A Song 82

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea.
Mused Kabir:
For every kurta stitch
a doha.
Gazed Tuka:
To ting of tampoora,
an abhang.
Mused Kabir:
From boatmen of Kashi
weaving Ganges
with paddles.
Gazed Tuka:
Hum of whizzing
potter's wheel
cupped in bony palms.
Lullabies
to Arabian Sea,
asleep,
wrapped in a warm sky. 

Mahabali with chips

In white khadi jibba, mundu and a chandana kuri, Mahabali Charavarthy is at home. He was delivered morning by a sprightly, Amazon courier; sent by Vidya from Chennai; 'better beat the Onam rush; Onam is on September 13; we promise prompt, advance delivery,' Amazon emailed a message to Vidya; Mahabali is home (perhaps, on a time our from board meets) and has with him air tight packets of roasted bananas, diamond cut bananas and mixture; we dipped down at his feet, Mahabali blessed us and we became foodies. 'Vidya ordered them from Calicut Banana, Products and Sweets, Chakkorathkulam, Calicut; a pole valuting claim: Traditional Banana Chips Maker of the Town, Golden Jubilee, 2015.'  There is a site called Flavours of the City; Vidya searched the site, railed to Calicut, first class; Mahabali was flown down by Amazon to Calicut; bought chips and chips with raw bananas costing Rs.100 a kg; today, Monday, they are in Borivili. Rama has unpacked; we are chewing; as Mahabali walked in without sufficient notice, Rama is cooking rice, onion sambhar, aloo curry, pappadoms to go with the snacks; plus a bit of palpayasam. Mahabali slipped into a sofa; 'flights, delayed flights are tiring; of course, Amazon looked after me well,' he said; got into a soft chew to go with filter coffee. 'Some change, better than pottikada wada and chai,' remarked Mahabali as he opened his ipad; whastsapped his Mumbai clients; promised visits; varum, varum, he assured before chatting in Malayalam with Rama; 'sukham ano (fine), asked Rama; 'aa, oru mobile sukham,' Mahabali returned; they went over his visits to Sreevatsam long ago when Mami cooked the best saddhi on wood fires for him; ' I will be delivered at Matunga before making it to Thiruvananthapuram on September 13,' said Mahabali, smiley as the month of Chingam, popping a self-twirled murukkan. Me stepped out for a double banana leaf to serve lunch for the Great Man, making life for all a long day of vada-payasam, a saddhi; and being taken out by Vishnu most unfairly. Yet, today Mahabali has no grudge as we shared a sparse meal on banana leaves with handfuls of Calicut chips. 'In three steps, Vishnu, measured out my empire; I did not protest the tricky ways of gods; am thankful to Kerala for the old flower beats of Chingam; this year it will be mobile caller tunes,' Mahabali said as the Amazon courier rang the door bell to deliver Mahabali at Matunga. On the way Mahabali Breaking News: 'Amazon has been contracted by Pinnarayi government for Onam. Hope you are on whatsapp for September 13 wishes.' Eyebrows slip-slopped.

A Song 81

Born 1946.
Brahmins, Dalits,
Hindus, Muslims,
Yapping Isms ......

.....

Old 2016.
Brahmins, Dalits,
Hindus, Muslims,
Yapping Isms....

.....

Wet hopes on a clothesline
drying under a wet sun

......
Earth not worth quitting,
not yet. 

