A Song 161

Said Tuka: Gods are a paunch of promises.
Said Kabira: Faith is a stumble on Mumbai roads.
Earth tripped.
Crumbling tumble of words.
On Sunday, Bhaktiville.
On Monday, Yezdani bun-muska.
On Tuesday, butterflies.
On Wednesday, parked on stumps
of beheaded trees.
On Thursday, Learning from
the Almond Leaf;
On Friday, rocking at Kala Ghoda.
On Saturday, mourning Eunice de Souza.
On Sunday, Bhaktiville.

Morchas

In the 70s and 80s, Bombay fielded a morcha a day. Starting from near Azad Maidan,  morchas walked Dadabhai Naoroji Road, Flora Fountain and Kala Ghoda before being stopped by the police. Most, if not all, were in the evenings, halting traffic, public murmuring... the chanawala and chaiwala into some brisk money making... a morcha for any and every cause... have seen Ahilya Rangnekar and Mrinal Gore boarding BEST buses after morchas.... is there one politician, right or left, today taking a BEST bus or a Kalyan local? They are always in SUVs. IAS Lords and Ladies at Sachivalay and then Mantralay were never upset.... none came to meet the morcha leaders .... and today there are no morchas in Mumbai. Nor are there protests in Calcutta, men and women flagging Chowringhee .... maybe something has changed; maybe protests do not matter; perhaps, there are no causes; or  morchas do not help.... have no clues. Who birthed the idea of a morcha and when was the first morcha? A morcha dictionary needs to be worked on. Maybe, the first morchaists were the Bhakti poets between the 6th and 8 th centuries. Janabhai, Mahadeviyakka, Tuka, Kabira .... for me were the originals. Most if not all of them have no bio data, all were lower castes, bonfired norms .... their worlds had no rules....they had no flags... no theories..... just Compassion .....were the most decent Indians. Am proud of them. (A confession: Read bhakti poets in English as cannot read Indian languages, an English bhakt). Janabhai a low caste, worked as a maid at the home of Namdev, illiterate, composed abhangs; Cast off all shame, a  Janabhai abhang, translated by Vilas Sarang:

Cast off all shame,
and sell yourself
in the market place,
then alone
can you hope
to reach the Lord.
Cymbals in hand,
a veena upon my shoulder
I go about;
who dares to stop me?
The pallav of my sari
falls away (a scandal);
yet will I enter
the crowded marketplace
without a thought.
Jani says, My Lord,
I have become a slut
to reach Your home.

If this is not a morcha, a protest, what is? Something beyond Communism. Janabhai's God is a human, a loving human, without castes, creeds, books, rules .... poetry alone. Bhakti poets are that. For a human to be a human, an ordinary human, creed is a blank. Janabhai protests to live and this is way different from Hindutva and shooting down of Govind Pansare. In Kabir, The Weaver's Song, Vinay Dharwadker tries to create a biography of Kabir from unsureties. In Essential Kabir, a fine special bilingual edition with the Hindi alphabet Ka, embossed on the cover, translator Arvind Krishna Mehrotra writes: Very little is known about Kabir outside what can be culled from his poems or from hagiographies and legends. Yet bhakti poets live in Hindu homes. Tuka abhangs can be heard in Mumbai. On Ashad Ekadasi, me friend Govind, a dabbawalla, is a regular at Pandharpur. Bhakti poets and poetesses were simple, honest customers. They took on a violent, Brahminic society; lost could not win. Today, there is no Shiva of Mahadeviyakka to sip the Hindutva poison. We need a Kabira, a Tuka, a Janabhai. They are original, Indian Marxists, not the European variety. They define protest, Indian style. They make the morcha. 

