Foto

Foto is a kids film for elders. Suits me. A 90 minute film directed by Virendra Saini in 2007, had not heard of the film. Searching amazon movies for Naseeruddin Shah movies, one slipped on Foto, fell for the history of films told to a kid, Foto, by Naseeruddin Shan and Tom Alter, the librarian, with books on film industry in a library always open. Shots go along merrily. Foto talks more to pigeons than school friends; is into painting and all that, though till date, has never come across any such kid. Maybe, there are; Foto in specs does not impress as Durga in Pather Panchali or the little fellow, Ishaan, in Tare Jameen Par. Yet, one went along with Naseebabu (a confession: for me there are two Masters: Om Puri and Naseeruddin Shah) talking to Foto of films, film making, film history. Long shot, near shot and the director as Magician. The first film (a piece of news), of some five minutes, is Arrival of a Train at La Ciotat in 1895 by Lumiere brothers; a black and white film of a steam engine huffing into a railway station; smoke all over; Foto and me enjoyed the shot; more like an easy sip of iced gin. The first Indian film, Raja Harishchandra by Dada Saheb Phalke. A leap to the Great Hope, Charlie Chaplin, in The Kid. Can film industry ever miss on Charlie Chaplin? From there it is cycling Italian roads. Bicycle Thieves in 1948 by Vittorio De Sica; 'isko bolte hain neo realism,' explains Shah to Foto. Comes the run across fields of palas grass by Durga and Apu, alerted by the chuffing of a steam engine, staring at the wonder in Pather Panchali of Satyajit Ray. Khushwant Singh went to sleep watching the Ray film; but for Naseeruddin Shah, Ray is tops. From Lumiere's train to Ray's train. Have our directors done with trains and the clang, clang? Felt easy, delighted. Have seen the film references made by Shah to Foto. Ratna Phatak explains editing as Shah talks of shots and the world of imagining. Cinema is magic and the magic can be felt in Foto. Stirs a desire to direct a film or act in a film or see a film shoot. That will not happen. Saw Pather Panchali for the manyeth time. Thank you. Foto.
Thank you for a nice, Tuesday evening. 

Dalai Lama

May 31. Express Adda in The Indian Express, Journalism of Courage. Two pages of Dalai Lama with the power elite of India says: 'Prayer doesn't bring a peaceful world. We can pray for a thousand years and nothing will happen.' At a second place Dalai Lama dwells on the meaning of 'Om Mani Padme Hum'; the mantra is the manifestation of Buddha's compassion.' Dalai Lama is great, holy; or at least thats what the power elite says; and there are his followers, ordinary humans, Tibetans, who see god in Dalai Lama. Today, after part-reading Express Adda, could not manage the entire stuff, felt disappointed. Me prefers a Jane Goodall trying to understand chimps at Gombe Stream Reserve, Romulus Whitaker giving a good name to cobras at Agumbe, Arun Kolatkar poeting Jejuri and Gandhi with bare hands cleaning the streets of shit to Dalai Lama and a Ramana Maharshi. Do not satisfy. For some 37 years, went to office in locals, BEST buses and walked, not having cash for taxis. In Mumbai locals, pancaked in a crowd, with nose stuck into the arm pits of a fellow traveler, toes ushaped by another, me tried to pray, prayed; nothing happened; in 1970 it was easier in a local than in 2007. In 2017 do not go near a train, bus or car. Walk. Grandmas in Kottarakara and Ashramam village, prayed twice every day with Godly indifference to show. Has Dalai Lama been able to get the power elite to protest the hacking of banyans and peepals at Churchgate for the Metro? Dalai Lama's karuna and mahakaruna are irrelevant to most of us, scarred in some way or other. Ramana Maharshi somewhere says,' What has to happen will happen, what has not to happen, will not happen.' If that be so and me am in no position to question the sage of Tiruvannamalai, then why religions, saints, and the rest? They surely do not define a stillness? And does Dalai Lama matter to a farmer hit by drought, a poor going hungry or a middle class me doing nothing. Is not the Dalai Lama being diplomatic when he says: 'The media has an important responsibility. It should report all that is happening - murders, rapes - but at the same time if the news is always negative, then the reader may start thinking that basic human nature is negative and the future of humanity is doomed. So, we must report on whatever is happening but at the same time, we must occasionally provide readers with something positive.' Am reasonably sure, it makes not much sense to Anant Goenka and Raj Kamal Jha. For the power elite, an outing. Sorry, His Holiness Dalai Lama. Nothing makes sense any more.

A Song 135

At Marine Drive
on Arabian Sea,
Tuka and Kabira
have no waters to jump into,
no trees to hang from.
Neither living,
nor dying,
wait for Metro,
to fall under.  

