it felt as if the departure of Raghuram Rajan would signal not just the collapse of the Indian economy, but of India ...Lastly, can we hope that the next RBI governor reverts to playing the silent and dignified role that governors best played?' Me do not agree with Dr. Rajan, me is not upset over his US trip, yet Mint Street will miss him, me also. He like Watanabe tried to stand up in his shoes, not sit in his chair; grazed away from files; made sense on the intolerance debate in an ever intolerant, mean India today. Long ago, an RBI governor, Dr. R.N. Malhotra, openly disagreed with the government over farm loan waiver of some Rs.10,000 crore. But the government kept him. Watanabe puts up a park when government servants, his friends, well.. turn and twist and gossip. And why should not a bureaucrat talk up when it is fair to put the bureaucrat down publicly? Is it fair? Poet Yevtushenko poets, 'Gentleness is a posthumous honour,' and in a second song, Talk:

You're a brave man they tell me.
I'm not.
Courage has never been my quality. ...
How sharply our children will be ashamed
taking at last their vengeance for these horrors
remembering how in so strange a time
common integrity could look like courage.

Sayanora, Watanabe and Dr. Rajan. 

A Song 65

A wet crow.
A wet gulmohur.
A wet morning.

Dak ghar

Rains outside windowss,,deep in sleep, when Rama nudged me out: Get up, you have to go the post office and bank. Mood phut. Dak ghar. Sipped a coffee missing the fun. Home looked a Bleak House. That's what happens when Vidya from Chennai sends marching order to post offices and banks. And me prayed. Believe in every class and colour of god when post office and government bank trudges are scheduled at 9. 'Post office opens at 9; go to the post office and then the government bank which rarely opens and not today with Britain walking out of Europe,' said Rama. Never been to England; Anirban Nag is the lone British friend; and do not understand Keynesian economics of Brexit. On Link Road, by 8.30, walk past the fearsome MHB police station and the policemen and women; shift pavements and Link Road has pavements. The Borivili (W) post office makes the next bloc; a ropy woman-man queue at all counters manned by post office men and women in a grand grouch. Intoned Kabir:

Dheere, dheere re mana
dheere sab kuch hoi,
maali seenche sau ghada,
ritu aye phal hoi.

For years have suffered and still suffer government servants. Kabir cannot do a thing about them. They love long lines of humans in front of them as they sip ever-ever chais and gossip Sairat.
'Bageeth la ka,' said a man to a lady as at the counter aam admis stood dumb. At public sector banks, matters are worse; lines never move as computers are always down. From 1946 to 1991 stood at ration shops, government offices; from 1991 to 2016, in lines at corporate and government offices. Yes, they are all honourable gentlemen and ladies; no doubt; vote to themselves seventh, eighth and ninth Pay Commissions for chatting Udtha Punjab.  Econmic development is a sure happening for them. Went again to Kabir:

Pothi padi, padi jag muva,
pandit hua na koi,
dhai akshar prem ka,
pade so pandit hoi.

Prem did not wash the counters. It was 9.30 when a gentleman pointed to the Senior Citizen queue; two queues at the same counter, junior and senior citizens; at 70 me stood there without any age proof; got nervy as a policeman walked in, walked out after a word with a cabined official; he did not ask for age proof; the gentleman at the counter demanded change and me became an ATM; poured out Rs.40 in loose change; walked out into thick rains. Rama mobiled; skip the bank work. At about 10, became the happiest citizen in the world. Wish Happiness for Britishers as me loves everything British, English, English humour, greens and Wimbledon. Wished they had stuck to Europe. Oliver Goldsmith wrote Citizen of the World. Oliver was Irish. 

