Chiyu science

8x8 stared Chiyu from the question paper; with her ball pen wrote over the two digits; and they took a wider shape; examined the numbers from all angles; looked around for the answer; and some nerve in her beautiful, Ramanujan brain twanged; 72, she wrote; it was 64 she had told her mother on the way to school; Raha, beside her, put little thought into his answer, 68. The electronic bell screamed. Exams were over; Chiyu, Raha and two of their gang had four different answers varying from 68 to 76; walking to the school bus sighted the vada-pav walla and ordered vada pavs, 8x8 slipped away; Chiyu is made for vada pav or rather vada pav is made for Chiyu; she bit into the spicy food, climbing the bus; was the first to land it in her stomach; Raha had just about started and Chiyu asked for a bite; 'chutta hai,' said Raha; Chiyu looked at him, said; 'tumhara aur hamara blood group ek hai, tho kuch chutta nahi hai'; wet with a splash of science, Raha, gave her a bite. The bus stopped at her housing society; Chiyu got down; 'how did the exams go,' she asked and Chiyu said, Fine. 8x8 is 72. Ajoba and Aji laughed loud, hugged Chiyu. And her elder sister Shreya offers contrast; she gets the highest marks, discusses Potter with aunt Vidya. Her father has bought her the entire Potter set; Shreya has finished it while Chiyu has not touched a book. She plans to stack up the bulky books for a wicket to play home cricket in the summer holidays. For Chiyu it is Play, Eat, Sleep. For Ajoba she is Swami in Swami and Friends, a book he is into a record 20 times. Harry Potter, comics, mobile make the life of kids; they may not have heard about Swami or seen Swami films. But Shreya and Chiyu cannot be blamed; school, home work, class work, coaching classes, make adults of children; in Mumbai, mothers birth adults; Chiyu and her friends studying in government school could be luckier. And what exactly is childrens books? Childrens books are meant for adults, make them pleasant; children do not need them, being ever fun peppermints. Ajoba has read more kids books in old age than when young. Young wasted hours on Othello and The Stranger. Old age wears smiling wrinkles reading William, Swami and many, many more. And when film directors bring in children as adult counter-points, they make for Haldiram gulab jamuns. Abbas Kiarostami in The Wind Will Carry Us cameras a handsome, little fellow in oversize pant and shirt to match adults in search of the death of an old woman; the adults wait for death, the boy does not; and Abbas scanning spread out hills and valleys; there are two particular shots: a turtle is kicked over by an adult; the turtle struggles; gets back on its feet; a dung beetle rolling dung; The Wind Will Carry Us is a line from the Iranian poetess, Forough Farrokhyadi; an aged doctor remarks: in dying one misses life and nature. Perhaps Abbas is one world class director exalting children and childhood. In an interview, the Iranian film director talks of the quality of imagination in films. Children have the best quality, being natural not vitamined. It is evident in the film The White Balloon - Hapus aamras and puris of a story. Abbas is making a point. We are missing the point. Imagination is all. 

Dalai Lama song

'Every day is Sunday,
Life is a fun-day',
tweeted
Old Man to Lady;
'Where are you Old Day,
Today is not a dry day,
Lets go for a Campari today,'
the Lady returned.
Bunking Sunday Mass,
danced the Way,
to Hugs & Kisses
happy and gay;
ordered Camparis
rubbed noses,
Tibetan Way,
Dalai Lama Way,
sipped away,
chatting of Sparrow Ways.
With trees gone,
sparrows built nests in
folds of shawls lapping
laughing Dalai Lama,
in Loving Kindness
Way;
Lama let them be;
offered a bald head
for them to perch and
watch,
their nests and eggs;
for well over 15 days,
Dalai Lama sat, still and silent,
at peace,
a smile erasing wrinkles,
for eggs to hatch,
young days to fly,
fill Himalayan skies.
A Dhammapada Way
for Old Man and Lady
not to lose Way. ..