Arjun and Soni Sori

A poor man shoulders his dead wife for miles with daughter beside. If this man picks up a gun is it so unfair? Should he not? Will it help petitioning an IAS officer till death? Accused of being a Maoist, Arjun, aged 19, was killed by Chattisgarh police in a controversial encounter, reports Malini Subramaniam for scroll.in. A Soni Sori, leads a Forest Walk protesting a strong monsoon of bullets on adivasis and tribals in Chattisgarh and Jharkhand. Many, many years ago a Gandhi walked to Dandi and history. Gandhi is praised; a Soni Sori gets no mention. In India 2016, how should the poor dissent? Or should they not dissent? They are alone, the organised Communist parties have lost links with them .... they lost it long ago when the Siddartha Shankar Ray of the Congress, the CPI (M) and CPI ganged up to brutalise the Naxals. India, economic reforms, modern banking and ...yet, the Naxals have not gone; Left kept away from the Mumbai Textile Strike of Dr. Datta Samant; Left was absent from the Narmada Bachao Andolan of Medha Patkar; they do not back Soni Sori; they are not in Jharkhand and Chattisgarh. Teams of tough activists are helping the poor in their protests to the dislike of the rich and middle class. In a recent chat writer Perumal Murugan says: '... It is high time Marxists and leftists gave up such lazy ideas ... I dont know, these times demand more sensible and effective protest methods...'; what should Soni Sori do? Yes, Naxals and government kill as the poor still leave large stains in India. Sure Perumal Murugan adds: '....Before we talk about Independence and freedom (of the underprivileged, women, Dalits, minorities, students, writers), the question should be whether we have the freedom to discuss all these.' Aside of scroll.in and wire.in, there is a media quiet.... development will cure the poor ... but will the poor be around after development takes away their lands and forests? .... poverty is not debatable; poverty and poor will go away together. In Naxalbari times (Amar bari, thomar bari, sabar bari Naxalbari ... my house, your house, every house is Naxalbari), Samar Sen in Frontier wrote of young poxed with bullets. Reading the end of Arjun is akin to the killing of Brati Chatterjee in Mother of 1084 by Mahasweta Devi. Do not know if modern India will buy the book with its tale of Brati and his thinking mother Sujata; will the 20s and 30s read? or is to Pokemon Go? Today Calcutta 70 is happening in tribal areas. Brati's friend Nandini tells Sujata: 'I've told you I dont know. I still feel disturbed and confused about so many things. Everything seems so strange, so unreal. I cant identify with anything. My experiences over the last few years have made me unfit for this so-called normalcy. All that you people find normal, I find abnormal. Can you tell me what I should do? I cant. Almost none of my friends are alive. All the things I want to say, the people I want to talk about, all that my mind is full of, I cant speak of to anyone. There is no one I can talk to.' Yes, the poor have none to talk. But they know. Karl Marx is hearing. Happens them. Come on its all so boring .... we have heard it for long ...this lament. 

A Song 80

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
loll on the sea wall,
spray dyed,
long lost;
in and out of
horizons,
chewing tambakoo,
counting winds, waves. 

Of snuff....

August rains meant no trains at Dombivili station. No office and no typing press notes. With Krishnamurthy and a few train regulars squatted on platform 1 for rounds of  'cheettu, umbaththi-aaru, villichchukali (cards, 56 is a variant of bridge).' Krishnamurthy tapped a tiny tin box on his left palm, draining out a strong smelling, brown powder; mookku podi; took a pinch between his fingers on the right hand, held his nose with the left hand and inhaled the powder; dusted the nose with a cloth turned dark brown with nose dusting; bid 56 spades, won. 'Podi da,' he told me like Rajanikanth tapping out Neruppuda. Before the next bid started, Krishnamurthy offered a drag of snuff; the brown powder hit the roof of the head, tears in the eyes, and me turned a snuffer. Krishnamurthy had enormous style, me was crude; he never hurried the intake. 'Oru sukham (A happiness)', he snuff-smiled. For K (as he is known), a drag plonked him at his village in Palghat and the portico where afternoons he and his friends honed bidding 56 and finer aspects of arattifying (gossiping). If me reading is not wrong, Oliver Goldsmith and Samuel Johnson in London enjoyed snuff; and they were fine writers; and talkers; in me near family none went for snuff; they went for nothing; Krishnamurthy, like us, was a second-class rail pass holder, had a tin box, thumb size; would fill it up every second day at a Malayali murukkan kada in Dombivili East; me tapped snuff supplies at a Kannada pottikada on PM Road, Fort, on the way to some contact or other for a stupid story and a stupider byeline; a silly ego walk; four annas it cost; there were two varieties, Madras and Andhra with Madras being a kicker; the kerchief turned a snuff brown; Rama disliked it intensely as me smelt snuff always; but for me it saved cash as cigarettes and drinks dropped off the menu; every time, when typing press notes on a broken Godrej typrewriter stalled, a pull of snuff and some dusting, helped. Krishnamurthy was happy earning a convert; lost out on Press Club friends; K is in Pune without podi, giving it up for gods and prayers; me did not stay a convert; after some days, a cigarette, a smoke a day, got added to snuff; and then an occasional drink: the three together drink, cigarette, snuff; and snuff went, cutting costs. Today at Borivili misses snuff.  