Trapped

Watching film Trapped, Rama and me held on to our sofas; firmly pocketed house keys; Rama wanted to quit our seventh floor apartment; me sat afraid. Trapped, a 100 minute film by Vikramaditya Motwane with young Rajkummar Rao batting the entire film, not out. Rao, Nawazuddin, Irrfaan and Bajpayee are the best in Indian films today. They are not artists. They buy into characters. Remain there. Dialogues rare; Rao carries the film easily. We would have done what he does. Read something about the film in Facebook and Ganesh referred to amazon. Me has stopped going to theatres as me is not for standing up to National Anthems. At home, no anthems. In an empty high rise, Rao shuts himself in an empty apartment with keys outside. The high rise has no livers. It could happen to anyone in the many storied societies uglying Mumbai skies. They hide skies and clouds; trip birds. Mumbaikars are loners in apartments. Lack the familiarity of tiled homes with gardens. In Kerala, they had homes with names. Rama's tiled home (now absent) in Alleppey was called Sreevatsam. In Borivili, our apartment has no name. Little background music and Motwane has done a frighteningly good job. Rao is Rao. Tensed out we moved on to a second film for some fun: this afternoon for films, declared Rama; the 1981 film Chashme Buddoor by Sai Paranjpye. Sai, Aparna Sen and Konkana Sen Sharma are lady directors worth a watch. We laughed with Lallan Miya (Saeed Jaffrey), owning a cigarette kiosk in some delightfully green New Delhi; Charminar Gold, me one time smoke for its rawness. In today's New Delhi, a Lallan Miya will be lynched. They are all there in the halka-phulka comedy: Farooq Shaikh, Rakesh Bedi, Ravi Baswani (Jaane bhi do yaron fame) and Deepti Naval, one of the best in the Indian film industry. Rama and me have enjoyed it many times. Not intellectual stuff. Just a munchable sukha bhel. We opted for Chashme to feel untrapped, free. Sai serves lovely tandoori rotis with dal and aloo to viewers. Will 2017 India ever make dotty films like Chashme. In 2017 we make and view Trapped. Will India 2017 tolerate Jaane bhi do yaron? Do we have the sense of fun to make Amol Palekar, Utpal Dutt starrer Golmal. Bet is no. India 2017 has lost India 1970, 1980. And there is no returning back. Nor is there any going forward. Trapped. The clock struck 4. We sofa snoozed. 

Bom-Bom Bhole Nath

Shravan Somwar. Monday morning. Rama placed an order for bel leaves, handed a tenner, as me stepped out for a stroll. By around 12 noon she will pray to her Bom-Bom Bhole Nath or Shiva and place the leaves on the Shivaling with utmost reverence. Shiva is sure to accept it as his wife Parvati is never so considerate. She is Kali, a tough feminist. Father in Calcutta rarely defaulted on a two hour Shiva puja. For me dear Lord Shiva living with a feminist is tough going but then Shiva the Destroyer has to abide by karmic laws. Fate. Shiva is me favourite as he loves a drink, smokes, roams burning ghats, is the original Loner or Beatle. Walking Yogi Nagar Road, met Niranjan dressing his stall under the rain tree with fresh vegetables. Spotted a bamboo basket of bel leaves, handed over Rs.10 for a handful. He refused the cash. 'Nahin,' Bom-Bom Bhole Nath ko chadana hai na,' he asked. Said a 'Han'. Replied: 'Tho paisa nahin chayiye.' He touched base after 15 days with Bhole Nath of Benares. He broke from a busy mango season and nothing better than Kasi Viswanath, Ganga mayya, dal roti made by sisters at a Benares home. As he could not turn a kavad or kanvar this shravan, he decided to sell free bel leaves for Shiva devotees like Rama. Yes, it is the Bom-Bom moth as men and sometimes women, fill metal or water pots with Ganges water, tie one each to the two ends of a bamboo pole or kawad and walk; some take breaks, some do not; me has seen them in Madhya Pradesh, moving around with friend Dinesh Kothari. Bare bodied with a dhoti tied over the knees, bare legs and head, Bom-Bom Bhole Nath in every breath. Neither a walk nor a run. Head down. Gentle Shiva, Hinduism in an innocent peace mode. Walk kms. to a Shiva temple, offer the water to the Lord. Did Lord Shiva earn kindness from fellow gods; some say, he got it from Ravana but that gentleman is more a gad than god. Chatting of Benares, an auto stopped near and stepped out Madhav hailing a smiling, 'Bom Bom Bhole Nath'. That's Hinduism, a laugh not a war. A bhakt in quiet bhakti. From a two month Kasi holiday, he is back in Mumbai, driving an auto. 'Thak gaya tha, gaali-galouch, auto walla chor hai,' sunke thak gaya tha, he said. Me knows Madhav over 12 years and will stop his auto anywhere to inquire, 'Kaise hain ji.' Bathed in Ganga Mayya (not Ganges for him), said Hai to Kasi Vishwanath and dal rotis, for two months. There is a Shiva temple in his area; a priest built a roof to protect the God and make some cash on the side. A storm blew away the roof. Lord Shiva is parked in the open. That's the style of Other India. A lady walked up, inquired: 'Auto, Malad Inox.' Bom-Bom Bhole Nath, drove away. At home read Speaking of Siva translated by A.K. Ramanujan.