....TV screens live as Dalai Lama offered his wicket to cricket at Dharamsala,
walked away without waiting for umpire's say. Lady and Old Man applauded the Grace. 

7 mornings

7 mornings. At 7, a magpie robin drops in at my window and sings. Me listens. Not precisely at me window but atop a pipe beside the water tank on the terrace of C wing. Do not know if birds observe World Poetry Day; maybe they do not have to as they are always in poetry; do not know if the magpie is a lady or a gentleman; today, as it gave voice, a crow (who else), drove it off its perch; but the magpie robin made it again; trilled, thrilled and left for a tomorrow morning. At 5 morning, by me watch, in Borivili, the koyal calls first and not crows and then many koyals set tunes; at around 6, house sparrows make their trip with squeaks; poetry here, there, everywhere; and that free. Every day is Poetry Day. And then the mobile rings (it rarely is in action as none calls; the two regulars are Shreya and Chiyu, but growing up, the frequency drops. Law of Living. Chiyu demands Aam ras, Hapus variety; Ajoba and Aji get into action; Aji cannot make it to Chiyu, busy making the dabba for son Ganesh; Ajoba, stuffed with fresh currency notes (not demonetised pieces of paper, please note Arun Jaitley) by Aji, halts at Jain Dughdhalay, picks up Hapus ras, autos to Mandapeshwar Housing Society; Chiyu in wait with open door, and the little Lady goes for Hapus and two crisp dosas with onion sambhar, made by Aji in a rush. Odd mix, but that's it.  Ajoba and Aji are not Ajoba and Aji when they are with Shreya and Chiyu; a Loving Kindness. After a cup of tea, Ajoba at home descends into his sofa, details Aji and Aji calls up Chiyu for confirmation. Aji a tad upset over missing the action. She promises an evening trip with fresh supplies of Aam ras. Chatting, the door bell rang; Madhavi. She walked in with a 'Ma' on a smile. She had visited Mahalxami temple and bought a pix of Goddess Mahalaxmi for Rama; and then over tea, drummed a day out with her relatives. Siddhi Vinayak, Mahalaxmi, Mumbadevi and Haji Ali darga. 'Ma, sab bhagwan ko dekha, oti aur chadar chadaya; Dadar mein vada pav khaya; raat ho gaya ghar aane ko; maja kiya,' she told Ma. A yearly rite and this year is particular as daughter is sitting for SSC examinations at a Kannada village school off Solapur. All the papers have gone well. Rama placed the pix in her kitchen temple, lighted the diya, prayed.... Rama wants to go.   

Tomorrows for Sparrows

Old Man in italics. Twists, turns, curves .... and toothless laughs crumble the face. At the table, given by his mother, he is alone working with pencil and paper on a green plan .... Tomorrows for Sparrows. Every time a house sparrow squeaks at the window, Old Man drops pencil and paper, to talk; he knows them by face and habit; reminds him of the Malayalam film Ottal when a young kid asks his grandpa who taught the kuyil its call or the crow to caw; he lives alone with the family quitting after the Old Man plucked out the ceiling fan and air conditioner; he has holed the walls for sparrows to build nests; has hung up old pants for them to lay eggs in the wide pockets; saucers of water at corners for all - sparrows, crows, mynas....; has a hand fan and a wet towel to beat the heat; sometimes, they land on his bald head, when he sits still. That afternoon, Lady, climbed four floors to be with Old Man. He had invited her for drinks and lunch; Lady loves rum with coke and Old Man catered to Her temptations; and he loves a rum with Gold Flake while Lady prefers a cigar; paranthas, aloo and dal for lunch, made by Old Man in love with Lady and the Lady in love with Old Man. After rum sips, they sat over the draft of Tomorrows for Sparrows. The Lady knew a teacher at the municipal school on Eksar Road and some of the little boys and girls at school for mischief not studies; they rarely studied and parents cared less; no blames. The Lady distributed small pots to the children for sparrows to lay eggs; the kids got on to the idea and were promised pass marks in all subjects by the teacher if they brought in sparrows to the pots, kept on window sills and terrace nooks; less clean, municipal schools, unlike private affairs, are an opportunity; there is little discipline; offer a variety of waste for kids, animals and birds; kids did not bother teachers; in fact, the kids turn up at school before the bell in the morning and remain well after the bell in the evening; the Lady hooked four girls to her idea some time ago with the teacher okaying; mynas and others plan to join and the municipal school could get some recognition; something like terrace vegetable gardens; both could be tagged. In italics, Old Man and Lady detailed their plan over a couple of pages; italics veered into scrawls. They posted their effort with by-lines to the leading newspaper of Borivili. Old Man and Lady were sure their bright idea would click, earn them sparrow marks. After a week, a rejection slip. 