Football

Footfalls of football. Got up at 5, prepared coffee decoction, lighted diyas and 5.30 was facing the TV. Weather report at Chicago read okay. In perhaps, the first 15 minutes, Chile were 2 up against Columbia at Copa America Centenario 2016; at half time electronic boards blinked bad weather, the crowds started out; after a long pause, second half of the game began and towards the last five minutes dropped to players kicking each other and refree out of charge; it was not a sight to see; there was no football; Chile had not the poetry of Pablo Neruda nor the statesmanship of Allende. Mood slipped. When a footballer eternally taps the ball back to his goal-keeper the game is in shock; three penalties missed with one by Ronaldo. Copa America and Euro seem to be stroked; the lone zen second when Messi seamed the sphere into a corner of the net; maybe he takes football lessons from Galileo. And what upset me was Messi pushing, taking the place of hero Maradona and me not being able to go with it; Messi has not brought down Maradona with a sliding tackle; he has dodged past the Great Man, did not feather his jersey, to become Great; the Hand of God goal was blessed by God; the free kick the other day carried the fragrance of God. Saint Andres Iniesta is easy, there is none like him, a mid-fielder unshutting a defence without their knowing, a stealth... Wish friend KB, ...K. Bhaskaran had been at home for technical explanations. After the match, me brooded, not at peace, Messi or Maradona... Rama offered a walk to the temple. It was not to be. Started re-re-re-reading Yevtushenko, Selected Poems, as poetry calms, always. He verses In Georgia:
....In the silent village morning
the gates playing like children,
and the old man with the silver head
leaving his piles of hay to open them....

And in Zima Junction,

...I felt sad and clean
and sad perhaps because
of having learnt something
and not yet knowing what....

That's what beautiful football, Messi, Maradona and Iniesta have done to me. 

A Song 64

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
brought down in
Cooperage slush,
by speeding tortoises,
slowing hares,
chasing a curfewed
football,
in a turvy-tipsy game,
refreed by
Ms. and Mr. Parsi
without linesemen,
without whistles.
 

Lets go for a walk, Dr. Rajan

Into 70th year of counting rain drops at the window to notes of Premam; raindrops, Sai Pallavi and Nivin Pauly sing me into a happiness; morning commenced with a few, countable rain drops; they braided into strings proving the string theory of physicists; at 12, as Anupama Chandrasekharan and Pallavi verse Alluvapuzhayude theerathu..., mused... is there a woman or a man who has not romanced under a roof of raindrops, however much Adi Sankara may dub it all as Mithya, Maya. Deep in the distance, rain drops beaded from far away hills, sprinted over creeks, slushed mangroves before landing on the window, sofa ... squatting in rows on the grill as if on school benches.... With it comes fryums offered by Rama; given to her by friend Mala after a trip to Pazhani ...murukku, cheedai and then it was the turn of son Ganesh; orange burfi and dalmut from Nagpur Haldiram's, a foodie business, now split. Everyone should be having a rain story as in dear old India it clouds, it winds, it rains.. may have lost the time-table...yet there. Decided to make filter coffee for Rama, rain gift to her as she is into Malayalam film music on youtube. 'Yes,' she delights and from the kitchen window watch rain drops drenching gul mohur flowers in a passion...the coffee has come out strong when the mobile calls....Shreya and Chiyu together announcing a school holiday and a rain dance at the society...it is not as if the school is shut, they have taken a day off much to the chagrin of Dakhi. Sufficient reason to set out for a rain walk with Haldiram orange burfi neatly packed in a cloth bag...down Link Road, LIC Colony, IC Church, quiet and empty before landing at Mandapeshwar Co-op. Society.. played football with Shreya, Chiyu and their friends. Walking back home, thought of the times when me wet-walked Marine Drive for hours....maybe, Dr. Raghuram Govind Rajan can today relax and watch from his 18th floor office, rain drops on RBI Towers...maybe he could go for a quiet walk by the Sea .. will miss you Sir...do not know you, never met you, would like to go for a walk with you... promise, will not talk banking (not in anyway qualified to talk banking with you Sir), of books, food, sports ..sharing vada pavs for fun. At home, wet with Rajan regrets.

A Song 63

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
Ms. Parsi and Mr. Parsi,
on Sunday noon,
over Taj drinks and fun lunch,
brought in by JRD,
over a snapped landline,
drum to Sairat,
shoving aside
dohas, abhangs,
Mozart and Bach;
hymn Sairat verse:
'Something beautiful
has happened today.'