A Song 79

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
pick moons from the Sea
on full moon nights;
release them
on no moon nights;
in between,
Jasmine and Jehangir
chat them,
whiling day times. 

Thank you, Rio

Thank you Rio. Rio is over. 'What will you do now,' asks Rama over Monday coffee. Brooded. Well nothing but drift into a familiar ordinariness. For about 15 days, woke up mostly at 4, watched till 9; evening sat before TV at 5 in the evening; did not get up till 12; read the Guardian and Shivani Naik essays in The Indian Express; have a Naik file with all her reports; Sunday night was fun with marathon and the protest undressing by coaches of a Mongolian wrestler; reminded me of the Sanjay Dutt film when a retired pensioner strips in front of a government official to get papers signed; saw others win; we lose; it has always been so, we and me out, others in; since 1947, relishing a zeroness; never into wins; exulting losses. Thats been India and me. Having never won anything, do not miss out. Wayde von Niekerk of South Africa in a 400 metres world record of 43.03 seconds, running the outer lane, Bolt, Phelps, Mohamed Farah, Brazil volleyball team beating Italy, 3-0, for gold, Matej Toth, Slovakia, 50k walk gold at 3:40:58; Liu Hong, China, 20 k walk (women), 1:28:35; Wang Zhou, China, 20 k walk, 1:19:14. None writes on walks; TV shows little; 'walking is boring...walking is just on an on, no quick bursts...but walkers think..no walking reporters'; yet, me favoured event. Perhaps, our women walking hours across villages and bare lands to fetch a pot of water, could turn into gold medalers; a silly, thought as then who will bring pond or well water to homes. That odd moment sticks: New Zealander Nikki Hamlin stops to hand-help American Abby D' Agostino after the Ameican athlete falls in agony after they tangle in the 5,000 metres run; Hamlin gets the Pierre de Coubertin medal for fair play. After being pressed to the mat forever, me am a boor, want gold and gold alone. Sindhu and Sakshi are appetisers leading to no saddhis. At least the two ladies have done a thing; me is a no, no. Sports is not to be; at least me has Perumal Murugan and his poetry to look ahead. On Monday, relief; Perumal Murugan to write; to publish 200 Tamil poems, in an Indian Express interview with Arun Janardhanan. 'Author Perumal Murugan has decided to live again,' says Arun Janardhanan. Sports and songs make a kicking cocktail. Astu.

Bolt or Phelps?