A SONG 123

On World Poetry Day, Tuka and Kabira posted A Song on FB. No likes, no comments, no shares. They downloaded their song, jointly written, in abhang-doha style, folded it, put it in a cover, Speed Posted it, without address. The post office did not charge them as there was no address. The cover lies today in the Lost corner of GPO. Heard snatches of it in the film Awakenings of Rober de Niro.

Love is a kind song.
Song mobile,
birdsong,
in many tangs,
a whisper in a gong.
Gods and all want it;
earth has it;
earth bells earth songs,
lost in muds and swamps.
Sea and wind bring it,
sea song,
wind song,
sun song,
moon song.
On the Drive,
Tuka song, an abhang,
Kabira song, a doha;
strung together,
a song with no honks.
Love is a kind song.

Saraca asoca

An Ashoka, Saraca asoca, on Karuna Road is booming. Me stood and watched the moustachioed,
yellowish orange flowers; chatted with it, a one-way affair, felt its oblong, slightly rough leaves; waited. The tree stands near the Mamta Nursing Home, birthing nearly half of Borivili's new generation; every youngster is born here; in Marathi it is called Jasundi. Perhaps, the lone Saraca asoca in the area. There is talk and write these days of bird watching; me am happy; me is now into tree watching, standing before trees, relishing the first spring, brown leaves of a peepal; red flowers of a coral tree; and then on Link Road spotted this tall, old man with a smile crinkling the Gandhian spectacles hanging on to his eyes. He stood before shallow pink flowers of a Spotted Gliricidia; softly pulled out a camera from his canvas bag and took down the tree. The tree has a number as all trees on Link Road. 'These days I click all the trees, match them against google pics and learn a bit about them to become their friends. And anyway, they wont be her for long; like condemned prisoners in jails, they wait with numbers on their trunks, for the earth machines to mow them,' the old man said with laughs intact. Yes, he is being factual. Me has read a Brihan Mumbai Municipal Corporation notice, signed, stuck to a peepal, detailing the number of trees to be hacked and the number to be replanted, which never happens. Borivili (W) is being dug, dug by all, you, me and the world. Electricity and telephone companies, Metro, road contractors have dug up Borivili (W); nothing is left undug; nothing is left to dig; a new money-making game with fresh currency notes. Morning walkers shuffle around speeding cars and bikers; they have no rights except that to be pushed around; have yet to see a car driver or bikers waiting for the old to cross Link Road. On a Sunday morning, Yogi Nagar Road branching off Link Road, is empty as all the car and bike owners are sleeping in or on their vehicles; on this stretch parents love their cars more than their kids. Of many peepals, the dear one stands opposite Dental Hub. This morning, it had golden orioles, coppersmiths, crows.... Rama and me stood, appreciated the gesture ... as birds may not be without trees. Labernums are into yellow flowering.... And then some quiet on a green, wooden bench. When friend Jonty, the labrador, rolled up, climbed on the bench, gave a Sunday licking, lay down .... in a Sunday happiness. 

