A Song 93

Wrinkles dripping,
wishy smiles,
old man and stray
squat in front of
palmist and parrot;
magnifying lens
spot not
fate and fault lines.

A Song 92

Parijats
dot
Adinath Marg;
as many
as smiles
on the old man
counting parijats.

Of jhadoos .....

No sleep.
Storm in skies.
At the window,
clouds bang,
light up wind and scramble
of raindrops...
a star dropped bedside;
in long agos, dateless,
gods were alone;
stars blinked for company;
earth and humans
built homes
for gods and stars;
gods and stars blog,
no priests to edit;
they have no tales;
picked tale-telling
from humans;
hey, jhadoos and brooms dust up,
stir tales,
soft and hard ...
that's where you score over us,
keyed in gods and stars;
earth wins always...
par for life and living;
the bedside star, shivered,
pressed for filter coffee,
to go with the cold;
sipped,
left with the dawn....

... rains been on for too long in Mumbai; Mumbaikars are in protest. At home in the morning, Madhavi is depressed,wet. Having Rama breakfast of hot rotis and sabji plus tea, she talks of clothes not drying, of clients complaining, this and that; being Friday reminds herself starting with a new soft jhadoo she bought for Rs.70 on Thursday; she lights the diya before the gods, applies kumkum to the hard handle of the jhadoo, says a prayer and puts the broom into work. 'Maaji, jhadu bhagwan hai, Lakshmi hai. Diwali ke din hum log puja karte hain,' she tells Rama who has handed over charge to Madhavi. For an hour they chit-chat; Rama cannot do without her smiles and chats and selfies. Rama is amused as by her custom jhadoo is unsacred; to be hidden behind doors; like many things she goes by Madhavi as Goddess Lakshmi is always welcome. Yes, there is some logic in assigning a premium status to the jhadoo. Madhavi dislikes the plastic broom as there is no earth and corn and god into its making and she prefers a traditional Goddess Lakshmi. Am not aware if the jhadoo enjoys upper caste tab in other parts of India. The door bell rings ... tall Sooraj, a dash of Shashi Kapoor on him, from Udit Stores, walks in with 5 kg of chakki wheat, unskins the raincoat... unloads wheat into a many years old aluminium container ... waits for the bill to be paid plus tips....he is 16 or 17, not sure of birth date having passed Class 9, from Jodhpur.... 'gaon jaane ka hai', he says with a wispy smile... he does not know what he earns as the malik or is it seth deposits the salary with his father ....  in 2016 a young boy works from 7 in the morning to 10 in the evening, the norm these days in Borivili with no offs and is not aware of his earnings ..... going by Sooraj ... well, the door bell calls and at the door is dearest Tarun from Milan Medical Stores ... his smile has a washed, ironed, fresh look; perhaps on Yogi Nagar Road, Mayur Medical Stores and Milan Medical Stores, jointly owned by Palitana men, have the finest attenders with Tarun tops .... on a quarter of an excuse he goes away to his village near Palitana .... in an unreserved compartment of an overnight diesel train... when me and they have nothing to do, chat; a month ago, they overcharged Rs.200; me did not realised; Tarun came home with Rs.200 in his pocket and smiles on a creaky bicycle; today Tarun is thinking of Deepavali, Palitana, sisters and brothers... the next passenger train and cycle home ... crops ....this year the rains have been good....