Hard to pen down the best moment of 2016. Perhaps, one of the best moments of Rio 2016 is Usain Bolt running off to hug the South African 400 metres Olympics champion with a fresh World and Olympic timing. Till the third leg of the 4x100 relay, Jamaica, Canada, USA were at each other's shoulder. On the fourth leg, the baton was passed on to Usain Bolt on the sprint. He won it. 9 gold medals; three each in Beijing, London and Rio. Commentators put up a note on the sound waves: Bolt or Phelps? It could take years for a Bolt or Thorpe repeat. For me it is Bolt as me has run; never swum. Bolt filled stadias for nine years, no athlete has done it. But for style me still prefers the Ben Johnson 100 metre dash in Seoul Olympics in 9.79 seconds; Ben was scratched for doping; but that run still stampedes the mind. Usain Bolt has power and rhythm in arms and legs; but not laced in something called an elegance. For me, the 20 km and 50 km walk, have style; minimal movements; feet tapping away, a rhyming; afraid of red paddles from judges all along the distances; italicised hand written notes on Brasil roads; Star Sports TV 1,2,3,4 did not show much of it, well they did not show anything. Bolt has everything to his name, golds and records. In Usain Bolt: Faster Than Lightning: My Autobiography with Matt Allen (2013), he muses over Rio 2016. 'The scariest thing for me after Moscow 2013 has been planning my next move. What can I do next? Will I better myself? Can I continue winning? I know I've got another solid season in me, maybe two, but can I go all the way to the next Olympics in Rio? That's the only thing that makes me sit and wonder because its a big challenge -- the biggest yet, possibly. Two or three years feels like a long time in track and field because a lot can happen. Its scary and exciting at the same time. I love competition, I thrive off it. Just the thought of trying to get to Brazil gives me a spark. .... Imagine if I managed to win gold, though. The parties in Rio would be off the scale.' You won Three Golds in Rio 2016. You sure will be downing coke and Jamaican rums or maybe something better for  man nights. Let your legs and arms down. And why not? Winds up: Believe me, my time isnt up just yet. For me, to take off from Kipling, Bolt is not propaganda; he is a song. 

Silver, not enough

Rio Olympics 2016 over. One silver, one bronze. PV Sindhu you dropped gold. No excuses. Badminton is not a sports, not a popular sports in Spain. Carolina Marin and coach Fernando Rivas nab an Olympic Gold in Rio. Carolina Marin is world, Olympics and All-England champ. Cant beat it, can you Sindhu and Gopi. Throwing away a one set lead against Carolina Marin is not what champions do. There was pressure on Sindhu. It holds for Marin. For 60 years, this useless fellow has read and re-read India losing, fighting hard. Indian sports has no guts, gumption, gift. The sub in Nav Bharat Times put it best: Sona gaya, phir bhi 'chandi'. Rama terms it 'alpa santoshi', to be a little happy not a beaming, whistling, gold happiness. Marin winningly screams; Sindhu loosingly screams. Apparently, one day Gopi got the coaches around and asked Sindu to howl; she couldnt; Gopi said: You will not go till you shout.' The incident comes from a TV chat. MM Somaya, the Olympian hockey players, writes of India doing well in field hockey. India beat Irenland, lost to Germany, Holland and Belgium, drew with Canada; lost out, no medal. Yet Somaya argues we have the core of a champion team. Somaya, sorry. This team can only lose, never win; if you are giving up in the last five minutes, it shows 11 players have no guts to gut it out. They are not mentally strong. They have to be win-mad. Gopi Chand needs to take on some top sports psychologists; maybe, Gopi needs fresh minds at his Academy; and Indian badminton needs a flow of young shuttlers ... one after the other, one replacing the other ....today we just have three, Nehwal, Sindhu, Kidambi ... bronze, silver, none. India should ban this game of  'loosing games, fighting courageously' as our sports correspondents, including Shivani Naik, have for ages written. Bloody the opponent, grab gold. Loosing is a no show. Sorry, very sorry, but cricket is the lone reference point for any writes on Indian sports. Sourav Ganguly, turned a Steve Waugh and his mighty Australians to a mope; 'India is the last frontier,' admitted Steve. We need that Sourav punk. When will that happen. Not 'Sona gaya, phir bhi chandi.' 