Ads and admen

Earth rotates on its axis. Me was told. How? Me do not know. Einstein, the science Acharya, says relativity. Acharya Ramanujan bets on a mathematical God. Ambi Parameswaran, the ad Acharya, implies ads. Adi Sankaracharya says it is Maya, a Mithya. So where does the Earth, you and me belong? Alternating between Bhaja Govindam and Nawabs, nudes, Noodles of Ambi Parameswaran (still into both) can be a strain upsetting an afternoon snooze after football nights. Sometimes me has been on three books before abandoning all. Bhaja Govindam, translated by Swami Nikhilananda, picked at Rs.8 from the Sri Ramakrishna book house on Khar Road on a visit to Ramakrishna Ashram, is worth a read. Well printed like Russian books when Communists were in power in Russia, Bhaja Govindam has music to it; me sings-songs verses and chuckle at Adi Shankaracharya's sharpness; maybe he could have been a good editor. '....Udaranimiththam bahu krita veshah ...' lines have been with me from years father introduced me to them in Calcutta. Jawaharlal Nehru has elaborated on this sage...and Vedanta. 'For stomach's sake..' translates Swami Nikhilananda and it could apply to us all. Not many will agree and me let goes ..... But of the ad world, me is an inch more sure. On the refree's whistle Ambi intros (ordered the book from Amazon at Rs.398); having lost and found a blue jacket on an Indian Airlines flight in 1993, Ambi writes: 'A dress blazer was an oddity in the store room. I explained that I work in advertising, the client meeting had been rough and the flight was late. The executive mockingly said: 'It took you five days to figure this out? Oh, you must have been drunk; you guys in advertising drink a lot, dont you?.....The comment riled me up. I sat the old man down and gave him a lecture on what me do in the advertising business. He was not expecting that, but took the lecture in good spirit. Finally, we parted as friends, me with my jacket, him with a slightly better understanding of the ad business.' Ambi Sir, they said the same to me, a journalist; still say. Have no understanding of your business though it fed me for 37 years; a newspaper cannot roll out without ads and sans ads no salaries for journalists and managements. Never bumped into any ad Acharya limning, 'Live Life Kingsize', making me a regular smoker of Four Square. Confess to a dislike in working days when ads ate up news-space. In about the first year of Business Line, there were no ads, only news and arthritic fingers. Without ads, the Earth cannot be; axis jammed and rusty. Copa America and Euro and Champions Trophy cannot be without ads. Wildlife funding cannot be without corporates first felling forests to set up factories. Temples, festivals and gods need corporate ads, they crave. Science cannot be without ads. Between Adi Sankara, Einstein, Ramanujan and Ambi, Ambi well, leads. Or, rather me can understand Ambi Sir. Ads and admen exist the world. 

Bramble Cay

Outside the window a wind shifts the skies as me thought of a rat extinct in Australia. None candled its last scurry into nothingness. None amened. Thanks be to social media for a decent burial. On Link Road, skies have no clouds. Late, say Indian Meteorological Department and Vinson Kurien of Business Line. When, me does not know but Kalidas wrote a Ritusamhara on two lovers cuddling many seasons when seasons were on time as Mumbai locals. There were droughts then when India was a forest; there are droughts today, when India is not a forest, Prakash Javadekar could well exclaim, ribbon-cutting the chopping of a peepal to widen a highway. 'Edavavum illa, pathiyum illa,' mumbles Sethumadhavan of June rains. Edavam is a monsoon month in Kerala. 'Kute pan paus nahin,' remarked old Desai into his 75th year of rains. Last of apus at Niranjan's vegetable corner; two mangos hang from a tree on Shree Adinath Marg, scared to drop, sure something has gone wrong. And on June 16 on Link Road, everyone is sweaty. No Sun and Popy umbrellas, no raincoats, no rubber boots...shops and shopkeepers wait, a no sale every second making an NPA of them....Will there be a move out from Mumbai .... like farmers editing out of Marathwada .....a positive sign or sigh -- Sensex up as SBI becomes one of a 50 big banks in the world ... and a civil aviation policy which me does not understand as no plane ever takes off on time anywhere in India. Lingers, the Australian rat... on a clothes line ... reports Australian media: 'An Australian rodent may have become the first victim of extinction as a result of human-caused climate change. The Bramble Cay melomys or mosaic tailed rat at a small reef island at the northern tip of the Great Barrier Reef, called Bramble Cay, appear to have disappeared.' At Vazira, Lord Ganesha in tears as he will now have to walk. He rode all rats, no distinctions of colour, caste, creed ....had no problem with any of them. In 1994, Lord Ganesh drank milk in Chennai. If the rat feels let down by the Lord, the Creator, there is none surviving to say so. And the destroyer Lord Shiva, will one day, have no Ganges on his head; India could be without Ganges or at least lose a fine imagery. So on June 16, Humans became Gods. Lord Ganesh is out. Shiva is out. A low laying cay inundated by a rising sea has dunked them all, gods and rats. Humans will pray and play at mirrors. 

