A Song 108

Aji scratchy
as food art, artistry
in pickle jars,
gets patchy.
From the morning
she wedded
in Alleppey,
for 40 years and more,
sambhar,
avial,
thoran
spiders the imagination
woven in Sreevatsam.
Slips there are
these times;
a Tata salt grain more;
fingers chipped
chopping vegetables,
coffee,
a suggestion of waste,
imperfections of
an enthusiasm.
Ajoba suggests a cook.
Aji is in a no.
Could snap her
wedding,
her
loving. 

My dear Kuttappai...

My dear Kuttappai,

Me wants to see you, Kuttappai, your grandfather, Valiyappachhai and Ottal (The Trap), the Malayalam film about you and Valiyappachhai. Rama also liked it. She comes from Allapuzzha and knows Vembanadu kayal and Kumarakom and Kuttanad. Today me saw a white-fronted kingfisher at the Vazira temple pond in the morning in far away Mumbai and that's not the same as a white-fronted kingfisher on a bamboo pole in the deep waters of your kayal. Living in Vembadandu kayal with Valiappachhai, a kingfisher for you may be a laugh. Me knows nothing of birds, rice, fish, waters, wind, night skies, sunrise, stars having lived in cities with electricity, cars, mobiles.... Perhaps, Ottal is the Malayalam film in recent years from Kerala without bikes, sex, mobiles, cars ... and all that; it is of kayals to which me brother in law Hari Gopalakrishnan took us one entire day in a boat, a motorised boat. Me just got your letter written to Valiyappachhai. Me never had a grandfather like your Valiyappachhai. No grandfather stories. 'Aarengilum padichhittano kuyil padunnanuthu (Did a kuyil learn singing at a school?), you ask and the film director Jayaraj let goes. Me had read Vanka, the Chekov delight, on which Ottal is based. Me read it again. Me do not know whether we will ever meet. But its worth saying Hullo. When you grow up read Vanka with Valiyappachai. Vanka is the next best after living a childhood with a grandpa in the kayals. Do not know if this letter will reach as letters do not arrive at Kuttanad. Me have posted it with an address: Kuttappai, Kuttanadu, Vembanadu kayal.

Ottal is that sort of film, we saw on TV (Mami film festival). Jayaraj and cameraman, MJ Radhakrishnan are poets; no camera has shot Kuttanad as lyrically as MJ Radhakrishnan; possibly, Kuttanad looks better on films than live. Songs in simple lines evoke a simple life and me doubts whether all that will be lost. Perhaps, the film could have wound down with Valiyappachai furiously ploughing the waters in a country boat after handing over Kuttappai to a child recruit. The old man says wryly: 'Avan padikkan poi, jeevikkan padikkan poi (Gone to learn, learn living). Yes, Malayali imagination is alive. Perhaps, Jayaraj has placed Malayalam films beyond Adoor Gopalakrishnan. And that's something. Hugs for Ashanth K Sha as Kuttappai and Kumarakom Vasudevan as Valiyappachhai. Durga and Apu in Pather Panchali, Swami in Malgudi Days and Kuttappai in Ottal .... a legacy me has been lucky to witness. Now a request to Jayaraj: Camera track Ashanth K Sha... like Ray and Trauffat. Nanni (Grateful). 

A Song 107

Six years ago
Ajoba played cricket
with Shreya,
held her crossing the road;
placed her on the
dining table,
fed her,
with food and tales.
Today,
Shreya fried Lijjat papads,
microwaved
rotis, dal, aloo sabji;
walked Ajoba to the
dining table,
served food, school fables.
Growing ups
at the dining table.    

