Peepal

Silence coughed.
Is became was.
A 20 year old peepal
chopped
for a skyway,
a Metro.

Francis Thompson verses:

All things by immortal power
Near or far,
Hiddenly,
To each other linked are,
That thou canst not stir a flower?
Without troubling a star.

But dear old poet Francis Thompson, none troubled when they did away with the peepal, chopped to shreds, sold for cash. It was tall, young and sturdy on the divider of Link Road; afraid of zooming traffic, none went near it except crows and koels; in its early years, some of me friends watered it in the morning; there was no traffic then; a morning sun and evening moon paused on their walks. Did not hit me till a young college kid alerted me. Setting out for college, he prayed to the peepal and the sun above. 'The day always went off well. Me girl friend was never upset,' he said laughingly. Now? The Metro work started without any public discussion; some babu, some contractor, some politician decided to make money for their next 10 generations and the peepal had to go with other bushes on the road divider. Archaeological expeditions are on in Borivili (W) and Dahisar; electricity companies, telephone outfits and Metro have done away with all the roads below and skies above. They hack everything standing, sitting, sleeping. With the skyway will come railway stations and more cars and more bikes and more lorries. Will that help ease travel in Mumbai? Do not know. How many trees will be cut for highways and projects? How many animals will lose homes? Does anyone keep count; we number humans dead and alive. Population statistics. What happens when a tree or a forest or an animal is brought down? Do they go to Heaven or Hell; there cannot be Hell for them, me thinks, as Hell is for humans. For sure less birds will visit or fly over Link Road. Maybe India 2020 will be without Earth. Will that be pretty?     

Ryokan and me

How can we ever lose interest in life?
Spring has come again
And cherry trees bloom in the mountains.

....

Going out to beg this spring day
I stopped to pick violets -
Oh! The day is over

writes Ryokan in One Robe, One Bowl.

Am not sure if spring has touched Mumbai. Will have to check it out with the badams, tamarinds, peepals and banyans; or the blood-red large size hibiscus in the society garden. Do not bother the weather bureau or friends. At 10.30 a.m. spotted a white-browed fantail flycatcher, a golden oriol and an ashy grey wren warbler -- all at the same moment, behind the housing society; the golden oriole and fantail flycatcher hopping from tamarind to badam; while the ashy grey wren warbler was perched on a flowering arali shrub. Couple of days ago, a young couple clicked them on mobiles and the white brow on the flycatcher stood distinct. Me presumes it is white browed and not white spotted. Delight when its tail fans out like some Japanese fan. In the last two months, has been chatting up with this fellow cheeping; mostly in singles, sometimes in doubles. In LIC Colony, have come swarms of rosy pastors, winging en masse parts of the sky, before taking off to wish me knows where. This is the third year running of their coming to Borivili (W). At the pond of Vazira Ganesh temple, apart from the resident white fronted kingfisher and a few turtles, noted a white fronted water hen. Nothing to boast of. 'Kya hua,' some ask. 'Watching birds, chidiya,' me replies. They walk away. Me stands, neck up. In the afternoon, they, the birds, are not there. Where, they know, not me. Something to keep me ridiculously happy. Can understand Ryokan. Am one with him, Basho and the rest -- not taught at Mumbai schools and colleges. Recently, President Obama talked of carrying around a rosary and a small Buddha given by a monk in his pockets. He sure needs them. Well, me heart carries birds and trees, haikus and Ryokan. Me also needs them. Afternoon siestas, go for a walk with Ryokan, sharing a walking stick. We walk, dont talk. Guffaws when me quotes his best lines:

THE THIEF left it behind -
the moon
At the window.

Rama wakes me up from laughs.  

A Song 120

Aji, Ajoba
hobble to a wooden bench
on Link Road.
Count fallen leaves,
leaves on copper pods, peepals
on knotty fingers;
lose count.
A January sun
microwaves them;
vehicles pass wind,
drape them in
leaves and less.
Mumbles.
Nods.
Tripping on dreams,
take tumbles,
jingle;
no grumbles
as a hobby
turns habit.

A Song 119

What are
you?
A haiku.

....

Your
religion?
Poetry.

...