A Song 62

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
winding a grandma wall-clock
sans keys, sans arms,
sliding a cracked wall
over a piano without songs;
first consignment
of Parsis making it to Bombay
and Peace,
on greens in horse carts,
from boats at Gateway.
Ms. Parsi and Mr. Parsi
at the bedroom door,
smiled good mornings,
carried forward
many times over,
in amen hearts.  

Of columns

Digital World of Osama Manzar and Ad Lib by Ambi M.G. Parameswaran in Mint are worth morning reads. Digital change in villages and Ambi on Malayalam film, How old are you. Have seen the film but never got the subtlities Ambi finds. That's why Ambi is where he is and me where me is. 'Getting back to the Malayalam movie, I was able to decode several societal dynamics the writer and director had explored. A wife in a dead-end job. An unappreciative husband and daughter...' Curiosity (for fun's sake, please do not read anything else): Is Ambi a Palghati Brahmin from Noorni? Yes Ambi, you are on to something. Women are making ambitions. In far away 1976, Rama came to Dombivili from far away Alleppey, knowing not Bombay manners. In Alleppey, her parents did not allow her to roam streets fearing Mallu men. At St. Joseph's College for Women, she was advised by nuns to go for Masters. She did not. When she told them of her marriage, nuns were disappointed. In those times, men earned, women were in the kitchen. In 1976 at 21, she did not take up a job and blame me for it. Me never thought of it. With her father-in-law went to Canara Bank in Dombivili (East) to open a savings account, she operated, she still holds the account; Ravi Krishnan writes of Canara Bank sinking but Rama thinks otherwise; its her first emotional step into banking... nay freedom.... and all that... Today, she pulls out currency from ATM machines; me knows nothing of ATMs, have never stepped into a kiosk, preferring hard cash which she liberally parts with. She kept and keeps the home, three kids, taught and teaches them, for sometime ran tution classes.. She had no objection when Dakhi married Rajesh Patil, Vidya went to Chennai to run her life alone ...... now Vidya is into Chennai lingo of Prachnai enna theriyuma... Amma for Amma to smile. A fact, me cannot tweek a mobile; Rama is into ipad (Ganesh has bought her a new one), selfies, whatsapp, android for about 8 hours a day with three hours going for Malayalam films .... she is not comfortable with Hindi....she follows Saina Nehwal ... Rama did it all on her own as now her daughter Dakhi makes athletes of Shreya and Chiyu .... Shamik Chakrabarty has finely scripted Lili Das, a sprinter in The Indian Express: Racing tattered shoes, Lili the bright new hope for Indian athletics.... yes women are into giant potwheels of ambition.. but for ads, women are sex, dark women are to be abhorred ... women in Malayalam and Indian films never lead...till date no Ray, no Adoor, no Sai Paranjape has thought of a woman film... if Rama can put up a home, a female can a film... hope one day Ambi Parameswaran will provide some clues. Women are cooking ambitions in modular kitchens. Anyway Ambi am buying your book: Nawabs, Nudes, Noodles.  