Go Sindhu

Pullela Gopi Chand is Indian badminton, Indian sports. Pamulaparti Venkata Narasimha Rao is modern India. Two gentlemen from Andhra Pradesh. Beauty parlouring India forever. Pullela has landed a few smashes in Chinese badminton courts. Has matched them at net drops, speed and fitness. Pullela Academy is that. Sad Saina is injured. Pusarla Venkata Sindhu will today stand in and up for Nehwal to go silver and then gold. For badminton, the book Pullela Gopi Chand: The World Beneath His Feat by Sanjay Sharma and Shachi S. Sharma (2011) is a good start. Gopi says: Coaching for me is anticipating the needs of a player in the future, and preparing them accordingly......If you take the 15 year-old PV Sindhu, who at a five-feet-ten-inch height can tower over opponents and has already won the Sub-junior and Junior singles titles in the country this year (2010), the needs are vastly different. She has to make her net play strong and work on her parallel game and her defensive game as she will be vulnerable in these areas. She hits hard and fast and has natural ability to use her height to great advantage. So I have to cut out the apparent weaknesses in her game and still ensure that the aggressive game she has is updated all the time.  ... Saina has already arrived, while Sindhu is the great prospect of the future. ....On fast court with a fast shuttle, an aggressive Sindhu will walk through the opposition. On a slow court with slower shuttle, Saina will make mincemeat of all since she is physically very fit.....But what happens if Sindhu plays on a slower court with fast shuttle? ....These things are not in our control...... I must also ensure that their weak points are not weak enough to lose a match, yet strong points are strong enough to win the match.'  In Rio 2016, Sindhu is near to pulling away from an ageing Saina, an over-bearing Sarin, a grim Li Xuerui. Will Sindhu do it to Okuhara today and on to Sindhu Gold ? Me bets she will. Pullela has turned out three world toppers: Nehwal, Sindhu and Kidambi. Cant crib, no way.  

A Song 78

Raksha Bandhan,
No sisters,
No brothers.


.........

Unready
to quit Earth,
a heaven.


.......

Will have to go
leaving sparrows
at windows. 

A Song 77

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
Jasmine and Jehangir,
into teeny-weeny laughs
in rakhi colours,
in Pateti bows,
supping Kayani pastries and barfis;
likes, dislikes
not musts
for stitching trysts;
threading joy bits. 

GO, Dipa and Lalita

Chasing a medal at Rio from Satara district, Maharashtra, Lalita Shivaji Babar, a long ago, did not know Puma. Went to a shop, picked up Pama for Rs.1,500, perhaps the entire earnings of her farm parents. The story is said by Shivani Naik, who else. Babar perhaps missed the other day a last kick to finish fourth; is through into the finals and going by timings, an Olympic medal may not dress her neck. Of that me am sure; she, possibly, has to be in the lead pack keeping in reserve a last dash, come what may, in the 3000 metres steeplechase. Years ago, a lovable and venerable John Crasto, the athletics correspondent of the Times of India, told me, that is easily said and written; doing it, well....but me believes the Satara lady can do it. For the next two days, me head is full of Dipa Karmakar and Lalita; cant sleep, cant read, cant do anything till the races are over. Now is into Teachers Whisky. Well gentle reader, if there are any, why this hyper? Maybe, they are doing something me could not do; never a sports journalist, not an athlete. Sports lends innocence to me living; doping, fixing et al, does not permit the primeval innocence of a child; yet sports is the best hope for a choppy world of guns, faiths and flags; world in prayers, gods, books, poetry...nothing gets me into being a human than sports. A George Orwell will scoff me; for Orwell sports could be a Third World War; America versus China versus who knows. Since August 5, has been on TV, the skipping sleep, as sports alone throws up handshakes, hugs and hallucinations. There is a compassion about athletics, about sports; the victor understands the vanquished as another day the victor becomes the vanquished; yet there is hope and loss of hope; nothing else has. For four years you prepare the body; stumble beside running lanes; sometimes proud to have a gold disc round your neck... thats not there in anything but sports defined anyways. Phelps, Bolt ...Mohammad Farah, Ayana ....ooof ... impossible world champs .... or as Guardian says ridiculous champions ... Babar and Dipa are statements of the poor from India .... Marxian idioms of the poor in India... no hopers designing their hopes.... giving me and India a teeny weeny moment to dream .... this fever was long ago when Milkha Singh and PT Usha ran their feet out... again Marxist theorems...just failed. Ladies Dipa and Lalita .... even if you do not get medals to bite ..... you are great putting Indian into a dream ..... me in a swhirl.. am sure you are into one. Now medal your dreams. GO. 