Orucomputer

With Rama watched Oridathu (A place) of G. Aravindan fielding a cast of Nedumudi Venu, Thilakan, Innocent, Srinivasan, Vineet ... the film forecasting or foretelling a village future with wooden electricity poles .... Aravindan nudges thought..... and the film could be slotted in the epic genre.... trees have to be cut for laying lines... a Communist tailor quotes Gorky...women hurt before and after the village is lighted ... the film ends in a blow out ... there is a shot of young Vineet toying the electric switch .... off-on... smiles around ... and there is a power cut ... nasam... remark the few in the room. Aravindan makes many statements or perhaps suggests, not sure... or simply chronicles ...a let go. Today it is perhaps time to make a film Orucomputer (A computer); are you interested Kartik Iyer?; the film script is there in Osama Manzar column in today's Mint -- Digital World -- The Humane Source of Crowdsourcing; Manzar and Anurag Behar are me best Mint columnists, writing of ordinary humans and tempting solutions. An 18-year old Ajay Kumar raises study funds on computers with banks as usual refusing help. Majethy Sujatha of Medak runs an organisation for destitute women, depressed widows and suffering wives. Sujatha has raised monies on social media platforms -- Rs.30,000 for funding marriages of two girls. Writes Manzar: ' For Sujatha the entire digital world has now become a family that can be tapped for raising funds... I see a huge boom in crowdsourcing phenomenon in India in the coming days, especially as connectivity and Internet usage increases. However, the interference of venture capitalists in crowdsourcing platform-based initiatives could lead to a monoplizing control and this is something I fear could lead to the end of a good thing.' Oridathu filled me with Kottarakara, my village; in the 60s, it had no electricity, no roads, no tapped water; no walls; greens; today it has walls around the temple pond, temple, homes .. and computers with women tapping keys ....do not know what Aravindan would think of Manzar script but me it excites; perhaps a digital Kottarakara with Malayali women going their ways less hurt, less scared, less upset ..in some peace which the gods and men are denying them .... for a human in and around Kottarakara .... from where Asianet TV reported a 90 year woman hurted by a 65 year old man on Onam day... Orucomputer could free women and poor ...... 

A Song 91

A fresh red hibiscus,
an old man,
a few sparrows,
a myna,
nod heads.
A raindrop;
steps down
from hibiscus
to birds
to skin-head;
raindrops.
Old man is not
into culling flowers
for gods,
wife,
daughters.
A Sunday morning. 

Visaranai (Interrogation)

In Mint Friday, Lata Jha expands differently on Hindi films: The Re-emergence of Bollywood's Unconventional Leading Man. A fine read. Maybe Lata touches on actors me likes a lot: Nawazuddin Siddiqui, Manoj Bajpayee, Irrfan Khan, Rajkummar Rao and Dhanush. Maybe many will quarrel over Dhanush but me enjoys him. At least he is not a Tamil routine. He is at least not a muscle man. No young Malayali actor and that is not surprising as Kerala filmdom has stopped breathing fresh; sadly, Lata Jha does not discuss young female performers like Kalki Koechlin; maybe it is for another day. Nawaz and Manoj or their variants me meets in Borivili -- the bhaiya selling vegetables, the auto driver talking of floods in Varanasi.... -- extraordinarily ordinary; and their films stay in me long after seeing. They connect us. And that brings me to 2015 film Tamil talkie, Visaranai (Interrogation), directed by Vetrimaaran. Till Thursday had not heard of the film; Rama had. Reading The Hindu site, came across Oscar nomination for Visaranai; clicked youtube; we watched perhaps the critical and brave film on the Indian police system and interrogations; a few compromises as the starkness could have been more brutal; can one expect reason from this system? perhaps a notch ahead of Ardh Satya; a Telugu-Tamil mix, it is a dark film; freezes you; explains the public fright of even a beat constable on Link Road; the police talk is cold; and far too real, the just short of two hour film; for me Oscar is not the last measure and a Oscar denial does not make Visaranai less better; the police force has to be particularly debased to do what it is doing in Visaranai and outside; perhaps, the Tamil dialogues could have been more distinct, ear-catcchy; the cameras a dash more focussed; Visaranai is happening everyday at police stations; for a change no normal Tamilisms; googled to learn the film is from Lock Up, written by an auto driver in Coimbatore, M. Chandrakumar. It is a logical walk from Visaranai to Taste of Cherry by Iranian director, Abbas Kiarostami; a gentleman, for some critics a homosexual, thinks and talks of suicide driving through Tehran; he wants someone to dig a grave for him and shut him; there is logic in moving from Interrogation to Taste of Cherry as after being mishandled, one human by another, suicide is best....... or is it the Taste of Cherry?  

A Song 90

Sun wet
under an open
umbrella.

...

No caws from
upset
drenched crow.

...

Rains cold Patil.
Today's paper tomorrow,
or is it yesterday;
Okay anyway for shaky Aji.

...

30 minutes school classes;
15 minutes recess,
brief for lunch and rains;
is it fair,
asks drizzly Chiyu
hugging rain drops
with friends,
walking to school.

A Song 89

Born in a bullock cart,
Vasu saar, a school master
without schools, teachers,
taught.

...
uncinematic profile,
in a jibba, mundu,
deep in an armchair,
warmed in jute sacks
free at ration shops.

...

when kids tailed him
with whistles,
tugged at his clothes,
he wanted more.
...