A Song 61

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
Parsi couple,
on Sunday,
keep away from prayers
and cares;
walk the surf
under roofs of rains,
winds swivel them
to Yezdani
for bread loaves
amuly butterly.
At Peace, their home,
in sofas, sea deep,
beside windows sky-wide,
rain clothed,
with barkless dogs and
cawing donkeys.
Beers dipped in
piano notes,
Parsi laughs,
riding berserk atop
honkless cars,
attired in flowers and fantasies.
A makeway Taj lunch
of dal, bakris and sabji.
Sunday takeaway,
a
Way.

Naman

Naman is no more. For three years the soft brown and white Labrador and me wished each other good mornings. A happiness is not. A morning, a dog came by, brushed past me, wagging tail. Boss was a few feet away. Me stopped. Patted the dog. Asked his name. Naman. On Link Road, he pawed me, licked and snuggled; me cuddled Naman. A five minute morning affair would end daily with Naman and me walking away from each other. Never fed him Parle biscuits; no selfies; no Naman clicks. Amor saca amor (Love begets love), says St. Teresa of Avila. He passed on in February and the confirmation came on the evening of June 10, 2016 on Link Road. Last time we touched each other in February, he was looking unwell and his Boss, a young MBBS, was worried. We did not meet up. Me missed Naman and Naman looked for me. Today evening, a Maruti Swift sidled me and Boss stepped out. We had not met for about five months. 'Uncle, Naman has gone. Took him to doctors in south Mumbai, did not help. I think he died of cancer. He died at home. Did not send him to the hospital. To that the family said no. We shifted to a new home near Eskay Club as the sofas and corners in the old home still breathe Naman. Family talks of Naman alone. Have not informed my friends,' Boss said. A tear glinted, me stood quiet. It was fair not to have a confirmation of death. Missed Naman, for sure, thought we would meet up. A spoon of hope. That's been denied. 'He was nine years. Now have not a strong heart to own a second. Emotions gone will have to be brought back and that's hard labour. For the moment, we will be with Naman's passing away,' Boss added. Me stood quiet as there is nothing me could say on Naman's absence. Boss has taken a year off to study for admission to an M.D. course preferably in Mumbai; 'that will in a way take me off Naman,' said the young fellow. We parted. 'Uncle keep in touch,' he said. He does not know my name and home; me do not know him; Naman linked us. Every morning pass by a Labrador or any dog including strays and Naman lurks. Over years have been close to strays; still am; Naman, facts do not add up, where are you? 

Bitter gourd avial

For breakfast two glasses of water melon, green all right, sweet less right. A water melon costs Rs.25 per kg in Borivili. 'Time you got into some diet. Malayalam food channels prescribe water melon for steady BP,' edicted Rama. Well, me could not do anything about it; she agreed to add spoons of sugar and the brick red liquid went down well. Not lucky as the population at Blandings Castle in Service with a Smile, A Blandings Story by P.G. Wodehouse. 'The morning sun shone down on Blandings Castle, and the various inmates of the ancestral home of Clarence, ninth Earl of Emsworth, their breakfasts digested, were occupying themselves in various ways,' intros W. There was nothing to make a digestion; a breakfast is and will always be dosas, wadas, chuneys and burning molaka podi (Thanjavur version). Sunshine there was, the June variety, with rains lolling in Alleppey. An empty stomach cant laugh not even at a contented Empress of Blandings overseen by Lord Emsworth. Waited when Rama announced a compensatory early lunch leading to the many Taj and Oberoi lunches in me career. Me was forever marked for seminars; yapping at seminars did not start without me or that's what me thought those days. In Mumbai winter, US and UK corporates landed at Taj and Oberoi on their way to Goa or Taj; they gassed on everything of the Indian economy. 'Best place to invest,' they said with some minister in attendance at steel, shipping, textile seminars; flying back home they forgot their words; in summers, seminars were one a week against the winter norm of five seminars a week; Indian managers, having nothing to do, also spoke and formed lunch lines at buffet tables; rotis, rice, dal makania, curd, papads and some stale gulab jamuns, were always on offer at five or seven star hotels (me do not know the basis of assigning stars); they were mostly many days food warmed today, the same menu, tasting the same through the year; no offence meant to Taj and Oberoi; free food is better than no food and as a junior reporter it was okay. Seminars started at 9 ended at 5 with a minister dropping in anytime, being a minister; never a sorry for the delay; and the corporates with folded palms bowing to the crook; they were licensing days; needed a licence from the Planning Commission to piddle. Editorial bosses were keen on the minister and the minister obliged with his PA distributing speech copies to reporters. Evenings me would type a few ministerial lines (which never got published) to earn Rs.400 per month. On that salary, seminars were a foody boon. Me first seminar was on steel at Taj; an entire Saturday went waste; didnt understand a thing; those days steel - round bars, plates and sheets - were sold in the black outside Masjid steel market. Open deals. On Sunday filed a report of the minister; published next day as newsflows on Sundays were thin. Nobody read the report. Same today. Times go, seminars are no more or rare, retired; and there is Rama offering an avial of bitter gourd, mukku manga and gur; a pick-up from a Malayalam food channel; she allowed me in the kitchen to watch the process; long cuts of vegetables boiled with coconut; me was offered a helping and it tasted well with rice and papad; at 1 the lunch went off well. 'Fine,' said Rama and me agreed. Beat all corporate lunches. Lord Emsworth may have rejected it. Me relished it. Thanks. Can we please stick to the avial skilled in pride over thousands of years in Hindu Brahmin homes?   