Of Olds

Bikes and cars overtake Old Man and Lady on LIC Road without a sorry. Old Man and Lady always give way to school shut kids on laughing cycles. Olds join them. None misses them when they skip a morning or evening grounded by weak knees and misplaced walking sticks. Most chai and bun kiosks hold in safe custody their wooden, walking sticks for the two Olds to gather as and when they recall and need walking sticks bent at the top. Browns, no blacks. Tick, tick the sticks walk with them the wavy tarred roads. Under the banyan beside Karuna Hospital, they rest mornings after chais at Bhagwan Chai Bhandar; Bhagwan has been crowd-funded by residents of IC Colony to update the kiosk to a Chai Bhandar with pavs, Parle G, Britannia Marie, veg and non veg warm puffs at Iyengars. Bhagwan may miss the sun and moon but not the Olds. They are always his first customers, bauni customers. Today morning Old Man is on a Wills Filter and thought. 'Are you out,' asked Lady. Old Man nodded many nos. Said: 'What happens to all the grandpa stories I hold,' he asked as Old Man had no grand kids to share tales with. They are far away in California, US citizens. He has not seen them for ages. Early mornings, Old Man sits up in bed, unloading stories for butterflies to take and fly away. No other takers. Today, a myna breakfasted on a few butterflies. Stories are lost in transit. That has put down Old Man. 'Maybe, one day or night there will not be grand pa-grand ma stories for kids; there may not be any kids,' said an emotional Old Man to the Lady. Her grandma fables have been shared with kids at the missionary school and forgotten. 'Its like that. There wont be grandpas and grandmas in the future; you may find a few in rest homes,' she mused not without regret. Old Man lighted a second Wills Filter and said: 'Did our gods and goddesses become grandpas and grandmas? Did they sing songs for their grandkids? No Holy Book mentions grandpa-grandma kahanis. Did Ram and Yuddhishtra roll out their dishoon-dishoon to their grand kids? Ram singing Ram. Grandpas, grandmas have not a para in any Holy book. They are packed away to forests.' Old Man and Lady have no forests to go as there are none. How long will they be on LIC Road? Lady threw a piece of pav in the air, smiled at a crow snatch. 

Of films ...

These days cant see films as there are none. A class of male and female directors unroll cameras for themselves, for critics and foreign awards. They make good films, sometimes fine, critics applaud them, bag foreign awards. Something akin to English-language writers in India, keen on Booker and not an Indian audience. Ruskin Bond could be an exception. Also the Indian language writers keen on a local audience. An incestuous square or circle with most ruled out as no theatres screen non-commercial films; all or most of them are box office flops. Wonder a film is made for whom? So what does me do? Me repeat watch old films; Hindi, Malayalam, Bengali, Tamil and sometimes Marathi. Cant view them beyond five minutes. Switch off TV. Guru Dutt, Raj Kapoor, Dilip Kumar, Dev Anand, Amitabh, Rajesh Khanna, Uttam, Sivaji.... do not hold me today as they did yesterday. Honestly, they bore me. But Rama is different. She has watched Lalettan and Mammukka films many times over and still enjoys them. Kiridam of Lalettan she has seen at least a dozen times; me saw it once and today cant. Ganesh can retail old Hindi dialogues of Amitabh and puts on their music. Dakhi recalls every scene of Shah Rukh Khan films. Dont tell her anything critical of King Khan. She will mow you. Some DNA defect in me. For a change, we sat to re-watch Anbe Sivam of Kamal and Madhavan. Relished the first 41 minutes of the slightly over two hours film..... jigged with the song Machchi, Machchi... Suffered the rest. The film clicked with Rama. A day after, late in the evening me re-re-watched the initial 41 minutes. Script is tight, chuckle humour, perhaps Kamal at his best with a surgically, stitched up face making the fellow handsome; no love scenes, thanks be, in 41 minutes; looking into a mirror, Kamal remarks: handsome. The two are caught in a Orissa cyclone in Bhubaneshwar; wind down to a peepal shady, rain drippy Ichchapuram railway station to catch a non-existent train to Madras; Kamal on a stone bench throwing stones at a puddle as we do when Madhavan squats on the stones; Kamal plucks one out from the seat of his pant. Done in style. And switched on to Ottal, a Malayalam film about a grandpa and grandson. Missed out on the needless last 10 minutes of a 90 minute film. The film entirely shot in Rama's Kuttanad is something me will see again and again, when the mood is on to hear the call Valya appachai OOO... airing the backwaters.    

A Bond walk

On a morning or an evening two hour hobble in LIC Colony, me am a Ruskin Bond minus the imagination and writing skills. The LIC Colony road is a wavy circular path; Karuna Road and Shree Ayappa Mandir Marg form blessed parts. Trees and trees; flowers and flowers; we know each other, not our histories nor our names. Me prefers it that way; think, they also like it that way; a hug sometimes in the mood, a kiss and me stumbles along. It did not happen the next day. Since 1995, me am an irregular regular and after 22 years, we miss each other if we do not hullo when we meet. Do not know who seeded the trees; some say it is a part of a development reduced forest; the walled LIC Management Development Centre has wide grounds and many trees but me am a security risk, denied insurance, entry not allowed; in rains, the Centre puts up a board: Beware of snakes. Koyals plenty but has not gone beyond clicking crows; they fly off.  Aeons ago they were not scared, today not so. Yet, this area is the treest in Borivili (West). And me again becomes Bond chewing cud. Bond writes in Our Trees Still Grow in Dehra: 'So this is old Dehra of mangoes and lemons, Where I grew beside the jackfruit tree, Planted by my father on the sunny side, Of the house since sold to Major-General Mehra. The town's grown hard, none know me now or knew. My mother's laughter. Most men came home as strangers. And yet, the trees my father planted here, these, Trees - old family trees - are growing still in Dehra.' And me came up against a jackfruit tree bent over a housing society wall on LIC Road (let the name be) with jackfruits still in suspension. Yes, in Kottarakara where me was born, there was a jackfruit tree and grandmother made pushukku of the fruit. Is the jackfruit there? Took out me mobile for a click; these days am into clicking with a half-working mobile, talking to myself of back light, cut light and the many other lights friend Paul Noronha talks when on the camera. With all the green circulating in me, re-read Tales of Fosterganj and Maharani of Bond. Reading them is like resting on wooden benches in empty parks; LIC Road has no resting places. Wrap of compassion. Fosterganj is Bond Malgudi. Maharani is a part happening. In the woods of Himalayas. Bond has enjoyed living in Landour, Mussorrie, for 40 years and thankfully is still there. And with trees, birds and animals, there cannot be politics; nothing dense and intellectual. Bond is easy. A glass of matka water in May. An Amul ice-cream. His father planted trees in Dehra, son is sowing tales, sewing ordinary tales in ordinary souls. 'And when all the wars are done, a butterfly will still be beautiful,' Bond writes. Now waiting for his autobiography: Lone Fox Dancing.