Crows and coucals

Sleep broke at around 4; for the first time ever made me filter kapi as Rama was in a snore. With hot kapi not as good as the Rama version, sat down to random read A Necklace of Skulls, Collected Poems, by Eunice De Souza.  In Aunt: My aunt loves bright colours./Widowhood be damned./ Ninety-one years be damned./ She reads newspapers from/first page to last/looking for a cheerful story. Got out for a walk before morning newspapers hit the door. Newsvendor Patil is always on time. There are no cheerful stories to read. Papers have turned me a fake currency; maybe, they are not wrong. Wished for some cheerful moments... and today they came. Maybe De Souza is a talisman.  We have become friends somewhat. Coucal and me. On the gates of Management Development Centre, LIC, LIC Colony, it sat and walked; some five feet away, me stood on the footpath; do not know if it is the same coucal of a few days ago; from the gates it flew down to the footpath, flew up to a copper pod; went back to the walls of the gate; it opened its beak for a soft call; looked around when two coucals flew over to a mango tree inside the LIC compound; me stood watching as crows formed a crowd over and above me and coucal; the bird shifted to a bokeda tree inside the LIC green; the goondaish crow crowd cawed together; the coucal flew down and disappeared into a hedge; the crows looked cheap as louts do; the two coucals on the mango tree kept quiet; about 10 minutes of an early morning walk and me walked on. Coucal Point. LIC Colony throws up friends from the many trees in the area; passing Karuna Hospital, the now certain glimpse of bats (flying fox) in a chatter ahead of settling down, upside down; their browns glimmer as the sun hits pans them; and then bumped into a new friend, a beagle called Toffee; the owner does not mind me giving it a rub. A small hound, wikipedia says. Toffee has sad eyes, saddest me has seen. Some mornings are blank; and coming home sinks into the arm chair, upset. Today, it was different as the coucal will be with me through the day. No reading newspapers. Went back to De Souza. To a Naturalist: Mine's an humbler occupation,/hunting dog ticks, bed bugs, ants/ whose steadfastness I can rarely match./Fed up of concrete,/ a rat decided to/ take up residence in my oven./ Watchman and broom soon settled him./The wild parakeets chortle their way/through the seed box, three times a day./ As for fat pigeons/pushing each other off my air conditioner,/ there's no escape from their/orgasmic cries.  

Of others....they are ours

'Who couldn't resist a smirk on discovering that in Lucknow the slang for homosexual was 'chhota-line wallah' because the station there took both the broad and metre gauge?, writes Ian Jack in a prologue to Mofussil Junction, Indian Encounters 1977-2012. The lines lead me to a clutch of films on this human group that me has been seeing recently: Brokeback Mountain, Aligarh, Memories in March and My Brother, Nikhil. Have seen them twice and some snatches more and they remind me of the chemistry lab in Hindi High School where me was parked for practicals; labelled bottles and jars of acids -- sulphuric acid, nitric acid and many more -- stood in ranks on glass shelves; concentrated sulphuric acid, H2SO4, being perhaps a dangerous customer. In India, humans have labels, many: caste, sex (male, female, nongays, gays), religion, colour, language (English, Indian languages); females and gays are dealt in the same way, cruelly; in Memories in March, Deepti Naval pleads with Rithuparno Ghosh to take home a fish tank; 'no, do not like fish tanks, of putting everyone in a box,' Ghosh replies. Yes. Boxes. Displaying identity like Saivite and Vaishnavite caste marks. 2016 India is cruel to humans playing out their lives in these films; lives which have no say on their sex; they have to live with it and me wishes courts will make up their minds fast. Perhaps, the Supreme Court should see these films before writing their judgements; they could start with the 2005 film, My Brother, Nikhil, by Onir on an AIDS patient, Nikhil Kapoor  (played by Sanjay Suri) and his sister Juhi Chawla (Anamika); Juhi sticks to her brother; its about relationships, natural for Nikhil Kapoor, unnatural for his parents; the film flows like the Mandovi in Goa. Twice over seen Memories in March and Aligarh; Aligarh can be termed a classic; a film that will stay on; there is no fiction, only facts; bare, brutal and brilliant is Manoj Bajpayee; 'Love is a beautiful word,' says Manoj to Rajkummar Rao, boating perhaps the Jamuna; director Hansal Mehta keeps to the bones of the story; the legal scenes could not be otherwise. For me Aligarh is a notch in front of Memories in March with Deepti Naval and Rituparno Ghosh; not many have written of her; in Firaaq and Memories in March, she shakes the viewer; sound-speech links in Memories are indeed rare for an Indian film; directed by Sanjoy Nag, Memories and Aligarh butt me. A fair deal for those in hiding. Perhaps, Brokeback Mountain is the weakest going on and on ... unwinding to a few seeable last shots. Our directors have offered an unfortunate set of humans a better deal; insisted on they being humans. Indian cinema has grown beyond Ray. It can be proud.  

Link Road

Link Road,
no more,
any more.
Drillers hole
for sky-rail,
dredge from deep,
ajis, ajobas
wrapped in
Tuka and Kabir;
chapsticks of memory,
invalid currencies;
odd ends of Tulsi,
grass, bric brac,
fronting tiled homes,
today, sky stabs
taunting Vittala's Vaikunt.
On Link Road,
to drilling drums,
owners selfie Mercs,
wiped neat
by Nepalis.
An early morning sun
pauses behind
sky tops.
'In 5 years,
a sky rail
on Link Road,'
says the driller
from Chattisgarh.
'We wont be there,'
says Rama.
Making of an aged,
dentured
future,
on Link Road,
birth of a death. 