Oru Muththassi Gada (Grandma's Mace)

Sipping Highland Park, Einar, 1798, single malt whiskey on rocks, Rama and me watched Oru Muththassi Gada (Grandma's Mace). Thought the film gave a better kick than whisky. If film is entertainment, which it surely is, Oru Muththassi Gad is a laugh, many laughs; belly versions; about a laugh list a boorish Muththassi puts down in a book for her friend and relative Soosamma to get done; Soosamma help is critical and high tech - Internet, Facebook, whatsapp and all that. The two hour film directed by Jude Anthany Joseph is based on a tale of Nivin Pauly. Muththassi donned by Aluva and Mumbai located 65 year old Rajini Chandy, a first timer in the industry, doing the part, enjoying the part, helping the audience to many, many parts. 'Oru first class change,' Rama said and we are planning to see it again. Chandy runs a ladies gym in Aluva, says wikipedia and is a Mumbai citizen. Top ladies refused to do the Muththassi role and the director gambled with Chandy. People have called the lady up and want her to be not in a saree but the Christian white dress Malayali women wear in Kerala for church. Me also wanted to call her, did not have her number. Will search for her in Aluva on me next visit. Bhagyalaxmi as Sussamma stands up well and reminds me of a dear, old aunt - Pavuakka. Suraj Venjaramudu is moving away from an unwholesome comedian to a fine actor; he does not yell or pour speeches; he is contained; Mohanlal and Mamutty can pick a few points. A huge relief after the crap - Kammatipadam - with Vinayakan needing a course in films. For me, Oru Muththassi Gada belongs to the genre of Snehaveedu, Ustad Hotel, Achan, Manasinakkare, Oru Cheru Punjiree... What is entertainment for me? Its a Kerala saddhi served on banana leaves, in the traditional style, no particular story line, laughs and odd pleasant twists, no violence, no brawling and yapping... In Oru Muththassi, Vineet Sreenivasan gets an award for a lifted story and is clipped by his girl friend. There is nothing intellectual about these films, they could be improved upon ... they make living and watching films a worthy, saintly act for me. On Tuesday planning a second look with Rama preparing Chitale gulab jamun and khamam dhokla. Now keen on Olapeepi. Again about grandmas.  

Irom: A pranam

When Irom lost in Manipur, realised India is not anymore Gandhi land. Shut down TV and switched on Facebook where some good Samaritan had posted ads of Brooke Bond Red Label Tea. Squeezed into youtube films, they pop up and mostly are better than films. A Muslim lady opens the door of her home, invites an aged couple, Hindu for sure, for tea. The offer is put down by the male in white dhoti and his sareed, tika, wife, tired after a day out. Muslim lady goes about her work, a tad upset and who wont be, like Irom perhaps. With no immediate relief, the couple accept the tea offer. The Muslim lady smiles, offer them cups of Red Label tea with the gentleman pleading for a second cup, on offer. Doubt if it will happen in India 2017 homes; like the way we have, decently and democratically, kept out Irom. A second ad talks of an Alzheimer lady sitting at a table, blank; a young, a neighbour, offers her a cup of Red Label; the lady accepts with a smile and mistakes the lad for her son, settled in US, for making the tea; the tagline pleads for caring our neigbour. Will we care for Irom, since she has lost and is a zero today. Maybe, we will forget Irom. She plans to go south; she knows better; but Manipur she should be in. Am nothing to advise Irom. A young kid helps his littler sister with a cup of Red Label tea, in the third ad. Some little Manipuri child will offer her tea or it could be some dabhawala on the Highway, a book written by Sudeep Chakravarti on Journeys Through a Fractured Land. Sudeep writes: ... As Singhajit politely listens to what he already knows of his youngest sister, the professor maps a sort of trajectory of the protester in the making. He talks of how Sharmila wrote poetry in school, how she would travel everywhere on a cycle listening to people talking about human rights. Sometimes, she would display a stubborn streak of independence. She was once failed in school because she insisted on writing her exams using green ink. The professor talks of how she used to be found in Sanamahi shrines, lost in thought..... Later as an intern with Human Rights Alert in Imphal, she was asked to go and meet a young tribal woman, a Kabui, who was raped by security forces in front of her father-in-law. It happened after a skirmish between insurgents and security forces near her village. When this girl related her experience to Sharmila, the professor says, it triggered an internal change in Sharmila. Then the Malom incident happened in early November 2000. And Sharmila the protest icon was born. ..'So the state has created a living martyr,' I say to Professor Lokendro. He nods vigorously, and bursts into his trademark cackle.' Today we have rejected the martyr. Did we not shoot down an Old Man. 'Do you want an honest answer? I don't consider myself an Indian, is a line in Highway. 