Astu: A second viewing

River bank, perhaps in Pune. Appa, an Alzie patient, and a girl kid asleep on the side of a sleeping elephant. A breeze nudges a peepal. For the second time, an afternoon spent with Mohan Agashe (Appa) and Amruta Subhash (Channamma) in Astu on Amazon Movies. Tears did cloud as in some strange act of contrapuntal direction, every decline in an Alzie mind (or is it soul), clinks with a rousing Sanskrit quote on a realised soul, an 'Earth in meditation'. Maybe, me am wrong but Astu (So be it) has a fresh manner telling a story. Yes, the camera shoots softly. Alzie mostly is non-violent. No trick camera. No high decibel noise. An Alzie quoting Sanskrit shlokas, Tao and Zen sharply contrasting with an Appa floating swifly away to a somewhere.... on an elephant without chains. Mohan Agashe profile says everything, subtly. Is an Alzie equivalent to a gyani? There is horror in the derailment of Appa; it frights; scary. Mohan Agashe and Channamma wrap me; Channamma does not know of Alzie but is familiar with God. She drops at Appa's feet. Me, after the film, felt like an Alzie. Astu recalls the Tamil bhakti verse: Manabhi manam vittu, thanabhi nindravarkku, Aiyan aaduvar, thalam poduvar.... (Aiyan dances and sings to an alone human, empty of shame). At some place Mohan Agashe spells out the Sanskrit equivalent... is Mohan Agashe, the Alzie, a realised soul? Astu culls any heaviness in the telling; the show is all Appa walking behind an elephant and sitting atop an elephant without chains, a bell round its neck tinkling through the film. Elephants have long memories, say wildlife experts; no Alzies like Appa. A second contrapuntal act. Comprehensive acting of an Appa by Mohan Agashe and Amruta Subhash, part owner of the elephant. How many like Agashe have we? When Appa ultimately folds his hands to the space and sky above ... me says Astu... Thathastu. So be it. Alzie or realised soul. Then what is Kismet. How does Kismet fit into the eternal crossword. In a shot, Appa helps his grand-daughter with a Marathi cross-word, a relief to the family. Astu perhaps to Kismet. A film for India 2017 turning intellects into Alzies on their way home, if there one. Appa is taken home by his daughter, unaware? Appa seems more comfortable with the female elephant. Astu. 

Chankaran

Chankaran. On Sunday morning at the Tilak Udyan, Rama did the namkaran of the watchman of the Tilak Udyan. With palm on his head, she named him Chankaran, transacting Sunday smiles. Not Sankaran. Rama wanted to present a rose but Chankaran objected to plucking a rose on a still, Sunday morning. We were at a comfy, wooden bench and Chankaran walked over with a smile and a tail wag. Plonked himself at me feet for a head and body massage. He smelt fresh. He took out of his pockets a Parle G and shared it. The function was overseen by crows and mynas. Chewing a Parle G, he talked of his birth at Tilak Udyan and his bringing up by the public in shanties outside. 'They are kind folks,' he remarked. 'Every Sunday, they offer me a lunch of fish and meat, sometimes biryani and that suits me. My workload is not heavy as the walkers are all decent,' he added. Brings me to the two gentlemen who got me into loving Nature: Kishor Rithe of Amravati and K.Venugopal of Business Line, Chennai. There was some reluctance on wildlife writing in a business paper. But Venugopal, Sir as me always calls him, agreed. Business Line foot the bills as me went with Kishor Rithe into forests; Varad Giri took me to Western Ghats; Nishi Bahu offered technical know-how with some fun; Rishikesh Chauhan of Bombay Natural History Society to Point Calimere. Me sure am lucky. An afternoon, Sir called up from Chennai; 'please meet my father in Mumbai,' he said. An unpleasant job but orders are always obeyed. Met G. Kasturi on the fifth floor room of Kasturi Buildings at Churchgate. 'Like the  wildlife pieces; after all a business paper is not all about Sensex,' he said. Chat over, we went our ways. Frontline started by G.Kasturi began with some fine journalism by experts on wild life; with full page colour pix; there are some who still cherish old copies of Frontline before it became ordinary as the mass of mags at the newstands. English language newspapers in the 50s, 60s and 70s did give space to wildlife. The Statesman, Calcutta, ran the famed M. Krishnan column. Thanks and thanks again.  