A Song 60

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
needled by Ms. Parsi;
made it to
every home,
Tansen and Bhimsen,
without touching
on love, sex, guns and murder;
never a Booker prize.
A June sea-wind
at the windows,
took them away.

70s

Today morning on Link Road pavement met up a squirrel; squirrels at large on the Link Road stretch till Saint John Bosco Church, busy mornings, absent evenings. Two feet between us as we paused; dropped a palm of chana dal; some rolled to the squirrel; sitting on its hind legs, the squirrel held a dal in its forelegs, nibbled, gnawed all of five minutes to consume one dal. Me watched. Quiet. Got me to think of me best times; 20s, 30s, 50s and now in the 70s. If me ever write of me, a remote chance, will write of 70s, when me turned 70, as they are to me the finest. Have no watch, rarely glance at the wall clock; afternoon siesta a must, only it is not a siesta but a prolonged shut down from 2 to 5 in an air-conditioned afternoon; thanks be to Ganesh and Vidya for the air-conditioner. Mornings, after more a drag than a walk, Rama and me settle down under a peepal on a less crowded Yogi Nagar Road; every time a school kid is led to a school bus (schools have opened), Rama demands of me a grandson or granddaughter; 'life is no good without a kid to run you down,' she says and adds for effect: 'You are not bothered about Ganesh and Vidya marriage. You waste money on books or tap nonsense on the computer. Every father takes interest except you.' Pummelling stops when a mother leads her six-month old Chhaya to coaching classes for junior KG. 'My grand-daughter will not go to KG; she will be like you, unread,' grins Rama. Me nods; have tapped some friends and all of them have sons on demand not daughters. 'That's because, you are selfish,' Rama says and me like Ali takes it on the chin; a many times broken chin. At home, the mood changes gears, as she makes filter coffee and adai plus gunpowder; the mix sets me free to skies and space, far, far away yet near to Rama. We sit in our sofas with adais and coffee; Rama reads out Kerala news in Mathrubhoomi; not one policeman or policewoman in Kerala has a clue to Jisha murder; Pinarayi does not care. In the afternoon, we settle for Kilukkam and Sphatikam, our infinite viewings; Vidya, Ganesh, their marriage, slip away as Lalettan descends into the hall; Malayalam channels refuse to show anything new; old is cycled and cycled and cycled; a rather, unfair trick. In the evening, Rama walks out to chat with Mala, her friend, an admirer of Salman Khan; me alone watches Kurosowa or read On the banks of Plum Creek by Laura Ingalls Wilder; late in the evening turn to open windows as egrets, pond herons and others fly in to their appointed spots on the rain and badam trees. Count clouds. Wait for rains. Could anything be better? 

A Song 59

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
stared at a blank,
long book,
presented by Ms. Parsi
for dohas and abhangs.
Alphabets absent.
Long book,
white,
wet,
by a June sea
peeping at windows,
doors. 

