'...kuch bhi hota hai'

'Hamare school mein kuch bhi hota hai; aur sab kuch sach hai,' said Shreya. Shreya talks. She needs a listener. She has put an ad in local papers. Response thin. On Thursday, Rama birthday, she cornered Ajoba in the sofa, talked. To ease the listening, she put in eats and drinks bought in Singapore. Her sister, Chiyu, is deep into eating anything the doctors protest with icecreams dipped in chocolates her choice. We were having cups of Walls strawberry icecreams with some foreign jams and were wowing...no talking. Yet, through the wowing Shreya came across. In her class is a student, Ravi, who has made some sort of a happening, never happened. In the final exam of Class 6, Ravi has no scores. The computerised report card reads: ZERO. Against every subject: ZERO. It did not impact Ravi. Ajoba never had so many zeros all his life. Marks did not matter. Football goals, as Ravi is a Barca fan and plays the game more than reasonably well. He has never missed a goal, Shreya said and added, that is if he is ever allowed near the goal. Most school teams fear Ravi. Mostly, Ravi kicks the ball out of the ground, in frustration. He is made that way. The class teacher wrote out complaints on his diary, requesting his parents to make a visit. Never did Ravi show the diary to his parents. The class teacher mobiled his mother. She came and told the teacher outside the class room: Please do anything to him. He does not listen to us. My husband is afraid of  him. Teacher said: But Ravi is your son. Mother came back: My son plays football at home, has left nothing uncracked. The Ravi issue rode up to the school principal in a confidential file. She has ordered a retest in all subjects. Now Ravi visits Shreya regularly to pass into Class 7. 'Kya karoon,' Shreya asks a nodding Ajoba. He thinks, not a possibility. 'Let him play football. Send him to Messi,' he suggested. Shreya responded: 'Ajoba pagal hai.' When the door bell squealed, in walked Ravi with a birthday cake for Aji. And Aji hugged him, Mohanlal style in Snehaveedu. Ajoba thought the talk was over. But Shreya did not turn off. She talked of a Ravi revolt and not something happening in Kashmir. Morning classes started. English teacher walked in, a strict, grim lady. Opened a yawning Shakespeare and some boring Thou art, silly poetry, when from the last bench flew a call: Kowa (crow); followed caws. Lady Teacher turned grimmer. Stared over her specs (she is a crow, says Shreya) when the entire class of 40 girls and boys, screamed in unison: Kowa, caw, caw... A temper losing point. The entire class is ordered out of the class including Shreya. They walked out. Some sat on the veranda while others strolled to the canteen. A few, including Ravi, went home. Laughs all over.  Ajoba asked: What did you do, Shreya. Me walked out for vada pavs. Chiyu listening to the Shreya show said: Wish our class teacher turns us out. 