Saintess Mahadeviakka say:

I love the Handsome One:
he has no death
decay nor form
no place or side
no end nor birthmarks.
I love him O mother. Listen.  

Siva peace-sense. 

Jawahar

Cloud hatted skies bent low to touch foreheads with the green and brown earth at Jawahar, some 122 km from Borivili, in Buddhist tradition. Quiet. Rains rumbled as Rama, Ganesh and me took it on bare heads. Rain drops natya-ed on streams and ponds suited in greens. Goats formed the lone crowd and they did not bustle. Sometimes the drops became large question marks as they drummed us standing outside The Leaf, an eatery of Antariksh Bharadwaj. As we stood with talking drips, Bharadwaj came up with canned Carlsberg beers. Me opened the can, tippled the beer with rains, walked the road sipping. Sages in deep thought. It was Gattari Amavasya but we were not in the gutters; we were deep in washed shunyas with an irregular MSRTC bus breathing hard. Stood in front of a crocodile bark tree watching braided rains make their way down like some Mumbai locals; there were no stations to halt; they flowed to the foot of the tree. We had decided on a rain wash and the clouds obliged as we made our way on a brown, earth track to an empty, forlorn Jaya Vilas Palace: neither kings or queens or commoners or loiterers or tourists. Thanks be. We with a boarded Jaya Vilas Palace, swallows and a valley below. Time had decided to take a break at the Palace. At least, the owners can bring down the boards and put some heart and soul to the Palace; understand they live in Goregaon. Mangos, cashew, and many trees me do not know stood on the palace grounds seeking company. A chalk board warned of stray dogs. They had quit. Orhan Pamuk in his book Snow writes: Measured against eternity and the greatness of creation, the world in which they lived was narrow. That's why snow drew people together. It was as if snow cast a veil over hatreds, greed and wrath and made everyone feel close to one another.' Rains in Jawahar did that to us and Sambhu, the grey and black Great Dane. He circled us, demanded pats and then a dog loving; Ganesh put out a water bottle; and Shambhu with ancestors from the banks of Benares and mountain tops of Himalayas got scared; backed down. Ahead of lunch of rotis, dals and aloo bhaji served by Bharadwaj, we slipped down the way to a muddy patch with men and women in raincoats transplating rice. Stalk bundles lay alone. Vinayak, a young kid, held an umbrella for me to mobile click. School is not a demanding option. He helps his parents in farm work and transplanting tandul is a serious, living art untaught in schools. Want to go back to Jawahar, say next week.   

A Song 160

Bread, butter, jam of
a priest,
pouting a roll of tambakoo,
jostles turtles in the temple
pond;
spends hours with them
as they string their way from
rain jacketed hills
across the mangroves.
Some crawl their way to seas,
some in creeks,
some in the temple pond
safe in company
of the priest. 

Keki is hurting

Something is amiss in the nation when its poet is in pain. Our poet and essayist Keki Daruwalla. Of a Heart of Darkness he writes today in The Indian Express (July 20, 2017). Perhaps, poet Jawaharlal Nehru, if he was around would have read the essay; perhaps, called Keki Daruwalla and talked to him. Said a Sorry. These times have no graces. Absent decencies. Daruwalla writes: 'We have been having a mournful feast of words recently. ...But all this is so broad brush......Junaid Khan, a handsome fifteen-year-old boy going for his Eid shopping was killed because he wore a skull cap, looked like a Muslim and horrors, was a Muslim.... Nothing subverts like lynch law.' Me bet is none will bother. Me may come across a bhelpuri wala packing bhel in a newspaper cone bearing Keki essay; after bhel munching, will crush the paper cone, litter the road. Since Babri Masjid, India is a kabaristan for Muslims; since 2014, Dalits and poor share the underground. Economic growth statistics will not reflect the mishaps; nor me bother. Bharat Mata ki Jai is a must, a Bharat Mata disowning Muslims, Dalits and poor. In her collection of poems, Learn from the Almond Leaf, Eunice de Souza says: '..Mrs.V beats her husband. The churchman says: Into every life, a little rain must fall.' Rain drops are not descending, poetess. A Hindu woman falls in love with a Muslim man; marries him; becomes a Muslim; has a child; her relatives slaughter her husband; a news item, a lead item for the night sub in The Indian Express. Over. She will cry; her tears will dry; life will be a fry. Are we being fair to ourselves? We check our Aadhaar cards before starting a friendship. For business papers and business channels and business journalists (me was one for 37 years), news is a drop or a rise in GDP; Chinese investments with Chinese keen on dollars to make and nothing else; RBI governors and Finance Ministers make sense. Long time ago anchors on a business channel raised a toast to the Sensex crossing some important number. It was a public show. Eunice is a poet not a journalist, not surely a business journalist. Business journalists may like her line: ' A compound full of silver cars. The sky with not a single silver star.' Dislike her lines: Finally, the Lord said: Move that damned highrise. Let there be light. 