Your
parents?
Clay, clouds.

Taandav, a short film

Settled down alone in evening kindness to watch 11 minutes of Tanndav on youtube. Sat, did not stand. Please note. But when Manoj Bajpai, the Mumbai havildar, jigs, stood up, jigged; not as brilliantly or as vigorously but at 70 impressed self; arthritic legs did not like the idea; sofaed and watched again Bajpai jig. Readers, if any, am jigging while blogging. 11 minutes of a delightful enough. Loudness and crudeness of a Ganapati immersion, bombs him; violates him, standing alone in the crowd, on havildar duty; Bajpai face goes hard, eyes flirt, shows in Bajpai face; me sympathises his taking a hafta for bribing a top school to get his daughter out of a government school; a police havildar is about as good as a journalist; both have to and do take orders; one is in uniform, the other is not; a policeman can and should have an ambition of getting a good school for his daughter, not a government school; at least ambition is not reserved for the rich; dreams are not on the reserved list; have seen policemen up and down Link Road; they have a beat like journalists; and what's particularly wrong and right in a torn up society. Bribes are a must in India; nothing happens without bribes.Exists despite denials. Manoj Bajpai does that to you in Tanndav, a 11 minutes film directed by Devashish Makhija. For me 2016 is Manoj Bajpai: Aligarh and Taandav. Manoj Bajpai is an event not an event management happening in the Indian film industry across languages. Aligarh throbs and Manoj Bajpai thrills; everyone cannot be a Prof. Siras; only Bajpai can; how, me do not know. What defines an actor? What goes into Naseeruddin Shah, Om Puri and Manoj Bajpai? Maybe friend Kartik Iyer will one day blog on Manoj. He is too busy with Americans. Maybe, Manoj has done all that; he has as a police havildar on Mumbai streets; Mumbai police, at least some policemen, could have, thought of jiving and today can do it as Bajpai has done it applaudingly. Yeah, what happens when a policeman waltzes on the streets, preferably at traffic lights; me will watch and applaud and pay. As me am doing to Manoj Bajpai.   

Kartik, the film director

On Saturday, dear old Kartik Iyer, mobiled: Uncle, coming on Sunday. Is it okay by you? Me said: Yes. Waited. On Sunday at around 12 he walked in with his knapsack bulging with film videos. Kartik at 18 is films, American films in particular by his own admission. 'They are always in my head,' he admits. Unhinged the backpack; said: 'Have made a film and want you to see it.' Nodded a fait accompli. Rama asked, 'How many hours? Should we have lunch before or after the film?' Replied Kartik: 'Five minutes.' He tagged the film to the computer; Rama and me stood waiting for the National Anthem. These days we stand, do not sit. 'No, please sit,' Kartik told us and we sat wondering whether anyone would hammer us. Kartik Iyer is the director and lone actor in the film; he cooks Maggi and broods over life. Five minutes. Me saw it a second time for taste. Had lunch of sambhar, bhaji, sweet pongal and papad; Kartik shimmers at Rama's sambhar. After, we got to discuss the five minute shot; a bit dfficult, me said and Kartik explained: At college, I roam as the lecture goes on. Eating Maggi noodles, he roams in the film for five minutes between god and science and spirituality. Liked the attempt, did not grasp it; told him as much; am no film critic as know nothing of long and near shots, cameras and all that. Me has a second problem; am not good at matters abstruse; from Samuelson Price Theory to Advaita of Samkara to Existentialism of Sartre; cannot go beyond Ruskin Bond and Alice in Wonderland. Kartik perhaps chose the wrong man for the screening. He unzipped downloaded films; he is not into Indian films; foreign films make his palate. Fair enough. Some two days ago son Ganesh and me saw snatches of Fences of Denzil Washington and Viola Davies; Denzil hollered, couldnt make sense; Viola always make sense and she has been nominated for Oscar. Sunday noon waltzed to film chats and it was time for Kartik to say Bye. On Monday, walking LIC colony, the Kartik film, Abstractions, buzzed me. Never in me life have met a film director, film actor or film shooting; read about them, seen their films.  Kartik Iyer is the first director and film actor in me life. In Bengaluru, is Hrishi, the film musician, tingling in Mozart, Bach, Beethoven. Kartik always yaps of films. Quite sure, Kartik will make a full length film with Hrishi providing the music. Maybe in five years. Young Kartik and Hrishi have dreams in their wallets. At 70, realised never had dreams in my pockets. Thank you Kartik.  