Rama's Cognac Birthday

Hours ago when me was young (cant believe), me never went and thought beyond country liquor and sometimes Old Monk rum. Country liquor formed the inner line, Old Monk the outer line. There were quality drinks but me and the New Delhi government were down with fiscal deficits (still are), or better, a state of cashless-ness. Me could not afford it, had no rupees; New Delhi had no dollars for imports; sure enough, IAS-IPS-IFS homes had excess stocks of foreign liquor. But this hour, me has two bottles of foreign liquor, gifts. They stand on me writing table, blessing me like some gods. Sadly, me tank has hiccups, old age version. Beyond two pegs, the system stops. It was not so hours ago. Son Ganesh came up with Highland Park, 1768, Einar, single malt whiskey, after a US visit. 'You can have a foreign liquor bath on my birthday,' Rama said and she was somewhere near facts of the case. From Singapore, Shreya and Chiyu, presented me daru - liquor. Dakhi and husband Rajesh, called from Singapore Changi International Airport on me choice: Cognac or rum. Not having tasted Cognac and not knowing anything about it, me said Cognac. Maison Fondee en 1765, Hennessay, Very Special, Cognac. Free. And the cover has running history: Maison Hennessy has created extraordinary cognacs since 1765 and Hennessy Very Special represents the comite de degustation's unique expertise. Only the most distinctive eaux-de-vie are selected which are then carefully matured for several years in oak casks and skillfully blended to reveal their warm, full-bodied flavour. Savour the lively, fruity character of Hennessy Very Special, neat, on ice or with a mixer. (French literature bounces.) To go with the cognac, Dakhi has offered roasted cashew. Dakhi has always been considerate like her mother Rama. Being Rama's 62 birthday, born in Muattupuazha, Kerala State, Rajesh has brought from Changi Airport, light brown goggles. When Chiyu clamped it on Aji's face, Shreya mobiled, became a Whatsapp. This is Rama's first goggles and mighty proud she is. 'Everything looks dark,' she remarks and Chiyu chips in 'that's how it should be.' Rama has decided to sip cognac with glasses on. A Singapore note. Rama has gone into prayers which could last an hour and more. Then a temple visit, praying for Shreya and Chiyu. She needs them; she called every night Singapore to chat with them. And she is sure they will come in the afternoon for Cognac and lunch. 'We will open the Cognac in the afternoon,' she orders and me nods as it is her birthday. The lady in 1976, as wife, dreaded a bottle of beer. She prefers Breezers but today it will be Cognac neat. Me am writing this ahead of sipping Cognac, as after Cognac, it is Cognac hours. Door bell rings. Walk in Shreya and Chiyu with whistles and balloons. April 27, 2017. Happy Birthday, Rama. 

Who am me?

Long, serene summer noons with Busybee (Behram Contractor) are Rama-made chilled, thairchadam (curd rice with Chitale dahi). Am reading BUSYBEE: Best of 1988-89, illustrations by Behram's probably best friend Mario Miranda. In Remembering The Good Old Days, Busybee types as he alone can: 'Around this time of the year, I tend to look back. ...Four schools, two colleges, five houses, four newspapers. The first salary that I recieved. It was Rs.125 and the tragic part was that I did not get it on the day I should have - I got it 15 days later .......And the friends I made over the years. Fifty per cent of them are dead by now, no 70 per cent. But it is pointless looking behind. In life, you always look ahead, onwards to 1990.' Do not know if the younger generation of Mumbai journalists care to read him, a privilege of  'looking behind.' At 70 you look back and forward, lose direction, when Ganesh Natarajan mails me asking if Calcutta is still in me. Ganesh, will put down a few facts and you sort them out on your computer. Its all about street eating or breakfasting. Perhaps the oldest eatery on Yogi Nagar Road, senior to Yogi Nagar, is Shree Mahalaxmi Sweet and Pharsan Mart; many have come and gone, but Shree Mahalaxmi is steady. On Sunday mornings the cook at the shop is alone busy with Yogi Nagar asleep. Over a gas fire, he fries faffda and jilebi wrapped in street dust and sprays of spit as he ladles the faffda in something like cooking oil; his assistant churns out jilebis in oil and sweat in another warm, vessel. Some mornings, Rama and me are first in the line to chew up the salt-sweet mix with tea. Rama does not like it much but she goes along as she can bunk cooking. Thambi is upset when we do not visit his vada-dosa chutney-sambhar cycle stand. 'Enna Saar, idli-wada vendama,' he asks in wonder. Rama practicing Panchsheel picks up a few wadas and idlis. 'Numba idli saar,' Thambi says and today does not charge. In the 1950s, in Kottarakara there was Alamelu's Potti Shop near Munnu Randal Mukku (Three Lamps Corner) near the famed Ganesh, no Shiva temple. Dear grandmother, on Sundays would hand over two annas and me stood in front of the crowded shop. Spotting me Alamelu mami would walk up and ask: 'Kannadi Vakil Swami's Perana (Grandson of spectacled Vakil swami)? Me would nod my head and she would pack in old copies of The Hindu paruppu wadai and dosas for all of us, free. Me handed back the two annas. Counted as lawyer fees to my grandfather for old and future disputes. In Calcutta, in the 60s, there was the mishti dokan (sweet shop), off Lake Temple Road, for shingaras and rusagullas in tiny pots; me would dip the shingaras in rasagullas and forget home. Raja Anna used to take Vidya, Dakhi and Ganesh every morning to the sweet shop at the corner of Hazra Road for shingara, rasagulla and sandesh. A ritual they relate today with love. Raja Anna worked in The Institution of Engineers on Gokhale Road housing on the ground floor a chanachur shop. The entire office could be found at the shop, all times, and the manager sent the attendance register to the shop; he could not absent them as they were gherao days. Evenings, Raja Anna would supply the kids with chanachur, cheenabadam (groundnuts) and ice-creams while at home Rukmini Manni turned out murukkus. All for the kids. In Mumbai, me family grew on wada pavs, bhels, kulfis.... So Ganesh Natarajan, me has Kottarakara, Calcutta and Mumbai in me. In what proportions you may decide. A confession - Calcutta wafts.