Holy Cow

Tsering Wangmo Dhompa in A Home in Tibet writes: '... a story does not have to make sense.' Me bloggings make no sense. But me blogs like prayers without faith. Dhompa writes of fear, the Mao ghost fearing her land; in me country, a mooing fright of the Holy Cow. Every time a Holy Cow walks by, Old Man is frighted into stillness; Lady, cold under a May sun. Do not know how Old Man and Lady walked into me head but they are there always, particularly when me walks the Life Insurance Corporation (LIC), colony; Old Man and Lady are LIC insured but not against the Holy Cow. A silence on LIC Road as none wants to talk of them; the two have no autobiographies nor even proper biographies with references. They have been banned. All know them; refuse to say Hai, afraid of the Holy Cow. In a sense, they are weird; are they married? none knows; some know but wont talk. They have been around much before the IC Church was built and LIC Road laid; that could mean a 100 years old. That cant be. At one time, they were part of the script, the show; they never went to any god; they seeded trees, looked after nests and these days are into supplying mobiles to bats (flying fox on rain trees), magpie robins, crows, warblers; 'Pagal', mooed the Holy Cow and they were dropped from the LIC crowd; unsure of the Holy Cow, they send out mobiles by Tarzan in the nights when Holy Cow snores; an unknown friend keeps Tarzan open midnight. When the Holy Cow outs to graze, they are on mobiles, finish their chat before the Holy Cow romps in. They are numb. They dont read newspapers; Old Man is backing Pune, Lady Mumbai. Alarmed. They want to get at the victor and loser. Call up Shreya midnight and Shreya obliges. She knows them, shares sandwiches made by mother, Dakhi. Shreya is 13 years old. Wrote of them in a school essay, teacher failed her. 'Don't go near the Old Man and Lady. They are dangerous,' said the school teacher. The school had got an order from The Holy Cow. Order read: Holy CowNama must.They sit together under the banyan on Karuna Road; do not talk, sure of being tapped by the Hold Cow. They dont want to die; Holy Cow wants them to die. Tsering Wangmo Dhompa made her way to US. Old Man and the Lady, without passports, have LIC Colony.   

Washington Sundar

May skies have no clouds.
May skies have no doubts.
May skies hot,
May stills.

If you cant beat the heat, take it. Me am taking it. No other way. A day in me life starts with a dull, wake up and a dip into an armchair at the window; Rama offers a stainless steel glass of filter kapi. Me in a snooze in me armchair, she in a snoozz in her armchair, when the The Indian Express, Journalism of Courage, nudges. Try to read the paper upside down to make sense, exception being Washington Sundar of Chennai taking three Mumbai Indians in an early spell at Wankhede. He reminds me of Lance Gibbs, the West Indian off-spinner.  IPL 10 is Washington Sundar 10. And me loves it. And there is the IPL final to come. Me latest heart thump - Washington Sundar, 6.2 ft., 17 years old. Father speaking, son speaking and The Indian Express reporting. How did the fellow get his name? Do not know. Will follow California Iyer, Doha Nair, Melbourne Iyengar in the next IPL. Has he been peck-named by captain Steve Smith and hero MS Dhoni. You cant call him Washington through many games and the times in between. What happens to the pride of locals, Tendulkars and Gavaskars; Sehwag and Gambhir patriots. Has Sundar chatted with Ravichandran Ashwin and Venkat. A short trot, arm straight, slow bowls the ball at the off stump; sometime strays and gets clubbed; in TV slowmos, the ball does not spin much. A smile follows after a wicket; not wartime heroics of Harbhajan. Simple like Lyon the Australian. Lyon is the best in the business, after India tour. Perhaps, the only IPL-er smiling. Does not mind getting hit; anyway, he cant do a thing about it. Shreya is impressed. He is not even an adult, she cackles on the phone, late in the night. Shreya follows IPL cricket, not any other cricket; calls mid-night to clear doubts and turn Ajoba doubtful. Maybe, Washington Sundar is Washington Sundar, because he is not an adult, picking up Rohit Sharma and Harbhajan-isms. Sundar could be crooning the Tamil song: Take it easy, Urvashi, Urvashi ... every ball he bowls slow. If there is an option, he should be picked for Champions Trophy, in place of Bumrah. Is Washington at school or college? Does he read books? Is he keen on cricket history? His films, TV shows, girl friends... Well, Washington Sundar may not have much time having to spin and spin, for hours. Me has time. Sure to follow you. Waiting for Sunday final at Hyderabad. A century from Dhoni, six wickets from Washington Sundar and IPL-10 Trophy to Pune. Sundar, thanks for the dream. Wish you the BEST.  

A Song 134

In silences,
gods in grimaces,
pilgrims in graces.

Monday morning

Koyals were into poetry reading sessions as me soul in bed tapped the Shiva lines of Pattukkaran: '..... as for Markandeya, fend me from scratch of death.' Me soul smiled and Rama looked surprised; an usually grouchy husband, waking up with laughs; told her Pattukkaran lines and Pattukkaran is her hero. Pattukkaran makes death pleasurable. Wonder whether Shiva can help us. Me theory: We will be knowers, if we learn death. And there are no schools teaching death; nature knows death but is silent. Till then we are Humans. Ruskin Bond writes in Maharani: 'Death holds life together. Once we lose our fear of death, something happens to life. It is this fear that keeps us on our toes, keeps us going, makes us savour the joy of being alive. ..' But me on Monday morning is a Priyanka Chopra bubble, enjoying. Tilak Udyan gays you. A mostly silent area, there are birds and flowers and trees. As me entered the Udyan, noted a brown stray in deep sleep, like all of us unawake on duty. Went near, clicked and he barked into life; no attacks; and humans all over delight in selfies. Rama and me noted crows in their nests putting away yowling koyals. Rama is into heavy exertions. Two rounds of the park; a resting; long bare foot walks on the grass to stimulate a calmness; her Facebook Guruji has told her that; a lolling on lovely, wooden benches. And on watch over me. Me chatted a spectacled lady feeding strays; the lady looked likable; she knows their (dogs) mother and grandmother, maybe she was celebrating Mother's Day; she feeds strays near her apartment and some do not like the idea; sought her permission to click her feeding two strays; she said yes when Rama came over smiling; the lady said hullo, rama returned the hullo, me moved off. 'Enough at your old age,' Rama remarked on our way back. Did mention that me was for the dogs; a point not taken. Rama did not make a second cup of coffee; she offered a cold glass of Roohafza and two dry, overnight methi rotis with a Smiley Sorry. Me could not ask for more: from Pattukaran, Shiva, Bond, Rama and life. 

A Song 133.