'if a man cannot hear the arguments of the frogs ..'

Sanctuary runs a years old green column by green friend Bittu Sahgal; have read many; the August 2016 column starts with a Chief Seattle quote: ' What is there to life...if man cannot hear the arguments of the frogs around a pond at night?' Sahgal runs on: ' While people like you worry about tigers, right under your nose, Rana Tigrina is vanishing,' thundered the late Humayun Abdulali, as only he could at a Bombay Natural History Society Conservation Committee meeting we both attended in the early 1980s. How right he was. How right he still is.' Coming from Bittu Sahgal, a confessed tiger lover. Today, frogs are away faster than tigers. Tiger has a constituency. Frog legs are tasty. Exception, my dear old Varad Giri who took me to frogs in Amboli on pouring nights. When there was no Adinath Marg near Dharma Nagar Housing Society, watched frogs, snails and one day two snakes braided... Now there is nothing; none misses the love songs of Rana Tigrina. And today the Indian Express carries an Economist obituary on Luc Hoffman, dead on July 21, 2016, aged 93. 'When it came to birds, Luc Hoffman was no elitist. Every species was precious to him,' writes Economist. He argued for wetlands tracking crowds of greater flamingos of the Camargue in south-eastern France. (The Maharashtra government is set to do away Sewri flats, for a bridge, where many and me meet up greater and lesser flamingos every year). His grandfather founded pharma firm Hoffman-La Roche; Luc had cash; wrote cheques for World Wildlife Fund; presided over the global treaty protecting wetlands in 1971 at Ramsar in Iran. Says the Economist: He was no militant, seeing the cause of conservation as going far beyond partisan politics or the shock tactics of Greenpeace; but in old age he shared much of their frustration. Small successes had been notched up here and there; not much more. Like the bee-eaters battling the wind, he was grateful to have caught a few flies on the wing; but his real ambition had been to change the wind itself.' Do not know if  Bittu Sahgal feels alone; he sure has not been able to change the wind going by Bahar Dutt in today's Mint on drunk and noisy city trekkers ruining forests, birds and animals. Should night treks be allowed in the forest, she asks. A firm NO. Let trekkers walk and run highways skating the country; ruin cities; trekkers and runners are supremely selfish. Setting out on morning walks in August mornings, watch and stand still beside hibiscus and gandharajans; haikus; on the walk back, they are no more; plucked by ladies and gents for bhagwan ki pooja ke liye. No arguments. 

A Song 76

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
Jasmine and Jehangir,
in an 1800 Dodge,
in August rains,
searching frogs,
frog songs.
shuffle of snails.
Absent.
Petitioned a police station.
'We trap humans,
dead and live,'
droned a paunchy policeman.
'Humans net frogs,
choke frog songs,
trip snails,'
chorused the Four.
'Kashala thras detho,'
intoned the policeman,
telling off the Four.

  