An 18-year old

On her rotis and aloo sabji, Rama mused over a friendship between an 18-year old and a 70 plus old. 'How does it work,' she asked for an answer. On a June evening, the 18-year old called from somewhere: 'Uncle, aap kal ghar mein hain na?' An yes confirmed the deal. By about one the next day, the 18-year old walked in with a knapsack of fryums -- murukku, thattai, cheedai - bought by dear old Seema at Mulund; with it came chaklis and laadus made by aged hands at her Dombivili home by 75-year old Aji of the 18-year old. Cant ask a June afternoon for more. The 18-year old settled down on a cot with the i-pad firmly in his pant pocket; he does not suffer from the i-phone tic; mostly, the iphone is dead on a run down battery; if you have to contact Kartik, call up his mother Neeta, on her mobile. For Kartik Iyer, it has been a long, sultry ride from Dombivili to Borivili with a Thane halt. And then lunch with Kartik and steel plate in padmasans on the floor while Rama and the old man shifted in arm chairs; rice, sambhar, bhaji with fried potato chips. Do not know whether Kartik Iyer relished the lunch; the young bulky man, seemed to have had his fill. He is a shrewd bloke; unlocks Aji for cash when Ramu and Neeta try and largely succeed being khadoos with locked Godrej cashboxes, going by chuckling Kartik version. Aji is always in cash and can never be cashless to her Kartik. Well, when Ajoba was around, the equations were different; Aji backed elder grandson, Aditya; Ajoba favoured younger grandson Kartik. And when Ajoba, to whom the 70 year old me said hullos, walked away,  Kartik needed (my guess) an Ajoba replacement, an emotional fencing; original better than copycats. That may explain Kartik and the 70-year old me, which anyway is an irrelevant guess. On that June day, Kartik and me talked books, films, this and that ...he is into Jane Eyre over the last two months; more than half-way, admits Kartik; films excite Kartik; his eyes beam; serious films not Sairat but Fandry; incidentally, dislikes Sairat, 'bukwas'; downloads foreign films and knows most directors like Goddard, Spielberg, Sai Paranjape and is writing a graduate paper on film appreciation. On his pen drive, he brought a few films for downloading, making me evenings a certain pleasure. He does not say it but would like to do a film course at Pune Film Institute or if possible, a session at New York or Paris. Has all the details; funds as usual nil. Time to go; he bagged a Satyajit Ray book: Our Films, Their Films and today, could be skipping college to read the book on films to one day make a film. Kartik first film: 'Me ani Ajoba.' 

Ali Greatest?

Any sports, all right, most sports including chess is 40 years starting perhaps in the teens. Great, greater, greatest is all of 40 years. Never saw Ali live on TV; seen videos. Heard and read of him. Reading Ali's death on Facebook, realised a butterfly has fallen off, a talking bee was no more. He titled himself the Greatest. And then the world latched on to call him the Greatest. A tiny doubt: Was he the greatest boxer or the greatest sportsman, politically inspired sportsman, refusing the Vietnam war?  Declining to take part in the Vietnam war needed conviction and courage. Ali had both. It is like refusing in today's India to dislike Pakistan, appreciating their artists, their music, their cricket and their men and women. For our Left, Ali is superlative being anti-American; he would not have been if he had condemned Chinese attack on Tibet or a Russia swallowing Hungary. Jonathan Selvaraj in today's The Indian Express adds a rare, much needed perspective: 'And yes, while Ali may have been more than the sum of his athletic gifts, his greatness nevertheless drew from his achievements in the ring itself. On the basis of pure numbers though, it seems hard claim to justify. Sugar Ray Robinson (173-19-6) had far more wins. Other fighters had perfect records. Heavyweight Rocky Marciano (49-0) never lost a fight. Yet Ali (56-5-0) can still legitimately be considered if not the greatest boxer of them all, arguably (Joe Louis being the other alternative), the greatest heavyweight.' He sure was a fine boxer and as every country in the world boxes, the world knows him. Perhaps, football, every country kicks a ball on greens, is an inch taller than boxing and in that game there is nothing better than Pele. The world does know him. He is non-white. Brazil born, his country never fought anyone; only gets ripped by US. Good friend, K. Bhaskaran, the football correspondent of The Times, taught me football and Pele. Yes, Pele, played a team game; boxing is a loner game; a Brazilian forward line made Pele; but that does not hold for Argentine Maradona; Argentina had one world class player, Maradona; and he did everything, dribble the ball to the post and score; in between he fiddled the ball with his hand; won the World Cup. Pele and Maradona could be on the same rack with Ali. Non-whites have been the greatest in most sports: Michael Jordan in basketball and frankly Usain Bolt in athletics. Take out the African-Americans, there is no sportsmen or sportswomen in US; slipped on Tiger Woods in golf, an all-white preserve. Superlative of great is greatest and great is top class. To be fair Ali, Pele, Maradona, Woods, Bolt ... greats. Greatest? None. That could be an end to all sports, all sports.   