Am thankful to songs in me.
Am grateful to dreams
in me.
Unread, unheard, no matter.
They are mine, me is theirs.
That, perhaps is more than fair.    

A Song 132

At the window,
garnering Sunday mornings,
in an armchair,
facing the morning sky,
take in
rain trees,
mangroves,
hills,
skies,
designing a variety of infinity.
Against the morning sky,
read Bond,
Basho,
Rayokan.

    

Jack Fingleton

With the rains march-pasting me window, read, re-read and re-re-read the last cricket piece in The Observer on Cricket, edited by Scyld Berry. Jack Fingleton written by Peter Corrigan. One April a letter landed on the Sporting Editor, The Observer from Jack Fingleton: 'Anyway, here is an article which you might or might not want .... I saw your newspaper often when I was in England last summer and I greatly admired the guts of your Sport, sound and sensible, not seeking stunts or display. If the article doesnt suit you, there's no worry. Just send it back and no harm is done at all. If you use it, it is a matter for you whether you use my name over it or a "Special Correspondent." Goes on, Peter Corrigan: ' The week before last we tried to contact him at his home near Canberra to ask for his thoughts on the Lillee kicking incident. There was no answer. Last Sunday we learned he had died the previous day. Me has read Jack Fingleton despatches in The Hindu when G. Kasturi was the Editor. Jack Fingleton was 73. And back to Peter Corrigan: " He would have had a tribute in these columns even without his late defection into our company. But we like to think he enjoyed his brief time as part of the motley collection of dreamers and seekers of truth and wisdom, as much as we were proud to have him." Me emailed Jack Fingleton to get his view on the rather gross run act of Pollard at Wankhede in an IPL match. In The Indian Express today, Bharat Sundaresan says as much in Can batsmen cross a line by actually not crossing one? Pollard did jump the line and thats not on in cricket. Jack Fingleton for sure would have disliked it. There has been no response from the dreamer. Maybe he has been felled by a Pollard bat. A journalist should carry poetry in his or her soul and dreams in his or her head. Otherwise, journalism is nothing. And today, have we dreamers in Indian sports writing. Do not think so. They are sure of cricket laws, quote them, are in Hai terms with Kohli and Sachin, hand shake Rajiv Shukla of IPL, and are never overly upset by jumping of traffic lights. 'Are bhai we have to win.' Commentators, me thinks it was Morrison as TV commentator, loudly and laughingly appreciated the sharp act late that Wankhede night (am prepared to take a correction). Maybe cricket is over; we are presiding over its remains. Can then one ask a small favour: a Sorry from Pollard. Am sure Jack Fingleton will write a piece.   

Pollard's single

Sick of fixing. Dumb. The Indian Express on Sport page has a story: ACSU nabs board-accredited vendor, bookies in Kanpur. Jumped the news item. Drugging in every sport. Every sport run by bookies. What should me do brought up on Sports Pages of The Statesman, Calcutta, after picking up English alphabets at Aunties School on Elgin Road in the 1950s. Now cannot give up on sports, as me has not yet given up on a smoke and a drink. Crafted dreams of being a Pataudi and Chuni Goswami, playing in the Maidan. Disliked the manner Pollard tried to pickpocket a single against Kings at Wankhede on Thursday night IPL at Wankhede. Mumbai Indians have qualified, no need to trick. Bharat Sundaresan writes: Probably in his hurry to get back, Pollard just missed putting his bat behind the popping crease by a few centimeters you thought. But replays showed that Pollard had missed it by a few inches. Like he wasn't bothered about completing the single.' The umpire noted it gave one run, not two. Pollard could have been fairer. In cricket, you dont do it. In 2017, perhaps, nothing is unfair. One commentator commended the act. Perhaps, the next best thing is to read old cricket pieces in The Observer on Cricket: An Anthology of the Best Cricket Writing, edited and compiled by Scyld Berry. There is a Profile on Lord's Cricket Ground; the last time me saw it (on TV) was when Ajinkya Rahane scored a century and Ishant Sharma took wickets, under MS Dhoni to win a Test against England. Hope none says the Test was fixed. India lost the series 2-1. A profile on Lord's cricket ground: 'The procession of cricket worshippers is on the move again. At the game's House of Commons, The Oval, there are to be centenary honours this season. ..... The union of cricket and ceremony suggests the Upper House of the fancy, the turf so aptly and so augustly known as Lord's.' English summer is on, Lord's will strum to notes of Howzzat. Shreya wants me to take her to Lord's and Wimbledon and me still has the hope we will watch an India-England Test under a spring sun. In sports, there is always hope. Scyld Berry on Sept. 9, 1980 writes Cricket on Radio: 'When Saturday's play in the Lord's Test match was washed out in 1976, the BBC hit upon an apparent paradox. They found out that the harder it rained, the more keenly did listeners cling to their programme 'Test Match Special.' Instead of being handed back to the studio that wet Saturday, listeners were regaled with a feast of Arlott, Bailey, Johnston and Trueman anecdote and memory. Rather than dampening the commentary team's enthusiasm, rain was fuel for it. They managed to assuage the disappointment felt by millions, and amongst those who professed themselves delighted was the Duke of Edinburgh.'  In 2017, watch all cricket - Test, 50, 20 - on a mute TV.  