Mac Masala Dosa

In times of troubled news, Facebook flashed: Masala dosa burger from McDonald. Like Americans landing on the moon, long, long ago. WOW me screamed, an enthusiasm Rama did not share. 'Kya ho gaya,' Madhavi chirped. 'Masala dosa burger abhi milega,' me told her and she felt let down. 'Unko kya maloom hai, masala dosa,' she said and added that her mother had called from a village off Solapur about groundut poli, mixed bhaji for Makar Sankranti. 'Wish you were here,' the old lady mobiled.  'Gross,' writes me good friend Krishnan from Palghat to McDonald burger masala dosa. Born and brought in Singara Chennai or Madras in his times, Krishnan perhaps, cannot take it; like sipping Old Monk Rum after glassing down pegs of Cuban rums with Cuban cigars. Maybe, he loves the masala dosa toasted at TamBram homes by grandmas. Do not know. Will have to make inquiries. Suspect Komi is unsure of the innovated dish, a 2017 avatar of masala dosa with McDonald credit lines. Wonder where they researched the idea; maybe they could have tapped an old woman living alone somewhere in Myapore or West Mambalam in Singara Chennai with sons and daughters settled in US and Australia. She might have fallen on the idea on a hot Chennai May, with children and grand kids pestering for eats. In the kitchen corner, lay an unused potato; the dosa was in the making when the aloo bhaji was thought up as a side dish; a grandkid might have made a dosa roll leading the old lady to the zen moments of masala dosa. With friends she may have patented the know-how, hardly for public consumption. She denied herself bylines. But Mac has its way and hope it has the tang and fragrance of a TamBram masala dosa with onion sambhar. Maybe, it may not be that classy; it may set up a new identity with a young, Facebook generation. The Indian Express has written a third edit on the fresh menu. The editorial writer writes: 'As a multinational fast-food chain announces it will soon launch a 'masala dosa burger', Indian foodies are clutching their foreheads and stomachs in shock, despairing over too much culinary mixing ruining their broth - or here, the burger bun/dosa batter. But why this tangy chutney of indignation at the innovation. The masala dosa is a many-splendoured thing, one of India's most innovative dishes, always metamorphising into delicious new forms.' Owner Anant Goenka may have knocked out from the copy any mention of Mac the American. Searched Wikipedia to its origins in Udipi restaurants. Me am not sure; rather, it hurts me TamBram ego; a large circular piece of white dough pebbled with aloo bhaji, roasted to a crisp off-red by me Mami in Sreevatsam in Alleppey, a page of poetry, cannot have been born in Udipi. To me a Masala Dosa including the Mac version is a wrap up of any and all North-South differences into a love toast; adored by North and South; potatos coming from above the Vindhyas, the dough from below the Vindhyas. Called up Mac; 'will be available shortly,' the counter said. Have booked a table at Macs in Dahisar. Mac can go fly kites on Makar Sankranti. 

A Song 118

Makar Sankranti.
Tuka, Kabira
offered balls of Til Gud
to Rakkumai and Vithala.
Vithala gobbled til gud,
did not share any with Rakkumai.
Priest intoned:
Til gud kha, god, god bola.
Tuka, Kabira
wait for priest,
prasad,
at the temple,
lapped by strong sea winds.
Fly kites
string laughs,
stitched by Kabira. 

Urvashi..... take it easy Urvashi....