Rio 2016

'Ajoba, Dipa Karmakar kab hai,' Shreya called. Dipa is buzz.  Days and nights on TV; Star Sports 1,2, 3, 4, HD and ordinary, could be more kind to Indian viewers. Maybe its a huge ask. On August 14, Sunday night, quite a bit of India or at least Tripura, surely me, will watch Dipa vault, the Produnova. A night ago, saw the Lady vault; foreign media vaulting on Dipa; an Indian praised; searched google to know a bit of the exercise; pulled out the Shivani Naik essay on Dipa Karmakar: 'Degree in Difficulty; Many grumble Dipa Karmakar's choice of vault - the difficult Produnova. The fretful fear its too risky, the purists believe it is used by lesser gymnasts for short-term gains.' When did it happen last .... the wait for a performing Lady, cant remember; perhaps, in 2012 London, sat up for Saina Nehwal.  And on August 15, Dipa will take Gold; share with us her Gold. Wont mind, proved wrong, that's the price of hope. Dipa, our hockey men and women, archers, rowers, wrestlers, shooters, boxers ... are unknowns of an unknown India in Rio 2016....  an India of Mahasweta Devi, a village called India sabashing in Rio ... an India of Indian languages ... dangalling...creating their fate, medal plating their fate, fate not a given. Sports is being free of a million years of poor and poorness; village India is doing it ... sports will give them jobs and lives .. apparently, they can climb out of caste, religion and every other put aside as Brahmins are not into sports; we sure dare not ask Dipa her caste; a Muslim, a Dalit, an Adivasi, a Christian ... needs to run and jump well without fear of bullets and lynching....It  could take time before bone and muscle build at village homes with dals and rotis, before turning up regulars at gold. Sirring and Purring to powers will ever be; a mindless IAS-IPS-IFS brigade will be there for sure as the ruling class will insist on a say for village India ... after all the ruling class needs to fly free to Rio and Tokyo to make home buys ... that may also go... Bindra has done it ... Today, how many of us know Chinglesana ... a hockey Olympian who scored a goal for India against Argentina the other day; an Abhinav Bindra is a bit known... his discipline is not made in India Interior ... but there is a stir ... economic growth is seeping at a slow pace, trickle effect say economists, pace decided by New Delhi elite. Village India has only one Way to go ...make it in Rio 2016, Tokyo 2020 ... maybe India will become a sporting nation and the poor will do you, India and me proud. For themselves. Hindi sound bites, hugs and an 'Apna Rani'  for Dipa Karmakar. Maybe, Amul will improve upon its ad: C'mon India! Olympick yourselves up!... Amul There for you!

Bansuri notes

Bansuri notes in the morning air on Link Road. Has not happened before. Cars, buses, bikes, autos, crows ..for sure, common. A character out of film Masaan with a pile of wooden bansuris on his shoulder was airing a bansuri to get customers; do not know anything about music; yet went in search of the notes; found the bansuri player, bansuris and notes at the Jayaraj Nagar- Link Road corner. Looking around, he breathed into the bansuri; bought snake gourd and bhendi from the regular bhayya at Rs.30 per kg; made way on Link Road with bansuri swaras and ragas chasing; paused, as the gentleman caught up; in a pant dropping to the ankles, a torn blue shirt, a face with dried stains of hope, his beady eyes pleaded for a buy. 'Bauni nahin hua, saheb,' he said; well who will buy bansuris early morning from a TR Mahalingam or Chaurasia look alike; Irfan lives near Nallasopara; works as a watchman, spare time hawks bansuris; 'jeena padtha hai,' he explains. His village is near Aodhya and his bansuris are made in Benares. He has a variety of bansuris stacked on his right shoulder with some cased in plastic; prices range from Rs.100 to Rs.20; me having no relationships with bansuris, went for a Rs.20 piece; 'saab, ek sau ka ligiye, assi mein,' discounted Irfan like a e-commerce site. 'Mere ko bajana nahin aata,' me explained; offered a Rs.50 note, Irfan had no change, it being the first morning deal; we walked to the vegetable bhayya for change; fellow readily gave me five Rs.10 coins when he had denied it to Irfan. A lady approached us, examined a few bansuris, said, 'Ye aapke saat bajtha hai, mere pass nahin. Mere bachche ke liye.' Irfan tut-tutted the allegation. 'Aap baja ke dekho,' he replied. The lady blew a blast and traffic on Link Road braked. She paid Rs.20. A few friends on stone seats fixed to the pavements, whimpered our deals; wanted to say bye to the bansuri; found no kids; with Rs.40 at 7 in the morning, Irfan strolled to Murari Dairy Farm for a cup of tea; offered me one; declined; it would have been unfair. Me set for home; Irfan, bansuri and music freighted by raindrops and winds on Link Road; doubt whether he is Aadharred for inclusive banking; and what will he put in an inclusive bank; can he afford a dal-rice with dal at Rs.200 per kg; a middle class me will never know a poor Irfan, a watchman-cum-bansuri player without a music. At home, Rama snatched the bansuri; is into blowing the wooden instrument; coffee is delayed. Says she: 'This is for me, not grand-daughters.' Two humans happy. Not a bad score.