Me India

Father and mother at home in Calcutta were religious. Every rite was performed. Every ritual observed. Mostly they would get up at 4 in the morning, light the diya in the puja room with walls of gods and goddesses, pray. Irritated me, never dared to protest. Father would come down hard. Me learnt cowardice. A second session started from 7 to 9.30 and none could breathe at home. Silence was ordered as father beat down shlokas and mantras. We were close to sighting Paramatman Ram. A third session in the evening. They went hard at me; me was happy outside home, unhappy at home; Calcutta was Maidan, Lakes, adda, beautiful Bengali women ... quietly flowing by like the dirty-brown Hooghly with its wooden boats and boatmen and steamers; became a confirmed Tamil Brahmin at the age of 9 when the Upanayanam was done over two days with me given doses of cow's urine. Many, many near and dear and distant ones were present. Father's lone son Brahmined. It was again a father decision. The home priest, Rangu Vadhyar, gave urine and dung in strong Hinduistic doses. Me never protested. Me learnt cowardice. Father buzzed me with holy books and till today, at 70, have not read a single holy book - Ramayana, Mahabharata, Gita or Narayaneeam. They did not interest me; they do not interest me; bore me; do not make any difference to me. Outside on Calcutta streets, peace of sports at the Maidan and Lakes; and that thrilled;  the Bihari bhaiya, tinkling a hand-pulled rickshaw, would softly hail a Siya Ramji ki if he knew you; and me knew some of them; at Hindi High School, there were morning prayers to Goddess Saraswathi  .....  Ya kundendu tushara hara dhavala ..... which me never prayed; in a crowd me escaped. At St. Xavier's College, Father P. Turmes taught me economics; never did talk of Jesus; introduced me to Abraham Lincoln and books; Bengali and Hindi, me had a touch of finger familiarity. When me quit Calcutta forever and parents far away, and thanks be to the dash of luck, plucked out the sacred thread threw it off Howrah Bridge. In Bombay, no god or priest bothered me; spent me time in bars, some second hand books mostly bought off Flora Fountain, lots of cigarettes and some typing of press notes as a journalist; sports was and is an obsession. Me was left alone. There was no Jai Shri Ram; working in the Financial Express saw some Tamils with red bricks, etched Shree Ram, rushing to Ayodhya; and me never understood. And retired in Mumbai, watch men and women, on morning walks, wear fearsome lal-tikas on foreheads, greet each other a Jay Shree Ram in threatening battle tones, dislike and disown all without Rams..... safe in my cultivated cowardice me watch from the window an easy going India turning hard in the May sun.... me India is absent. Astu. 

Black ibis

Pagoda and trumpet flower.