Vasu saar
had holes in him
for hide and seek.

...
at his best,
a half-shut cash box
at Potti's eatery
near Three Lamps corner.

...

cool as Gita,
book and wife shy,
a bouncy daughter
Gita, deep fried.

...

odd hours
at temple pond
noting
suns and moons bathe
and dance.

...
school bell gonged;
Vasu Saar at
Three Lamps bus stop
for the day's bus
loaded with tales to jot
a Saarian epic.

...

Was there when
the one platform railway
station
flagged a single bogey
steam engine,
lugging a Sarrian epic.

....

Vasu saar -
an autobiography -
by Kalli a lady,
a stray,
without an okay;

A Song 88

Bored turtles
in temple pond,
desire change.

.......

Rain drops
sans swimsuits,
kick into own puddles.
   
.......

A Song 87

Under the acacia
brushed yellow,
lost, last words
inked on post cards,
crowd a lonely post-box,
without a post office,
a post master,
a post man.

A Song 86

Festival offers:
at Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
stock take abhangs, dohas;
Hindi film beats
of Kishor, Lata and Talat
sold out.

A Song 85

Lapping Vicks,
ajis and ajobas
on morning walks,
smell Vicks;
mothers applied Vicks
to young ajis, ajobas in beds;
wedded, ajis packed ajobas
with Vicks;
old age, ajobas massage
ajis with Vicks.

Autoing to Borivili market

Borivili (W) municipal market is dirty; perhaps, the uncleanest spot in Borivili; police and municipal offices make the edges; perhaps, eases collection of haftas from men and women of UP, Bihar, Jharkhand and Chattisgarh, sweltering on the roads, selling all the world wants; something like ease of doing business. Rama and me had to make it with Maveli, not Vamana, calling up and promising to have Onam sadhi at home on Wednesday; 'Varum, theerchhaya varum,' Maveli mobiled Rama with flowers. Going by Maveli poetry, Maveli era was better than Vamana times; Maveli country with rice, payasams, ponds, coconuts with braided hair, sloped, tiled roofs, rains and an inherent decency missing in Vamana and now Pinarayai acreages. First halt, Kerala Stores a high hole inside Borivili market; ordered sweet banana chips, valya pappadams, pickles and all that going into a Onam slurpy afternoon. A hundred rupee note is a Rs. 10 note despite Arvind Subramanian, chief economic adviser. But that's vikas. 'Enthu vila,' said a Malayali lady without a grudge spotting Maveli trying out ripe bananas. Maveli had coins of his era. We shared Onam aashmsakal. 'Happy Onam,' voiced Maveli, in T-shirt and jeans. This is the time when Sanju at Kerala Stores is busy filling a wooden money box. He will not shut shop for Onam on Wednesday as all shops in that area. Rama was keen on a iron tava to make crisp dosas, tired of those coming off a non-stick branded tava; iron tavas are not branded and cost Rs.190 a piece; 'we are open all days in the week,' said the owner of Satyam with a open-ended grin as Rama inquired of a Milton water can; 'naya stocks do din mein ayega,' the owner warmed pocketing Rs.190; then came a pause at a plastic shop to pick up a plastic stool costing Rs.270; two boys, from Patna and Elahabad, showed us many models and chose one pink item for us; as we were doing a buy-sell deal, one of them said shops are open through the week, not only for festivals; three months ago, shops had a Thursday off; now, 10 in the morning to 10 in the night, he earns a monthly salary of Rs.9,000 for a 7-day week with no let ups; half-holiday for Ganesh and Deepavali; he is a 10-pass from Elahabad and tried to contact Amitabh; failed. Perhaps, much before the new rule, STM (for freshly ground and powdered pea berry coffee seeds) was and is the lone shop working through the year. It may do us well if New Delhi scraps labour, rural, health and other ministries; sets up a corporate ministry with the finance ministry having a desk; corporates will decide on GDP growth, interest rates on bank loans, run elections ..... sedition charges will visit all protests .... we got into an auto; on Yogi Nagar Road municipal workers were bringing down wooden kiosks on pavements... police holding sticks like AK 47s, tambakooed; 'kya huva,' me queried; 'kuch nahin, hafta officer ke pass nahin pahuncha hoga; ye neeche wale kha lete hain,' smirked the auto driver and he should know; 'police tho apne bibise bhi hafta lete hain, ye Bambai hai,' he added. We paid him. Maveli,  Onam aashamsakal.