To where, the children asked

A week is no time for a tree. Till last week, me knew the gulmohur, middle aged, strong, light brown; leaved; sometimes hugged it half way when none was around, kissed it; eyes rested on a heart carved on its trunk by some lovers in love; with a lady around, me has done the same to trees with inkpens; today morning, the gulmohur is not; not news; no TV channels for bites; the cut gulmohur lay a few feet away from Karuna Hospital; you dont take trees to a hospital or put them in emergency wards with ventilators; a multi-chopped version crowds the pavement beside the walls of Missionaries of Ajmer; primary school boys and girls took the road; in class rooms they will be taught the lives of trees; their use, as if everything has to have utility to be on earth; the old Lady on a stick came along, stood by and asked no one: Is this not unfair, axing a tree? She knew the birth-time and day of the gulmohur: when people went on cycles and stray cars; there was no primary school; 'all that came after me and the gulmohur,' she said and wept; the lone mourner; felt the wood; recalled summers of gulmohurs and sometimes rosy pastors on branches. No road is to be expanded as the road flowing by the Missionaries of Ajmer is wide enough to take school kids, morning walkers, school buses and cars; what more has a road to do? the Lady asked; the gulmohur shaded a slice of the road. And then she confessed: My husband had cut a heart on the trunk when we got married at the IC Church long ago; still lives the Sunday morning quiet, not the day or year, the Lady said; none protested; 'in fact, my husband took the okay of the gulmohur and that came readily; he is not any more; he sure would have felt bad,' she told me and looked up the chops for the carved heart; the man or woman who felled the tree had sliced the heart; or maybe taken it away; lost now, certainly; nothing of it was there. Some school girls, four year olds, formed a circle round the Lady and the happening rains; opened their tiny umbrellas to keep the Lady and the cuts dry. The children did not know the Lady was in wet. A truck came, carried away the gulmohur. To where, the children asked? 

A Song 75

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
Jasmine, Jehangir,
turned city criers.
1700.
To be
decent,
To be fair,
in some measure,
unsure.
2016.
To be a Muslim
anywhere;
To be a non-white,
somewhere;
To be a gay,
everywhere;
To be a woman,
wherever;
To be a Dalit poor,
forever;
To be
a child,
a tree,
an animal,
is
not to be
by any measure.

A Song 74

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
built no empires
for passovers;
Jasmine, Jamshed,
into charities, ever;
from prayers
and cares,
no retires.

A Song 73

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
in bed,
smelling of Vicks and aches;
Jasmine and Jehangir,
in fevered Coldarins;
raining clouds for curtains;
a diya in a hole,
lighted by a crow,
for shine;
sparrows, crows, mynas
hop to the kitchen,
put up a breakfast
of sabudana kichdi, tea, pavs;
spoon-fed by Deva the donkey.
On invites to bless their homes,
Kabir and Tuka,
Jasmine and Jehangir,
air-lifted to nests;
ordained pregnant, holy eggs,
wet twiggy beds;
wheezed leaky moons.
Dropped at Peace,
their home,
crowds kept vigil
on window sills,
when news came in of chicks;
out popped
Kabir and Tuka,
Jasmine and Jehangir,
from sick-beds,
fit;
assembled,
round sofas and tables,
uncorked wines,
wisdoms.
Need not be so,
became so.