Van Udyan Marg abuts Dongri slum in Borivili (W); a short walk from Dharma Nagar, along Yogi Nagar, crossing Eksar Road and me touches Van Udyan Marg. A thin strip of road with three parks, sharing common hedges on one side and apartments the other. A group of blessed, green citizens have set up the three parks; they are separate entities with boards requesting public not to pluck flowers; wish they could also put a second board pleading for Silence. That may not be possible as we are not a silent lot; we did not pick up the habit from our English rulers; long ago a Japanese executive, over tea, said softly to me: Sorry, I like Indians except for their noise. Me agreed. Mobiles spewing bhajans are an added nuisance. But Rama and me have got used to it. Initially, one of the parks, with a blooming laburnum opposite the gates, charged Rs.2; entry is free now for all. The park has a central ground where young kids, on vacations, practice bowls and strokes; a paunchy coach gossips. Cricket is a humming burr. Park No 1 has four Asoka trees in flowers, purple bauhinias, trumpet flowers, bottle brush; pagoda trees in fragrant whites in the centre, silk cottons, a laburnum and many others me am not sure of. We stared at them, intoned prayers. Hope they live longer than us. Pray they live forever and a magpie robin agreed with a note. And Wednesday morning walking the Park in circles, a bird came across me eye-line. It was a black ibis (Pseudibis papillosa); a stray; a surprise; maybe it flew in from Borivili National Park in Borivili (East); mostly they move in friend groups; me spotted many groups on a visit to Gir. It landed in a swampy plot near Dongri outside the Park and sank into the tall grass. Quietly. Me did not spot it again. Yet a black ibis in Borivili (W) has not happened in walking years. Rama stared at its huge curved beak. A mobile could not catch it. The bird is in us. 

A Song 128

Sadaphule and jaswanthi.




Scraping an unsalooned head,
Tuka said: Satyam vadishyay;
Gamchaing raw chins
Kabira said: Which satyam?
Screams tilled
Arabian Sea,
Marine Drive,
morning strollers.
Told the day,
want to die;
Told the night,
want to die;
No reply.
Told the day,
want to live;
Told the night,
want to live.
No replies
to dohas and abhangs.
We were facts.
We are fiction.
They never came across:
A skinless Alphonso,
a peel-less banana,
sadaphules without flowers,
Mahabharat minus Bhishma,
Wars absent in Gita,
Pyres unescorted in Benares.
Familiar with
diyas without wicks,
candles without burns,
blown out
by Arabian Sea winds on the Drive.

Madhavi morning

Copper pod in a fine mood.











Charoli laughs at Yogi Nagar Road.






'17 years since I was married in a village off Solapur. I was 15. My son wants me to celebrate with cake cutting,' said Madhavi on Sunday. Married for five years, three children, husband dead; 12 years of non-marriage. Madhavi tale. Cold and crisp. She sat down, said, ' Uncle, bahut martha tha, peekey. Abhi main khush hoon.' Rama said, 'Cake kato.' In laws at the village karated Madhavi. Stress times. A youth time gone. An ancient norm. Yes. most women me knows including Rama, do not like drinks. But banning drinks (Madhavi is for a bandhifying liquor), does not help as illicit liquids and drugs fill the vacancies, making women more miserable. Concede Madhavi and Rama logic; but is there a way out of it all? Madhavi is on a short trip to her village to get a caste certificate for her daughter to get admission in a Kannada medium, nursing college; the young girl has finished Class 10 and wants to be a nurse (never heard anyone wanting to become a journalist) as doctors and hospitals will always boom; the medical community offers more prayers for new, unresearched diseases and less to solutions as they are not paying. The young lady does not want to study in Mumbai being weak in English; she is comfortable with Kannada and plans to live in a ladies hostel. Madhavi is proud. Her second son is in Class 10 and keen on farming; they have a small farm with a new borewell for watering vegetables and jowar. Madhavi showed us ipad pix of her green farm mostly looked after by her aged mother; the old woman puts in about 8 hours of hard work daily. Food is assured. On Monday, she took the train with her second son to Solapur and Rama prepared a hamper of lemon rice, Madhavi delights. A large hamper for the over-night journey to her gaon. Sunday she slipped in an akward query: Uncle, aap ka gaon kidhar hai? Two queries upset me: me gaon and me mother tongue. Me has not both and me told her so. Looking at me, Madhavi asked: 'Aisa kaisa.' For a reply said: Mumbai, mera gaon hai; Madhavi came back: 'Mumbai tho shahar hai.' And seeing me wan face she offered to take Rama and me to her village after rains when the brown earth grows a green skin. 'Gaon, kheti, phool, chidiya, achcha rahega. Gaon ka roti, sabji,', Madhavi was topping the offer. And open air on a khatiya. The last time on a open khatiya was a day and night on the banks of Narmada; eyes opened to a river flowing by with its many unsaid tales. On her trip Madhavi will plan the details as Rama has said YES. 