AN African tulip on Karuna Road in red bloom. Lady, Old Man and all their friends were in woollens on Monday as a fridge cold wind, got them sipping hot chai of Bhagwan gazing at African tulips. Deva, the donkey was in a four-piece legging. You know what a Mumbai winter or Karuna Road, in particular, is. A 2-day affair when there is snow in Kashmir. More cups of tea and a time to show off woollens. Old Man was in a freshly stitched Lake Avenue trouser, a shirt and a jacket; 'What's on,' diddled Lady. 'All free. The beautiful lady at Lake Avenue pleaded me to pocket her and mine debit and credit cards. 'I am grateful for visiting us. All is free for you; this is our new discount offer or rather no count offer when banks and humans do not have cash,' she said. One leg of the trouser was shorter than the other; the shirt had no sleeves; the jacket had no buttons; yet, put together, they were something of a first for Old Man. The fineprint of the deal was a handkerchief stitched by the lady at Lake Avenue. She was promoting her brand. Slurping tea, Old Man wiped his lips with the new handkerchief and the deo of the shop-lady came on; it was something foreign, Old Man did not know about. Even his friend the Lady and Deva sniffed the cold air. On Karuna Road, it was an exaggerated cold and they behaved as if they were in the Arctic. Okay, everybody should dream and this dream will not mean a police lock-up. At Bhagwan it was a huddle with Deva making the centre. When elegant, little chatter of girls nudged them; the girls were all over the crowd at Bhagwan. Old Lady took out Faleros from her pocket for them and the hullabaloo had many springs about it. Old Lady knew well the principal of the missionary school and there were no problems as all of them took up places on wooden benches in class rooms; that day there was no work, no homework. Deva taught them donkey tricks, birds taught them bird calls, strays taught them street games. All this while, the little girls knew about them in boring books which teachers dumped on them. To avoid the cold, perhaps, trees on Karuna Road strolled into class rooms, taking seats in the last benches with some like peepals and banyans leaning against the walls. That morning when the school bell clanged, the children did not go home; they stayed back with their new friends with a crowd of rosy starlings joining in the evening. Never had this happened in any school and surely not at the missionary school. Late evening or rather the first hour of the night, an A.R. Rehman croon: Urvashi, Urvashi, take it easy Urvashi .... They took it easy. They slept. Holy books and words were not.   

Take your broken heart and make it into art: Meryl Streep.

Lady draped in house sparrows, crows, mynas, koels, pet donkey Deva, strays in Sunday quiet sipping tea, smoking bidis with Old Man and Bhagwan. No buses, autos, bikes; tarred roads were relishing the rest. Old Man mooing a Tuka abhang, Bhagwan a Kabir doha; low notes fizzling into silence. Lady outs a blast of smoke, laughs as Deva, the donkey, rubs his eyes, slurping mugs of tea with all. A curious Bhagwan asked, ' When did you and Old Man start with these friends?' More rounds of tea with brun pavs; crows, as is their habit, tried to nab bits and pieces from others; birdaloos and brayaloos hullabalooed the quiet air. And then there was silence. 'It was always like this in Borivili in my grandma, grandpa times,' mused Lady. Sunday mornings, the church had pews, no persons; Jesus, Mary, grandma, grandpa filled the church older than them; gods waltzed to Tuka abhangs, Kabir knitted dohas, heads dipped in shut Bibles; house sparrows chirped and pecked the wooden residence; they read the Bible more than grandma and grandma; were in Grace; knew more of, crooned psalms; and one morning, grandma and grandpa became sparrows, thanks to angels, and lived in their nests; 'they knew more about birds than Salim Ali,' boasted Lady. For days we missed them at home; then they came back - grandma and grandpa, like I knew them; filed detailed reports on all the happenings; for a couple of days they squeaked; took their time to be humans as we all do. They maintained  notebooks and I still read them; they relax me.....when they passed away, birds walked them to their graves. Lady spun spidery happenings in the air; Old Man and Bhagwan got trapped or willingly fell into webs; nay, they hummocked in webs... and the Lady went on an unwind. Today trees in LIC Colony do not have birds; they have leaves, banyans have red fruits, but are not biting, birds are absent; of course Salim Ali writes of birds feasting; Old Lady is planning to turn a bat or if bats agree ride them into the nights to wherever they go; maybe, could complain to gods over all the unfairness of it all. Old Man did not like it. Bhagwan disapproved. On Sunday night, Lady is to fly away; bought her free ticket for a bat ride. Said Old Man and Bhagwan; 'You have birds with you; what more do you want?', they asked. 'That's not enough. My friends and grandkids know all about cars and bikes, their names, their designs, their price, their everything... but do not know happy and humble sadaphule on street and house edges...will you bat-fly with me?' Lady asked. They agreed. Take off at Karuna Road with tickets easily available. A change is on,' said the Lady and her walking stick walked her home. Old Man rode his one-wheel cycle, home. Bhagwan shut shop. Sunday flying was not. Speeding car downed Old Man, bike broke the walking stick of Lady and a bus rammed Bhagwan. In Karuna Hospital, refusing to die, repairing dreams. Sparrows are running round with bills and medicines, Deva, the donkey, wheelchairs his friends from operation theatres to beds; nuns are praying; on Facebook, Meryl Streep: Take your broken heart and make it into art. 