A Malayalam film....

Wednesday March afternoon stood still to watch a classy 2015 Malayalam film: Ozhuvidivasathe Kali (An Off-day game). Had heard about the film, read of it in The Indian Express, never got to see it as the film had a limited release same as no release. In recent times, Malayalam films are mostly crap care of Mohanlal, Mammootty and Sreenivasan. Ozhivudivasathe Kali by director Sanal Kumar Sasidharan based on a short story of the same name by R.Unni changes all that with rare cinematic craft. Yes it is TOPS. With crisp English subtitles, anyone can see it, if so inclined to serious films. Five men on election day go on a forest trip, drink and chat life: the democracy of sex; of one of them being a black skin (born black, live black, die black); a bare body, yellow dhoti chasing a female who cooks jackfruit curry to go with the drink and gets slapped out of sex; she demands payment for cooking and the drunk pay her;  a childhood game of robber, police, king, minister and judge; and the hiccup end. Yes, it is a Wow satire on today's politics where Aadhaar is a must for hungry children and women and living is dangerously anti-national. Questions are banned; answers given. There is force in sex, chats a fellow as his friend talks of sex democracy; then the issue of violating one's wife stands up and there is trouble. Best to keep in mind they are on drinks when men turn sober; they run short of kicking liquids and Namboodiri goes to town to get a bottle promising five votes to a political party: five votes for a bottle, the going rate. Every ism is knocked and living gets a drunken clarity. Crisply edited with the end hauntingly abrupt will make me see it a second and a third time. wikipedia says the film has only 70 shots with the second half of the film being just a single shot. Do not know what it means but the camera moves easily and the sounds of Kerala forests and rains stay with you; the film credit lines a group called Artifical rain makers and they sure have done the job delighting Rama who understands Kerala rains, Alleppey rains, in particular. A 100 minute film, no songs, no dishum, no sex .... just think of it a Kerala film and without Kerala. R. Unni short story should be worth reading and Rama promises to do so. There are no best actors, no best actresses, no comedians .... the film director Sasidharan is all, an entirely director work; a rarity. Yes, me repeats, Malayalam film art has flown far far away from Adoor. Congrats Sasidharan.   