Bauhinia

Morning went for a chat to Lokmanya Bal Gangadhar Udyan of BMC; the well grassed garden, free and well housed with trees, flowers and birds, is shorter than its name; at me pace it takes about five minutes for a round; but me today took more than 10 minutes for a round, staring at a blue sky, a calling male koyal and a white-barred female a few trees away; the Lady gave a few minutes dekho and me fell for her as crows kept watch. Me smiled at bahuinias, pink and white; at one corner is an old tree with branches spreading out off the base; do not know its name (the pix); but me friend. Borrowing Rama's mobile, me clicked with the 7 a.m. sun behind; me watched for long, clicked and mostly failed to capture; Rama says me am learning. Do not know. Three red vented bulbuls were feeding and sometimes whistling. Couldnt pix them. These days me do not walk much; stand in front of trees and flowers and birds to talk; a one-way stilling affair. Me becomes a pleasurable blank. Friends say me has been always blank.  And in the garden, men and women, walk and stand on hands or heads intoning a Ramdevian OM, an OMifying. Eyes shut they stand facing the sun. There are others gymming trying to shed old age. There are three regular UP bhaiyas, walking and talking, rather loudly, Yogi and Ramdev. Modi is passe. Yogi and Ramdev are in. Trump is not for them. In the last couple of years, Ramdev has taken over the political economy; his exclusive shops sell everything and there are buyers. Ramdev has built the brand, Yoga India. If in British times, India was of the snake charmer; in Modi times, it belongs to Ramdev Yoga. If anyone cares to study, yoga mats could be the fastest selling item; in me housing society, have seen three kids in the morning, wrapped in yoga mats, going for Yoga poses. Ramdev on their tongues. Yoga goes well with green spaces.  Will Yoga help save birds and beasts? A cormorant was making it across a warm sky, warm at 8 in the morning. It held a yoga mat in its beak. 

A Song 131

Hearts pinked,
in pots of
sadaphules.

A Song 130

Write of your times, said a friend.
Me is at the desktop, trying.
Witnessed more sunsets than sunrises.
That's when they told me
not to believe anyone,
as a journalist;
check, counter-check, double check
was the mantra they gave.
all me working life,
had no beliefs,
debris of doubts,
on work tables.
Retired,
none is taken in
by an old man's dodders,
in an arm-chair.  

Lagori

Sunday morning Karuna Road got up from beds of bit-notices, dropping off a blue sky, talking of a Lagori match between birds and kids. Flying fox had pasted them on dark, night skies when Old Man, Lady, birds, trees and kids were asleep, below trees; being morning they were more into sleep, when the notices floated down, off a sun-dry sky. A Sunday Lagori scheduled for 10 in the morning. At 8, net practice; Old Man training crows, house sparrows, bats, mynas, warblers; Lady put 5 year olds from the Missionary into runs and throws. Old Man and Lady trained them in losing the match not winning anyway. 'Learn to lose, wins will come tasty,' said Lady, a former India hockey player. Old Man nodded, an IPL retired cricketer. Birds in green tunics; kids wore bright reds; a seven-a-side match; Lady picked the birds team, Old Man, the playing kids, for fairness. Bhagwan, the tea stall owner, arranged seven stones, one of top of the other, in the middle of Karuna Road. He stole them from a construction site in the night; shaped the stones in the night. Old Man and Lady readied themselves with whistles. Two whistles blew together at 10. Game started. Crowds of birds sat on rain trees and laburnums; morning walkers hung out on garden walls. Lagori on, more noise, many throws, never a bringing down of stones; and then it happened, a parakeet hit the stone, a scramble as the kids ran after the fresh yellow tennis ball .... it did not work out as the birds failed to reset the seven stones; a house sparrow fell off a branch in disappointment; after 30 minutes of play, there was no win or loss, as the Lagori stones ran away, leaving the kids to tend tired birds. Bhagwan spread a Sunday newspaper on the footpath, put down bhels, faffda, jilebis, Cokes for the participants. Lay down to rest under trees. Old Man and Lady signed autograph books, without pens and pencils, thrust at them by morning walkers.

Floated a Chorus:

Old Man and Lady,
left footprints on village mud;
on Arabian Sea and sands;
in cemented cities,
Old Man and Lady dropped
no fingerprints;
they knew, they couldnt.
On Sunday,
on Karuna Road,
left soul prints.
Imprints,
absent, unreported,
gone,
as the Lagori morning.

Old Man and Lady had baked their heads to script Lagori moments of Karuna on Karuna Road.
Astu.

A Borivili day

These days we find it hard to set out for a morning walk. Legs collapse sometimes, knees pain. Want to sleep more. Or is it an upsetting to see roads lined with chopped trees, broken nests and deep holes jumped over by hollering suvs and bikesover. The municipal corporation is into trimming trees in May when Niranjan and Ajit and Raja need them most selling wares under their trees. Rama and me dip into our sofas and watch windows with coffee. Newspapers dont pull. Water is set in a plastic tub for crows, mynas, pigeons and house sparrows. Broken Brittania Marie biscuits on a plate as me house sparrows dislike other brands. Grey necks and black necks land on window grills and wait. They do not make a grab. They look around with the neck moving all over. When they are sure of us, land on the sill; peck a broken piece of biscuit, store it in inside their beaks; peck a second time; a third time and then fly away. Hard to make out one crow from another, but when three sit together on the window grill, we are sure there are three crows. Then follow the myenas who walk more with their necks than legs. House sparrows wait their turn and then take over. Far off on mangroves, egrets settle for yet another May day as Rama brings a tall glass of deep pink Sharbat Roohafza of Hamdard Dawakhana (India), a surprise. A black kite up deep in the sky circulates. The best thing about the morning is the quiet around. The society is asleep. None talks. And me muses over Maya. All the mystical writings, improve your life notings, on Facebook, advise quitting desires, searching the Lord, meeting Him or Her. From me window, a feather weight heart, delights at the flowering rain trees and gul mohurs; the red of the gul mohurs go well with the fragrant yellow of the copper pod, dressing the bright May blue sky. Me can never quit desires, passions, compassions; after all you need a life to reach for the Paramatman; me would like to reach for a glass of foreign whisky with Rama on Breezers; life has never been a delusion or illusion; for me it is just lots of fun and fare, a regular film show with many free screenings; some tragedies recalling absent, old friends. Which is okay as we spend the evening under a peepal tree with cement rests in front of a gym; girls and ladies, boys and gentlemen park their bikes, enter the gym fat, come out lean. Apparently, they gym with ipads and selfies. When at about 6.30 evening, every evening, walks by Perumal Mami (named after writer Perumal Murugan) after a regular visit to the Devi temple at Jayaraj Nagar; a close friend of Rama, she is always alone; 'eppadi irrukkel (how are you), she asks, her sure intro; offers prasad wrapped in banana leaves and tilak; we accept it; today is Friday, auspicious day, she says; on Saturday, you can spot the Lady with her banker husband at the Perumal temple on Saturdays;  goes her way with a Parkkalam, made famous by Kamaraj Nadar. An evening breeze nudges peepal leaves. Copper pods drop down. The regular, light brown stray, Pagal, looked after by servers at the Aura Hotel, slaps down at our feet. 