A Song 117

Death of a priest
buzzed Yogi Nagar gossip.
Shuttling between
OMs and oxygen tents
priest fell out of court.
Genetically taped
grandfather traditions,
a son,
at a Veda school in Thanjavur
beads shlokas
in a transition.
Knew the priest for a brief hour
at a Ganapati homam at home.
Said he, over coffee and cash:
'Tampi, pray daily for an hour,
or even less,
but do,
to be out of distress.
'Sheri, parkkalam,'
said he in parting.
No, parkkalams.

(Sheri, Parkkalam: OK, see you.)   

Al vida, Om

Al vida, Om Puri janab. It takes time to grieve. Have known you for years on the screen, never on the roads or at malls. OK. For me, Om saheb you are the wordless, shocked look in Aakrosh, eyes popping out, a film of Govind Nihalani and written by Vijay Tendulkar.  Om's silence stills all. Today me am left with your violent eyes. In a chat with Anupam Kher, Naseeruddin Shah admits none could be Om Puri in Ardha Satya; Om responded that none could do Nasee babu in Sparsh of Sai Paranjpye. Nasee babu is more to the point. None understood violence better than Om Puri on the screen; viewers cringed; Om's violence is what we see in India today; and Govind Nihalani is best at anger and frustration shot films. Sadgati, Tamas, Ardha Satya....Om Puri hurts, is into the emotion.... Ray in Sadgati drags out every nuance from Om. Mimicing anger, frustration, violence is perhaps the hardest and Govind Nihalani, alone among Indian directors and Om Puri alone among actors, could do it. Perhaps Om cannot be taught in film institutes. In And Then One Day, a Memoir by Naseeruddin Shah writes: 'Om's blazing salt-of-the-earth intensity finally caught the eyes of many a film maker but it was Govind Nihalani, who first recognized the magnetic simplicity in his screen presence and cast him in Aakrosh as the anguished silent Adivasi, wrongly accused of his wife's murder, Om's definitive film performance.'  In the same book, Nasee babu writes of Om acting in a Kabuki play in Hindi, Ibaragi. 'Despite intensely coveting the role, it was difficult not to be thrilled at the level of performance he had achieved. Something told me I could NOT have done what he did.' Om Puri was that. Today, Nasee babu could be the most hurt as they were intense friends. Shyam Benegal, Govind, Sai, Ketan with Om, Nasee babu, Shabana, Smita, Deepti Naval and others created an era in Indian films better than Ray, Mrinal Sen and Ritwik Ghatak. Om in Bollywood and Hollywood commercials did not impress; have not seen many of them and will not. For me the three best actors across eras are: Om Puri, Naseeruddin Shah and Manoj Bajpayee. They can give tips to Hollywood greats and anyway Hollywood is not my measure. Om Puri is me measure. 