Female Paradise flycatcher

March. Pink bougainvillea in plenty at churches and housing societies. After ensuring sunlight for the day, the sun is in a deep snooze in bunches of bougainvillea, taking a day off. Sun, moon and stars cannot be at work every day, they do have a human rhythm. 'Dont believe your yarns,' said the Lady to her friend, Old Man. 'Have verified the report,' said the Old Man. 'How can sun, moon and stars take a day or night off. You are as usual wrong,' hit back the Lady. Flying fox were snoring upside down from rain trees and that's when they spotted a female Paradise Fly Catcher, glistening in shards of sun on a badam in the housing society. That does not happen everyday in Borivili (W), a Paradise flycatcher, conforming to Dr. Salim Ali description. Female chestnut above, a crest on a black head. 'Where's her partner,' asked Old Man and Lady thought of flying around to spot the male with its long, white tail. Otherwise, it was an ordinary day with crows, squirrels, house sparrows and an occasional extended musical cheep of a magpie robin; Old Man has found them atop water tanks or bare trees. 'More should be coming,' hoped Lady walking to the Primary School, on a holiday, for SSC examinations; her friends were all at home playing or in bed for at least a week, the time it takes SSC examinations to end. But this sun and moon taking a break rumbled in the heads of Old Man and Lady. 'Right I will tell you my source. The flying around female Paradise flycatcher. Its not some eclipse. Its a day off,' detailed Old Man. Lady could not trust as everything else was fine; school buses, cars, bikes, chanting walkers, silent walkers, runners, mobilers were all there as usual. They were all in the ritual Mumbai rush to schools and offices, to be on time reporting to bosses. 'All right, I go with you. But the sun and moon cannot be sleeping the whole day and night. What will they do when they wake up,' inquired Lady. That thumped Old Man as the female Paradise flycatcher had flown away to her mate. Nests had to be built, eggs laid, a new generation put on show. Everything else can wait. 'There's not a tree in LIC Colony having nests; the exception being the dirty stick homes of crows. He is no architect, has no taste; more like the monotonous cement poles of high rises, all the same,' said the Lady. 'You know why sun, moon and stars have taken casual leave? I have an answer,' said Old Man to add: 'There's nothing interesting on the earth. For eons they have played with mud, trees, birds, kids. Now they are not; or in short supply; its like staring into an absent mirror. Humans are boring.' NO, said the Lady softly. For me you are ever interesting, Old Man. And they held hands, palm in palm, walked away.  

Viola Davis

Films, films, films over the last few days. Hacksaw Ridge, Manchester by the Sea, Fences, Moonlight, Loving, Salaam Bombay, Private Life of Ryan, Help, Lion, Florence Foster Jenkins, Doubt ... son Ganesh has a problem feeding films. Sitting alone in the evenings glued to art of films as Rama goes for her walk. Insist on English sub-titles as me not good at American and British lingo. Viola Davis blows me away. Nothing of that sort has happened to me. Have seen three of her films and every time she cries, me cries; she laughs, me laugh; she silent, me silent. In Fences there is the shot of the Lady near the clothesline murmuring Jesus and then that line by Denzel Washington: Fences keep in and out. Reminded me of Frost lines: There is something against a wall... Me muse: Do we need fences? And then the silence of Viola when Denzel confesses to an affair.... Me thought Meryl Streep top class; today me changes; it is Viola Davis. She does not need words, no dialogues nor splintering action. She stands and sits in Help and alters me. Yes, every art is personal; every appreciation is personal. In many ways her eyes and body shuffles remind me of Smita Patil. Sure me am going to be laughed at. She deserved the Best Actress award in Fences with the Best Actor going to Denzel; the Best Film, Moonlight. But thats okay. Lion and Salaam Bombay could be said to be about kids, street kids; Shafiq Said as Chaipau in Salaam Bombay and Sunny Pawar as Sheroo in Lion... anyone can spot on Mumbai streets; they dance to Bollywood numbers, stare and dream of being Shah Rukh Khan in Raees... they are leftovers of society. Yet, when it comes to children me places Durga in Ray's Pather Panchali at the top. Do not know why; maybe, everyone in the art piece likes Apu and none Durga including Ray. Pather Panchali is Apu and not Durga story. Acting is perhaps just a way of being, mostly in quietness; films, painting and sculpture do not need verbiage; they need paints, stones, camera and lights with little or nothing being said. And a top class film urges the viewer to make up tales; viewers become directors and script writers, like it happened to me watching Viola Davis in Help. Am thinking of a film on bais working at Mumbai homes with Madhavi, our housemaid, being played by Viola Davis; the script will not have more than 20 words. After all it does not need words to dream. And dreams are free like mangos and jackfruits at LIC Colony. Literature is unwieldy with its alphabets and music bores with notes and noise, even quality noise. Anyway camera storytelling does not need words; in his Triology Ray dwells silently and then gives up with his last few films like Agantuk crammed with chatter. A film director is a creator, a better one than God. At least, me admits to a change. Every time son Ganesh walks in, me waits for a pendrive full of films. Films excite me; books and sports can wait; anyway, nothing waits for a 70 year old.