A Song 129

House sparrows nervy,
squirrels jumpy,
Old Man sips sleep under a
laburnum,
Lady, below a banyan,
on torn yoga mats
of Tuka and Kabira,
on Karuna Road,
a Karuna rap.
Check out on migration of souls,
(time to do so)
with Tuka and Kabira.
'In our times we migrated,
Earth did not,'
said they,
as Lady cupped teas to Old Man.
Living separate friends,
dislike relocation.
Old Man reveals a goings aways
of trees,
grass,
seas,
hills,
birds,
animals.
Said Lady,
modern times,
unwanted, go.
Tuka,
Kabira,
want to be back.
No way.
Karuna
lost
on Karuna Road.
A divorce signed and sealed. 

Bedekar Stores

Bedekar Stores in Borivili Market has no face. It has no ad. It came into being 1910 says a head board which none can see from anywhere. They are good but not material for business editors. Bedekar Stores is never in a hurry; never into a competition; never interested to be on the top of the business pile. In 1910, there probably was no Borivili market or even Borivili station. Just a deep, dense forest. Two pleasant gentlemen run the shop with smiles and sometimes laughs, except Thursday, when the shop is shut. A shop of wooden benches with masala powders, aam papads, eatables from Konkan, anywhere on shelves, without design. Yet, men and women, equally undesigned, walk up and down the steps for their papads and masalas. Me and Rama went there to buy raw cashew with skin from Konkan, May is the time to chew cashews - raw, roasted, salted. Styled Malvani Mewa, packed by Sri Gurukrupa Udyog, Taluka Kudal, Jilla Sindhudurg, costs Rs.250 per 200 gm. Have walked these tiled areas with Paul, long ago, when ago. Rama noted the price, woofed, tried to put down the fixed price, stared at me ordering two packets. They go well with liquor. Every week we make a trip to Borivili market; me stands beside Rama as she pinches, twists and tastes vegetables before setting on downing the price. UP and Bihari bhaiyas are never comfortable with Rama with some scooting their stands. Rama has her way; she counts every note and coin. She should have been running the National Stock Exchange. Borivili market is the Gateway to North India; UP, Bihar, Jharkhand; some bhaiyas stand and sell unripe bananas at 'bees ka dozen' in the middle of a vague road; unput sentences; most sit on wooden benches, spit all round, relish the dirt and Borivili market is dirty; they have no PAN, no Nilekani Aadhaar; their inside pockets banks with cash. They are spread all over by 6; and it is hard work carrying sacks on one's back; in May, it is head loads of wooden petis of alphonsos or aams as they call it. They dominate the business, trick customers on prices, weight and quality; yet, having been with them for years, me likes them. Most suspect them. Their women are absent; women from Palghar and Virar sell kothimir, safed bhopla and some gaoti vegetables. Inside the Borivili market, is our favourite Ram from whom me collects vegetables. Rama approves the price and quality on sale. On the way home, Niranjan on Yogi Nagar Road, spotted us, said: 'Kya hamko bhool gaye?' We had no answer.  

Press Club Mohammed

On Thursday, got out on the right side of the bed, down. For relief, started somewhere in BUSYBEE, BEST of 1994-95. Floated to a piece: Getting a liquor permit: I have just recieved my renewed liquor permit. My friend, Mehmood, who is the major-domo of the Bombay Press Club brought it to me yesterday. Shut the book and snoozed on Mehmood, whom me called Mohammedee, being a Malayali. 'Entha saare,' he would reply dressed in a neat smile. When me was joint secretary, Bombay Press Club, he joined the Club in a shack, from Press Trust of India, where he ran a canteen. He did everything at the Club which opened to Azad Maidan and white cricket. For a year me did nothing but be at the Press Club with Mohammed, who lived in Sion Circle. He got married, set up a family, and yet run the Club late into the night. He had his team, a friendly team; they remain so and run the Club which is mostly taking orders for liquor. Those days when me stepped into the Club as a minor boss, Mohammed would tell his team: Saab ke liye ek rum aur coke; as years went past, me never placed orders as the team knew my liquid needs. Never did me own a liquor permit, Mohammed saw to that. 'Saarinu permit venda (Saar does not need a permit)', he said and shut the quest for a permit. The Club ran losses as revenue fell short of costs, me first glimpse of a fiscal deficit much written about by many economists. When Olga Tellis was the first secretary of the Club (hope me am not wrong), there were no losses, no revenues, as there was no liquor and Club was always empty. And then came the journalists and today it is complete with public relations officers. Since Olga Tellis, no woman has held a top job in Press Club and that's a trifle sad. With liquor came, cards table run by Joshi of the Financial Express; when Murali Kumar of Financial Express wrote a critical piece on Press Club, Joshi hollered and again if me am not wrong, Murali Kumar was not allowed entry. That was unfair to Kumar. Mohammed knew all and all knew him. Me was never a member of a second club as me did not have cash and prestige. When me quit The Financial Express, the general manager, took me out to Bombay Gymkhana, for drinks and lunch. We stepped in sobre, stepped out tipsy. Have not gone a second time. Maybe, my Malabar Hill cousin, Shyamala, will take me out to the Gym. Then me retired to Borivili, Mohammed retired to Navi Mumbai. We also retired from Press Club. 