Supermoon

A joyous swoon,
a haiku croon,
a Supermoon...

Mid-night Supermoon tickled me from bed, got to chatting. 'For you am poetry; for me am hungry,' mused Supermoon. Felt like some haiku poet as Supermoon pleaded for eats; 'something to eat. Rama might have kept sambhar and rice in the fridge', Supermoon said; one wriggled out into a chilly night and fed me friend with vetta kuzhambu and rice; roasted a few tapioca papads; Supermoon sat on the bed, chewed steadily, slapping a few mosquitos; me got curious: 'You get your daily prasad with hundis full; and tonight you are Supermoon, there will be huge offerings,' me said. Supermoon snapped a papad and was into a bite; 'When did you last go to the temple,' Supermoon asked; me passed the query; 'the hundis are empty, there is no cash, the priests have scooted with currency; no prasad; why dont you walk the streets, visit some temples; the gods are planning to stand in bank lines; you may see them at private banks as reports are they are better with separate counters for senior citizens; all gods are senior citizens,' Supermoon went on and on. His talk longer than bank lines; he did not like me laughs; Supermoon screwed his face as he licked clean the plate; 'pass on thanks to Rama,' Supermoon said and went to sleep while me hunked into a sofa. We went for an early morning walk -- LIC Colony and Assisi grounds; on the closed gates of the Management Development Centre (LIC) sat a bharadwaj, Lady or Gent, we were not sure; from behind a tamarind tree we watched, the bharadwaj walking the top of the gate, pausing over some dried roti on a wall, nibbling at the breakfast, hopping over to a tamarind and away; for about seven minutes we observed from about five feet; we came into the open and the bird did not fly away; this November, LIC Colony seems to be holding a sizable lot of bharadwaj with their hoarse calls. 'Been years since I had a relaxed morning, watching birds, earring their calls .....'said Supermoon preparing to go. 'Where to,' me asked? 'Where else but to a bank to stand in the queue for some cash, not for the hundi and priests, but for my lunch. Cant tax Rama, who also will be in some bank branch,' said Supermoon. 'Will the banks have some TV sets beaming the South Africa-Australia Test match? asked Supermoon; ' the match is over, South Africa has won,' me replied; 'so no cricket?' Stars, planets, fates stood cashless. 

A banking tale...

Working in the Times of India in the 70s, journalists were paid in cash. Afternoon, on the last day of the month, an attender would walk into the newsroom with named, pay packets in a wooden tray; distribute them to journalists (me got a Rs.400 pay packet as a Journalist Trainee), take their signatures on a register, and that was it. After payback of loans, me started the month with Rs.200 and went back to money lenders by the middle of the month; an ever revolving debt. Me never went to a bank, had no bank account, at the end of the month lived on borrowings or on food served at press conferences and seminars.....life jogged along. Like the Kamal Hasan times in silent film Pushpak; a likeable film; there is no dated feeling; he and the beggar on the footpath never go to a bank, are always in cash, there is not a shot of a bank, life is a laugh; currencies come and go; no IT officials, no Modi surgical strikes; chuckled watching it on youtube in the night; simpler times. In 1976 got married and Rama opened the first bank account at Canara Bank, Dombivili East branch; appa took her to open the account; me avoided the bank; the account got transferred to Borivili and she holds to it for old days' sake; for some delicious memories of never having more than Rs.50 in the savings account; today Rama runs the ATMs, talks easily of credits and debits; does not write cheques; swipes cards buying sarees and sweets and samosas; me am not into it having never gone near an ATM machine; financial powers rest with Rama; am in a fright, scared (cant explain) of banks and bankers. Modisation of currency has not unnerved Rama. My paternal grandfather, a Devarajan, a broke temple priest at Suchindram temple, never heard of banks, probably never saw a bank branch living in Ashramam village; Kannadi Vakil Swami, maternal grandfather, a lawyer without case papers in Kottarakara, did not have a bank account; but he talked of bank and bank accounts as amma retailed financial histories of me generation. 'Pichchakkara (beggars)', she used to exclaim with an odd tear wriggling. Kannadi Vakil Swami, Thatha, promised to pay all during banking hours, when he got pumpkins and raw bananas as fees from broke clients. My grandmothers, well, resided in kitchens. A fixed deposit of Rs.20,000 from Calcutta times is alive on Rama's name in Axis Bank; that my mother got from appa, she passed it on to Rama and the lady has tossed it to son Ganesh .... a family loom, lone family loom. None can touch it. Rama will not allow it. 