A Song 127

In the loft of Bedekar Stores,
in the folds of Borivili market,
two sparrows fed two chicks
yelling out of a hay nest;
father, mother
sped in and out
feeding mouths ajar;
Fans and lights,
switched off
for an easy bringing up.
Bhandarkar offered
a stool;
we watched.
He has been in it
every day,
when father and mother
thought up an apartment.
Clients in dimness,
dealing in Konkani Aam Papads,
became a clicking crowd.

Yogi and Hasan

At 11, the April sun was streaming in Borivili. Rama and me waited for an auto to the famed Borivili market to buy mangos for pickles. Vidya, Dakhi, Ganesh, Shreya and Chiyu have put in their orders. When me wants an auto, it does not come; or floats past with passengers. As sweat streamed us, an auto stood beside us, empty. 'Station, Borivili market,' said me and the young, UP Bhaiya with forked teeth, from Gorakhpur, nodded the head. At the red signal, the auto paused and me was surprised as in Borivili, traffic signals are a decoration for the police to pack in haftas. Everyone breaks the signal, if caught, oblige the police with a Rs.100 note. 'Time nahin hai,' is the reason. Nobody has time in Mumbai, no clock and no watch. And to be honest, Rama and me always had time and more for well near 40 years. As the red signal refused to turn green, the UP Bhaiya for Gorakhpur, asked if it was alright if we were dropped a bit away from the market. Didnt quite get the question; stared. Then the Gorakhpuri explained: 'Mere pass badge nahin hai, licence nahin hai. Police pakadega tho fine bharna padega.' Rama asked: Licence nahin hai? Then, Yogi, the Gorakhpur auto driver, said he had a 'gaon ka licence.' Then me told him, like some Samkara: 'O tho Mumbai mein nahin chalega.' Yogi turned serious, said he was not committing any crime. Just earning a day's expenses to live in Mumbai. He dropped us a few metres away from the market; we paid him Rs.30, the metre was running at designated speed, so he said. Perhaps, none lives in the midst of absurdity than a UP bhaiya. A nothingness is the Bhaiya norm. Nothing ever tears him up or her. In Mumbai, on Yogi Nagar Road, they are dressed in dirt and dust; spit and eat the same place; they are beyond desires; nothing matters to them; they can laugh; any problem earns a 'kya karoon saheb.' They are Yogis today, the Yogi who has taken over Modi in the media. Modi is out like Kohli. Yogi overtakes Maya. Yogi and his auto speeded away with a customer. And there is Hassan from Metro Workshop. With some nudging he came to repair the car of son Ganesh; the battery had run down, it had to be charged, he said and me did not understand. Handed over me mobile to Hasan to chat up Ganesh. Next day Hasan turned up, worried. A car customer came to Metro with a defective battery; he like all Mumbaikars had no time; there was a board meeting with some 10 Dubai smugglers and he had to rush; Hassan plucked out a running battery from a car stranded for repair, helped him and the Mumbaikar in turn promised to return the battery. 'Jadli se jaldi', the Mumbaikar emphasised. Battery has not come back. Hasan is chewing oily finger nails as the Boss will cut pay. Mobiles the number given, no response. A Mumbaikar has his and her own norms. A Mumbai absurdity. 'Ab kya karoon saheb,' he asked. Me scratched the April sun off me back; offered him a bottle of cold water and a cigarette. 