Two top dogs

Bow...bowoorious. Up..rorious. Two top dogs of literature. Muggs, an Airedale, of James Grover Thurber and Bolshoi the Boxer of Busybee (Behram Contractor). Thurber drew an immortal Muggs while Mario Miranda illustrated the bright Bolshoi. Me had many strays the most remarkable being a nameless brown  in Sevak Baidya Street, Calcutta; at 10 in the morning and evening, she made a rush at me for two rotis and some dal each. And then the entire day, me would wag me tail at the delighted Lady. In the famed piece on The Dog That Bit People, Thurber writes or is it glides: Probably no one man should have as many dogs in his life as I have had, but there was more pleasure than distress in them for me except in the case of an Airedale named Muggs..... A big, burly, choleric dog, he always acted as if he thought I wasn't one of the family. There was a slight advantage in being one of the family, for he didn't bite the family as often as he bit strangers.' Bolshoi the Boxer, perhaps is a Parsi gentleman and Busybee does not offer many clues. In the BEST OF 1990-91, Busybee reveals: 'You are from India plain and simple,' I said. Why dont you realise and admit that, the only thing Russian about you is your name. And it is about time you changed that.' Bolshoi is a thinker, Muggs is bite. Every time me reads, The Dog That Bit People, me does not laugh, me roars pushing Rama to look at me in surprise as she knows me morose. Working in the Times, Mulki Laxman Kamath and Dilip Raote introduced me to Thurber and the New Yorker gang of etchers like E.B. White. Me used to trip to USIS Library on Marine Lines to read all the Thurber volumes like me did in USIS, Calcutta to read everything on Lincoln. Written in 1933, My Life and Hard Times, is the best piece of autobiographical fiction and nothing, not even non-fiction autobiography, comes near. The 100-pages book makes you wonder about Thurber, who borrowed a bit of comicness from his mother. Harrison Kinney in his rock size book of 1211 pages, James Thurber, His Life and Times, writes up a hilarious mother. But it is hard reading and me has given up. And me do not know what is better: Thurber language or Thurber drawings with all its curves. Cartoonist Abu Abraham seems to have adopted Thurber lines. Forced to make a choice me will go for Thurber drawings and Miranda paintings. Have pondered over them for hours. The best reading at 70; air conditions May. Wodehouse, Ring Lardner, Groucho Marx, Mark Twain.... yes they are all favourites but James Grover Thurber, in me family, is perhaps the best. Over the last two days, me has been reading and laughing My Life and Hard Times, twice. Lucky to have lived the 20th century. Wonder whether in the 21st century humans will ever laugh? Or have we had our last laughs?  

Laburnums

'We are going to Singapore,' said one little Lady. A second piped: 'We are going to London. A third said quietly: 'Uncle, we are going to InOrbit and Bhaubali.' Rama and me laughed. Stretch around IC Church and Mandapeshwar CHS lay empty. None stirring to koyals, inaugurating the morning at 4 when not even the gods stir. Stillness dripped from koyal notes. Do bird music have music rules, ragas and saptaswaras; or are they repeats? Koyalling went on and on as Rama celebrated May Day from a balcony in arm chairs, running to bird calls, crowing of cocks, at Alleppey, in the 70s. And she lost it all in Bombay, after marriage. She knows more about flowers and fruits than me. She has an organic timer in her. And today rejoiced in an empty Borivili when all the gods and goddesses took to loud speakers and silence broke as glass. Shreya and Chiyu were at imagica, leaving Aji to her imagination as thats what we live with alone. By 6 after a cup of coffee we started out from Dakhi's home on a walk. IC Church was bare as we stepped into the quiet. We stayed a silent minute, stepped out, strolled into a blissful the gold of Laburnum anaygyroides atop the grotto, blessing the dead in the graves and living outside. 'Konnapoo' glistened Rama, as she hugged the tree with more golden chains of yellow flowers than leaves. Apparently, laburnum is a foreign citizen from France to the Balkans. Out of the church and into empty St. Francis Assisi ground; no footballs, no kids, all in foreign lands and Bhaubalis. At one side stands a Laburnum in yellows, alone. As Rama walked, me went up and stared. We chatted after a time. Me and laburnum became one like a dream and its dreamer. Sure trees think and talk. None admires me, why, o, why, the laburnum chirped. Me patted her off-white trunk in trust. The tree nodded and told me of a Jesuit father looking after her some 30 years ago. He read a Psalm every morning, watered me roots, and signed the Cross, the tree said. That's why me am still around when two house sparrows landed on the branches to join the adda. Please do not harm this tree any, wrote down the Jesuit father in his dairy before he left for France. Its a lucky charm. Sometimes, he writes a letter and me replies. Now it is long since a letter came. For this May Day, the laburnum is breakfasting with the sun and sparrows and talks of the many brothers and sisters on Karuna Road; at least there are about 10 in the area relishing the karuna of the public. On the slow walk back, looked at a koyal atop a mast tree, twinging its throat.