Wild Strawberries

With Malathi back from US, Rama evenings are booked; alone watch and re-watch non-commercial films; on Monday it was the second viewing of 1957 film Wild Strawberries written and directed by Ingmar Bergman. An old man trying to live on a retake of his childhood. A Wikipedia note on the origins of the film: 'Bergman's idea for the film came on a drive from Stockholm to Dalarna, stopping at Uppsala, his hometown. Driving by his grandmother's house, he suddenly imagined how it would be if he could open the door and inside find everything just as it was during his childhood. So it struck me --  what if you could make a film about this; that you just walk up in a realistic way and open a door, and then you walk into your childhood, and then you open another door and arrive in some other period of your existence, and everything goes on, lives. That was actually the idea behind Wild Strawberries.' Later he would revise the story of the film's genesis. In Images: My Life in Film, he comments on his own earlier statement: 'That's a lie. The truth is that I am forever living in my childhood.' Me chatted the idea with Rama and she agreed to turning back to times in Sreevatsam and Dombivili. Well, what happens when a childhood is bruised; there cannot be a flashback as it happens to Ajoba. After years, Ajoba confesses to not feeling sad when his parents died; he felt and still feels an unusual freedom. Yes, it hurts Ajoba but this has to be put down. Childhood was fear, fright: fear of a fierce father and slightly milder mother; of course, the extended family will disagree with Ajoba; but for Ajoba it was not a living; beaten up with utensils and cricket bats, some verbal abuse ... yes they did love .... but their love was hard for Ajoba to understand or grasp even at 70. And the prayers: morning, before going to school, after school, evening, night; and when festivals came, hell prayers; gods became a disgust; sure, Ajoba was well fed, clothed, sent to a priced school; they had hopes and Ajoba failed them entirely; they wanted Ajoba to hold a job with office paid home, car and all that as near and distant cousins; they were upset over a journalist Ajoba. Ajoba at 70 is afraid to dream of them. Yes, appa and amma were good, in their way, Ajoba never could make. A day after appa's death in Kolkata, Ajoba went for a walk to the Hooghly river and for a second laughed loud and free, touched the river's flow; yes, appa will not be any more to place a halter. Yes, Ajoba turned free after amma died. It was as if Ajoba had none to report to. No bosses; good bosses, yet bosses. Ajoba became entirely free. That meant he could not back flip into a childhood like Prof. Isak Borg (done by Victor Sjostrom) in Wild Strawberries. Ajoba has to peep into the future and that is living forever in a new wardrobe. Uncomfortable. No Wild Strawberries.    

A Song 106

In sadhu's orange,
a morning sun
at Assisi grounds,
footballs,
dribbles past kids
hailing 'Sir, pass, pass';
some tug him;
declines a goal move,
refuses a win. 

Kagiso Rabada

Kagiso Rabada and Keshav Atmanand Maharaj more newsy than South Africa win over Australia at Perth by 177 runs in the First Test. On a Perth pitch curated by an Australian, Kagiso Rabada, nickname KG, the fastie South African, takes 5 wickets in the second innings and in Australia none questions curator loyalties. They say Australia lost, fair and square. No excuses. Keith Pietersen in the commentary box thinks Rabada is the news in world Test cricket; parents professional, studied in South Africa at a school equal to Eton, says Keith. Seemingly, Michael Holding is tuning Rabada, the sweet spot of Test cricket and an able stand in for the injured and nearly retiring Dale Steyn. An easy run up and the right arm goes over in something of a classical bow to; missing is an up left arm; it gets tucked in; lots of shoulder; Mark Taylor in the box thinks he is good at reverse swing and a pace between 135 to 149 kmh; the bouncer is not one breaking into the face of the batsman as the West Indians of yore did; perhaps, Holding will tune up. No cricket playing nation has something like Rabada; me has been following him from South Africa against England to now Australia. Australia and England have not genuine pacers; frightening helmeted batsmen. From somewhere comes Keshav Maharaj, left arm off spinner with a straight arm action; South Africans have had no spinners to show for years; Imran Tahir never could be dubbed a spinner; they have one today in Keshav Maharaj, bowling well, the last day, without much flight. Mark Taylor thinks he bowled well and he should know. South Africa is missing de Villiers to set up a complete team against a rather unstable Aussie team. Sadly Perth stands were mostly empty with a few flavouring Rabada and Maharaj. Test cricket has no crowds today; maybe, England is outside the rule. The last England-Pakistan series did see crowds and me was backing Pakistan against England. 'Have you stopped watching cricket?' asked son Ganesh as me had not switched on to Perth. That remark hurt but was true. Cricket in the normal sense, Indian cricket in particular, does not enthuse me anymore; patriotic outpourings of most cricket commentators seem to be in bad taste; me belongs to the dated cricket of Bedi and Vishy; in India it is IPL not Test cricket. 'IPL mein majaa ata hai'. Do not think will watch India-England Test as they will be on Jadeja and Ashwin muddy patches; why not hold Test matches in neutral venues; say an Australia versus South Africa at Lord's; an England against India in Perth; after all Pakistan is playing most of its Test cricket in neutral venues. Neutral umpires go well with neutral grounds; TV ads talk of Virat Kohli venging the last series defeat in England under MS Dhoni; in that series, Kohli and Dhoni did not perform; Ajinkya Rahane and Ishant Sharma performed. Or it just could be me will watch as there will be DRS for the first time. Thanks Anil Kumble. Hope there are no Nagpurs. 