A Song 84

A green moth,
dropped in at the writing table,
on way to Vithala.

A Song 83

Aji,
Ajoba,
wooden armchairs,
creak.
Aji,
Ajoba,
wooden beds,
squeak.

.....

Ajoba,
at windows,
in armchair,
combs beard,
bald head
unspecked of hair;
sometimes with fingers bare,
other times with combs square;
Aji lolling in
wooden bed,
makes faces,
dislikes beards;
'You look better shaved,'
says Aji as
Ajoba was on wedding day;
chuckles Aji:
'Is it Omar Sharif outcrop?
A Nasee Babu moment?
A Tuka option?'
Lighting a cigarette,
Ajoba responds smokily:
'A reluctance to lather a shave,
put blade to beard,
a fear of mirrors,
a beard without a face
is solace,
me never gave you
till date.'
Aji ran Ajoba beard. 

Bus stops

Standing at
bus stops,
waiting for
life's drip-drops,
needs patience,
a thrusting in
of messy,
ye, silly thoughts. ...

.....Took cover from September morning rains at Link Road BEST bus shelter; whiled away at Lord Ganeshas sitting unsold after discounts; on the third day of Ganesh festival there may be no takers for my friends; a tempo drove up, loaded the unsold gods to a where of a nowhere. Alone at the shelter, appreciated a drenched peepul, middle of Link Road; me knows the bus stop since 1992 when there were no autos and auto stands; bus route no 270 from Gorai bus station to Borivili railway station, a rupee ride or maybe less. Of modern times, me likes buses and bus stops; wildlifer M.Krishnan wrote of bullock carts being for ever and ever in India; buses are a must of life like dak ghars (despite mobiles), LIC offices, SBI branches. BEST buses and bus stops colour Mumbai; knew many in Calcutta, the Hazra Road bus stop to Park Circus bus halt; dropping out and walking to St. Xavier's College; on lucky mornings, spotted a few young Anglo-Indian ladies, got to know some of them, Liz being one; do not know where she is; the Esplanade bus stop to Baranagar where the University Department of Economics sat for failing me at MA; MA classes allowed for a mix of gents and ladies and everyone had his and her favourite with some having many; Shailendra, best friend ever, and me named some stops after the ladies who took the regular buses at sure times for MA lectures; Kamini was one name; hallow of Kamini in Bengali cotton saree; hearts tore away at arteries; a day we got down and feasted Kamini at a rosogulla joint and that perhaps was the end when she said she had a man in her life. Mostly poured out of crowded State Transport Corporation buses avoiding fares; savings funded Charminar smokes. At the spacious and dirty Esplanade bus terminus, we bought The Statesman waiting for MA ladies; never read them; Shailendra wrote Hindi poetry and me read them, appreciated them on the promise of a few rums. In the 70s, BEST buses in Bombay were a joy; there were queues at stops, little overcrowding, old men and women were offered seats, no traffic jams except on morchas to Sachivalay. Then entire Bombay walked. Today, there are no morchas; people do not protest; knew well, the Mantralay bus stop with its trees; the bus shelter souped the poor with the middle class and it did not matter. In Borivili (W), the Shanti Ashram bus depot is neat, clean and green; no crowds as the public prefer autos, 'time nahin hai'. Have taken the top decker of BEST buses plying Marine Drive watching the sea serenade citizens of the sky; first noted BEST buses on Marine Drive in Hindi films; Amol Palekar movies have BEST and ST buses. Am not aware of a docu on BEST buses its amours, paramours, rumours. Perhaps, some retired BEST bus driver or conductor will be the best choice. A college couple strode in; a BEST bus paused at Link Road bus stop; me climbed in, dropped out at the Station, last stop, for Rs.10; the conductor was gracious with the change. Walked to the train, realised had no office and no copy to type; walked home ...