A Song 58

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
Ms. Parsi and Mr. Parsi,
humble harmoniums,
tend to chuckles
of pipal and banyan
bristles,
in garden nooks,
below June drizzles;
Goti did his bit,
piddled,
got cuddled.  

May

May gaya, June aur school aye, mused Shreya. Shreya, Chiyu, Aji and Ajoba were levitating on paper plates of bhel puris and samosas under a tamarind tree at Gupta Centre, Shanti Ashram. With every spoon of wind, fell a cluster of tamarind leaves on them and their eats forming leafy layers. May is ever the best and May 2016 was perhaps tops, a 10 upon 10. May sun was refusing to shut down as Ajoba wiped his bare head with a page of Times of India given free by Gupta Centre. They trudged LIC Colony behind Shreya and Chiyu on cycles yelling Aggobai, Daggobai, a video shared by Aji with the entire world. Yes, this May was sure fine. A new, spacious house pecked by a large family of pigeons at Borivili; a society with some greenness for kids to see and know grass; Shreya and Chiyu played, played, played; ate, ate, ate; slept, slept, slept. Dakhi refused offers on phones and whatsapp from coaching classes to diddle Shreya and Chiyu into scholars; 'let them be,' Dakhi said and Papa entirely agreed; trainers called up to help get Chiyu into sprinting shape for the Rio Olympics; Dakhi said no and Papa clapped the decision. Aji and Ajoba somersaulted. They could have Shreya and Chiyu for themselves, entirely, in May. 'They have decided to freedom Shreya and Chiyu,' roared Aji twice over to a 25 per cent deaf Ajoba. Aji and Ajoba, when at school, if ever, played out May; murukku, tattai, wadas and dosas plenty. They did not read books, Ruskin Bond or otherwise; and in May, free and sparrow play is better than Bond; Shreya and Chiyu did not run their eyes on Marathi and English alphabets. They went here and there, Kidzania and water kingdoms, but mostly at home with Buttu, Sailu, and a dozen boys and girls. At 11, they assembled at Chiyu's home; went down to play cricket, cycle, swings, a few blow-ups over whether Chiyu was out or not; by two met again for lunch with Dakhi readily dreaming up lunches with fish and chicken; dancing noons to film music; the lot filed into Maxus for Jungle Book and Sairat; they have seen Sairat three times and plan to view it a fourth time. And evenings, at the lawns; for them the sun never set, the moon never rose; the earth did not rotate on its axis. For favours done, Aji made Gits gulab jamuns; did not offer a single jamun to Ajoba; 'all for Shreya, Chiyu and friends,' Aji said; an auto carried the jamuns; the door bell rang; walked in Aji with Ajoba holding the packed jamuns; a roar; Aji and Ajoba got loose legged; Shreya, Chiyu broke in; stood a crowd of live jamuns; gulab jumauns live. May promised another May as May walked away. 

A Song 57

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
into puris and aam ras,
first ever,
Parsi-flavoured,
Vithala tasted not better,
in arm chairs,
at Peace;
helpings shared
with wind,water, wide skies
in sleepy sofas,
square and fair.