Birding

Old Man leaning against the rain tree near Karuna Hospital was gazing at the morning landings of fruit bats (flying fox); the first drop of sunlight fell through a winter sky, landed on the bats putting a sheen to their browns. January morning was 7 old as Old Man sat down with back to the trunk of the rain tree. Took out a beedi, smoked waiting for 7.30 when binoculars could spot them at their breakfast of brun pav and tea served by Bhagwan. Beedi over, Old Man stood in the middle of Karuna Road, put his eyes to binoculars and went meditation....bird watching is meditation for him. A young couple on their morning walk sidled up to the Old Man, told him: Uncle, a speeding car or bike may thump you. Old Man returned: Karuna Hospital is near, a car driver or biker will put me there. The young couple refused to let go. They stood by, guiding traffic, mainly of school buses and watching bats. They had missed bats for too long. And then drove in the Lady in a Scooty with two stray dogs and few house sparrows chewing Parel G on the back seat; parked the Scooty and took her place near her friend, the Old Man. 'Old Man has nothing to do; glued to bats, an ado,' tuned Lady and Old Man smiled, all teeth intact. Nearby five year old girls were playing at the missionary school called Lady: 'Aji', a collective roar and a bat nearly fell off the rain tree rafters. Lady called them out (with the okay of the nuns) to watch bats and a smallish crowd on the road halted traffic; they horned and honked, gave up to join the Old Man and Lady; the school bell rang and Karuna Road became quiet with bats in sleep. After the usual chais with Bhagwan, they went watching warblers; till date they cant make one from the other, but they stand and watch with necks up; curious strays form company; they become warblers and today a white-fronted kingfisher on an overhead electric wire was calling. By 9, they packed up; Lady started her Scooty with an addition: a rose ringed parakeet on her shoulders. Old Man walked home with strays following; took his window seat and scanned the mangroves far ahead; the strays fell asleep on the bed; in the sky four black kites were curling the air; flying and swimming are same, talked the Old Man to himself; perhaps it is the same science in flapping of the wings and arms; coffee over, thumbed The Book of Indian Birds by Salim Ali; there were too many warblers and Old Man tried to match the book and open air sighting on bare branches. But then birding is not about knowing; it is enjoying bird life, getting a feel of them, observing them and being them. Old Man likes birds because they are birds. A Dhoni OK to aloneness. 

Dangal

Walking to Maxus, Borivili (W), to see a film is today a political act. Watching Aamir Khan's seeable and enjoyable Dangal, me and the crowd stood up twice: ahead of unspooling Dangal and then again when Geeta Phogat wins a Commonwealth Gold, national flag goes up and all of us stood up. Me stood up for fear of being beaten or locked in like Aamir Khan in Dangal. At home me always stands watching films on youtube and TV. Sofa has been sold. Training to sleep standing. Appeasing bhakts. A shiver as me took the seat costing Rs.160 and Dangal came alive; lost me fear; laughed and guffaed as the first half of the film is fine; the second is not though me went tense on the seat edge as Geeta struggles to win the Commonwealth gold. Aamir carries well and the Haryanvi flavour is for the licking; open fields, the akhada and the jeering and cheering ...; 'achcha kal pannch baje' ahead of every Aamir move; the shot where Aamir asks, with a shade of pride, his daughters Geeta and Babita, the way they bounced two chokras, remains with you; that's the way for women in India to go; give it back to men and hard. Aamir can create a pleasurable fancy on the screen better than most; not an art film, for sure; but yet gets viewers on to his side; and the crisp, cherry dialgoue; Haryanvi aloo paratha times only sports and sports alone can offer; all sports; Bollywood tricks are there; but to be fair, Dangal enchants. Critics crib over the fake fights; yes they are; yes, impressive fakes; Rama asked, ' How do Aamir and the girls do it.' Today in The Indian Express, Dipti Nagpaul-D'Souza dwells on the issue. 'In February 2015, Indore-based Kripa Shankar Bishnoi received a call, asking him to train a film star Aamir Khan in wrestling for his next movie. Taking it for a prank, the coach of the national women's team hung up on the caller. A few days later, the call came again -- this time with more details thrown in, such as the title of the film, Dangal. In a week's time, he was in Mumbai for a meeting with Khan, film maker Nilesh Tiwari and a dozen or so crew members.' Perhaps, Dangal is close to classy Iqbal by Nagesh Kukunoor; lots of gaon cricket, pleasant; Naseeruddin Shah is awesome but takes care to be in the second row with Shreyas Talpade and Shweta Prasad in the front bench. Cricket toward the end is a farce like Indian cricket today. Perhaps Iqbal and Dangal are two good sports films from Bollywood. Dakhi, Shreya, Chiyu and Ganesh roll out chunks of Dangal dialogues. A Big Thank you Aamir for making me Happy. Am still in a Dangal.