Doubt, lots of it

Minutes we palm-count; Rama and me; bunches of Hindi, Malayalam, Marathi short films over two to three hours every day; Kevda, the Marathi film stands out in that cluster; Ganesh took a dandi - feverish- and settled down in our sofas to watch Doubt. Had never heard of the film; on FB scanned the BBC list of top films; usually is a write down of critic or intellectual wows; no Indian films, a drop unfair; tell me is not Bharat Gopi, Tilakan, Nasee babu, Om Puri, Shabna, Smita and Deepti Naval world class; am far away from that BBC roll call, not being a thinking type; mostly a Maruti not a Merc. Doubt is the sound of wind through the trees - psithurium. Written and directed by Shanley, it merits many dekhos. Cast: Meryl Streep, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Viola Davis and Amy Adams. We did not move; upped and downed with certainties and doubts; critics rated topsy the 2008 film spelling out adjectives for Viola Davis; Ganesh reminded me that Viola Davis is an Oscarite and perhaps was a head ahead of Streep, the what-an actress. Yes, Viola put herself down simply, a Afro-American mother about a son, with nose and tears running; Streep might have read about Macbeth and three witches before turning a Sister in the school. For India 2016, the film fits; suggestions of a priest and a school child, an Afro-American, the doubts and the last shot before lights off: Streep weeping into a ' I have my doubts.' For India and world 2016, when faith is all and faith in doubts earn a stare, Doubt could kick up protest; its easy to faith, hard to doubt, Doubt as never are all the facts in for any conclusion. Gandhi and Nehru were never sure, were doubters and were top class; Gandhi earns a sneer, Nehru a swear; Gandhi murder is okay with India 2016; debating tables are dressed with knives and loudspeakers; it was not so in the 1950s and 1960s; today we are a sure nation; sure in our dislikes and likes; every guess is a gossip is a truth; not a drip and drop of Doubt..Elegant, crisp Doubt ticked liberal beliefs. The about 90 minutes film earned an audience says a google search. Left Streep in the garden and lept to Kevda, Marathi short film; have seen it over and over and saw it again. At 70 me is Jyoti Subhash, when Shreya and Chiyu come home, are into their mobiles, have lunch, say Bye. No doubt. 

My Old Lady

Hullo or palms raising smiles as we walked away every morning for close to 16 years. We never went beyond. Rao saheb and me when Borivili (W) had mangroves, rice fields and green hearts not Link Road and ponds, not Eskay Club. A month of mornings, Rao saheb is not at the stone bench near Gossip cafe on Link Road; he is going away, slipping away, from his friends and me; or is it that we are moving away from Rao saheb; a midnight, his family found him at Gossip; alone; checked out with friends; 'maloom nahin, bhool jata hai,' they tell me. Trudged, turned into LIC Colony with Rao saheb, Mohan Agashe of Marathi film Astu and Julianne Moore of English film Still Alice. A poke on the back; turned round quickly; my dear Old Lady in jeans and tops, all teeth out, with her bent and aged walking stick on my behind; 'where are you,' she asked and invited me to a breakfast spread out by her strays, donkeys, flying fox and assorted pigs; settled down under a silk cotton tree to vada pavs, sandwiches, pizzas; seemingly they pooled funds for a breakfast goodbye to their and mine Old Lady; 'Ganapathi Bappa is coming today; me am going,' she whispered; the Lady could never go beyond that note scale. 'I am tired of noise; cannot take any more of Mumbai; every time a loudspeaker opens up, my heart thuds, cant take it,' she said as dogs, pigs and donkeys nodded; titched, titched warblers; a koyal hooted. The Lady has negotiated a room for two years at Banasura overseeing Banasura Lake and hills in Wayanad; at Banasura, foreigners bivouac for six months, one to a room, rarely talk, go for long walks inhaling and exhaling quiet, watch birds and elephants; 'Will leave Ganapthi Bappa for my animals and meet up wild elephants at Banasura; we cannot do without elephants in our lives,' the Lady said. Goti was in tears being most near to the Lady; if she was absent a day on LIC Colony, he would visit her, make inquiries, take her to a doctor if ill; Goti has to be with the Lady daily; somewhat like Rao saheb and me. 'You do not have phones, mobiles, TV, nothing, except Swamy and Friends of R. K. Narayan, how will you be with us,' asked Deva, the donkey; many, many readings and she knew all of the book; she reads and wheels it out without the book like Goti; the Lady likes the manner Goti rests near the Shiva temple, rolling out Swamy sentences from memory; some Shiva shlokas. Lady squeezed a Pichko on a pizza, bit into it and warbled: 'Will tap messages on trees in Banasura and there are many; they will relay to the banyans, pipals and silk cotton trees in LIC Colony. You can hear into their titter; tap back.' Claps. Breakfast over; The Lady took an Ola to Vile Parle for the afternoon flight to Kozhikode and further to Banasura, quiet, elephants.