A Song 105

atop a mango tree,
scrawled a golden oriole
a bright yellow, black
morning.


....


squatting on A'ssissi grass
counting on grass
dew dots on grass.

A Song 104

goats wait for the butcher;
chickens wait in coops;
patients wait for
some call, 'kana doctor',
others, ent specialist,
with cones of laughter;
a wooden, name board
waits on the door
with timings,
unstuck;
a deaf maid with brooms
waits on a litter of deaf talk;
deaf lady attendants
wait on phones;
in his private chamber,
kana doctor
taps deaf ears with a tuning fork;
scribbles reports;
does not wait for fees - Rs.800 -
cash down,
no receipt;
asks deaf to make it again,
wait on a deafness.

    

November 2016

An October 2016 in Mumbai is unsweaty. November mornings, evenings, nights -- pleasant smiles. Peeping into darkness, setting out on a walk at 6 in the morning; Link Road has lost half its soul to coloured metal partitions for Metro Rail; through the nights machines, noisily drill and drill the Earth; insomniacs; a security guard thinks Metro Rail will slice the skies in five years after counting for funds filched by every soul related to the project; which, he says, is fine by Indian governance norms. Striding into LIC Colony, Ajoba waves arms, good mornings to trees known and unknowns; it does not matter, this knowing or not knowing Mumbai style; their leaves nudge and wave hullos, an acknowledgement; you cant deny they live; from post-rain hedges, beep blue morning glory and morning glory; they never miss the first week of November; frangipani and parijats in blistering bloom. Being early, the talking, hurrying walkers are absent, leaving Ajoba soul alone. At the Francis grounds, footballs thomp and thud waiting for footballers; they desire kicks; wait; and then there are more footballs in the air than on the grass. Ajoba watches, pockets the moment, as it may not be the same tomorrow. Ajoba is not into prayers, deep breaths, laughter clubs and all that; he likes to watch the world pass by having been a part of that world; today more an outsider than an insider; the sun bounces heads of the laburnum and rain trees; on electric wires sit and fly drongos; none has a watch or a timer; they are as long as legs hold; and then a resting on steel chairs before the walk back along Ayappa Mandir Marg and the Krishnan spot where Ajoba is sure to spot some bird, at least a crow; today counted three or is it four bharadwajs from some 15 feet away; a magpie robin marking the batting or is it bowling crease, being November; the first Test match between South Africa and Australia starts at Perth; perhaps, the magpie robin will switch on Star Sports HD to watch Hashim Amla bat; and then on a leafless tree, a koyal calling with his lady flying across; Ajoba pecked a house sparrow in thanks. Every morning is not the same. Like Ajoba is not every morning. But some days, Ajoba pockets a pack of joy; in his armchair, unpacks; for Aji waiting with coffee.   

A Song 103

Is exile, having no roots?
Is fugitive, having bleeding
tiffs with parents?
Is deportee, an absence of tongue?
Is proscription, not holding a
passport?
Is Ajoba,
without sister,
brother,
alone?
Is Ajoba alien?
Is Ajoba,
a mathematical,
absence;
unknown,
constant?
For sure,
Ajoba is still on.