A Song 126

Hazy from Oberoi Rooftop.
A sun-stroked Arabian Sea,
lay flat, scratching heat boils, in April.
A fishing boat set out
from a Cuffe Parade fishing village
with Tandel, Tuka, Kabira.
Far off, eye-lined by a horizon,
Tandel,
in deep thought,
threw the fishing net,
hauled fish;
Tuka, Kabira put them back.
Yoing in-yoing out,
tired, dropped off.
White skies,
scalding waters,
cooked a squall,
the Met had foreseen.
Cows, cuts of cows,
mooing cows, jabbering souls of cows, bulls,
crashed,
sank the boat.
Evening crowds
lined up at Cuffe Parade,
for fish.
A tired sun,
switched on the air-conditioner,
to Tai notes:
Bola Vittal.
Paha Vittal.
Viewless from Oberoi Rooftop.

A song 125

A paan-tambaku stained smile,
Salim from Lucknow,
offered the second chair from the door -
a rite.
Wrapped a white cloth,
picked up scissors, black comb
for a bald, skull dressing.
Fingers twirled;
a twitch, a tic, a fright.
Salim paused.
Stepped out without a hair cut,
a beard trim.

Ajit and Niranjan

At around 7 in the morning stepped into Jain Dughdhalay for a litre of milk costing Rs.72. Ravi handed over the milk, took the cash and for a minute stared into a somewhere. Me stood and smiled; coming out of a trance, Ravi said, 'gaon ka yaad aagaya.' He comes from a Jharkhand village; a week since he returned to Yogi Nagar. That's the way it is for Niranjan, Ajit, Mohan and some of the attenders at the Milan Pharmacy; me dear friends in Yogi Nagar; Niranjan, Ajit and Mohan sell vegetables and in season Alphonsos or something close; they are from Benares and hail a 'Bhole Nath' when me meets them; the folks at the Pharmacy are from Palitana; those at the grain shops are from Udaipur; and there is a fruiter from Goraknath. Niranajan sent word Ajit had come. One day two years ago, Ajit, went; some guessed to Dubai; most did not know. One morning, two years hence, Ajit stood at Yogi Nagar corner selling kalingan and grapes. He is the same. The same pant, the same shirt, the same torn chappal, the same tambaku smile, the same mobile and Bhole Nath wrapped in a saffron gamcha (gamchas are must in Benares)  --- two years old and healthy. 'Dubai gaya tha, do baras,' he said as a carpenter. Morning 8 to 8 in the evening and then an air conditioned room holding six more for a bite and a sleep. 'Kamar thod dethe hain,' he said, work in the sun and cold. 'Aap ke gaon bahut hain, sab jaga,' he observed of God's Desert Country. Still cant buy the story of Ajit, being a carpenter; it is like me rejects his contention of not making any Dubai rials. Niranjan put matter in shape: Ajit is scared of friends asking loans and they going phut. His wife and two children are at Benares while he helps Niranjan; they had a business break up but now it is not a talking point; friends arbitrated; the talking point is Yogi of UP. Ajit Yadav and Niranjan believe Yogi has been put in power by Mulayam Singh Yadav. Ajit is against cow slaughter and uncomfortable with Muslims; for Niranjan, hates lose money. But it is an imagination of India Interior; they are not billboards for Amul; Bhojpuri comes easily to Niranjan even as he has his children in a English medium school at Borivili; this summer his wife and children will go to Benares for three months to be with a rippling out family of uncles, aunts, and the rest; and then there is kheti-bari; and bathing in Gangamayya. Most of their clients are foreign to their imagination; cricket, Sachin, Kishori Amonkar, democracy, high rise apartments, Trump .... do not crowd their grammar, minds. Hindi films yes with Bhojpuri films more. They are not news for English media. After the mango season, Ajit will go to his family and pray to Bham-Bham Bhole Nath. Me can only be an outsider to their imagination. A tenuous link: a mobile and Aadhaar.