A Song 159

At the Press Club,
journalists asked
Tuka and Kabira
smelling of Vicks
toning July rains:
Are
the kick of Ram
and kick of Rum,
same?
'Ho! Of course,' said
Tuka and Kabira.
  

A Song 158

A spectacled drumstick,
the Virar Lady,
a regular at Vazira Ganesh.
Virar to Borivili is 43 km by rail,
making it every day plus Sunday.
She prays more at the temple tank
and turtles;
sometimes, turtles pray back
to chuckles of Ganesh.
Some nights nods on the temple bench.
She wants to stay old;
pleasure is in aging
beside her stick;  
old is best of times,
she murmurs to nobody.
in locals
running over creeks of rains,
older than she,
Lady sits and smiles,
looking out of the window.  
Plus 60, a retired nurse,
is a caretaker of a couple plus 80
in Borivili.

Liu Xiaobo Bye. Liu Xia Love.

The Indian Express, Monday, July 17, 2017 on Page 11 has a box item on Liu Xiaobo, 1955-2017, with pix of him with wife Liu Xia and the empty chair at the Nobel Peace Prize on December 10, 2010. 'I have no enemies, no hatred,' says Liu and the sentence has been buzzing me since his death. To me he is alive; alive from an obscurity of not being familiar with him. Me did not pray but Liu is in me. He insisted on the birth-right of a butterfly. Chinese Communists denied it and will always be in denial as Communism is dictatorship. Nowhere (me has read a bit of Marx) has Karl Marx argued in favour of unfreedoms clamped on Russia by Lenin and Stalin and by Mao in China. Great Leap Forward killed over 10 millions; Cultural Revolution was a massacre; Tibet continues to be a holocaust; they want to wipe away Tibetans and Tibetan Buddhism; yet, every corporate of every nation, including India, wants to do business with China as it has the biggest market in the world. Cash shuts protests. China is most feared and Liu stood up against China not with a prayer or a god but with a conviction that freedoms are a given. In India we discuss the date when we will be more economically powerful than China. None questions Chinese data. And none talks of Chinese having no freedoms even as we in India are living in 2017 with edited freedoms or freedoms with hair cuts or freedoms of the zoos. (Me lives in fear of Modi regime and am not Liu). Till date no corporate chieftain in India has protested Modi. China had a Liu and has many others stacked in torture. Long ago Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi woke us to battle the British. But British as rulers were soft despite Jallianwala. British gentlemen and gentlewomen were in awe of Gandhi and his wife Ba. Gandhi could pray to Rama and protest the British. These concessions were denied Liu. Liu was treated cruelly. He lived in no hope. He stuck on, yet. Tsering Wangmo Dhompa in A Home in Tibet writes of the Chinese trying hard to diminish Tibet, Tibetans and Tibet Buddhism. A hurting tale. Tsering writes: 'At seventy-six, Ashang is my oldest relative in Tibet. .....Prison was a good teacher, he says. Can the world accomodate a wise and foolish monk who has lived half of his life in prayers? .... He has no time for hope.....In my solitary existence in San Francisco I think of his question and ask myself if I am free.....Ashang understands impermanence as a key to freedom and to a life light of fear and want. I have yet to learn to be free in a free country.' Prayers are easy. Not Freedoms. Fact is dictatorship, Chinese or North Korean version, can be made, done. Freedoms are born into. Fragile. Can prayers and gods help? Gandhi thought so. He was allowed to think so. Act so. Chinese government denied Lu friends and loves. At least English allowed Gandhi to satyagraha for freedoms. Liu tried a Gandhi in China, failed. Will Liu one day stir up a Gorbachev in China? When will this misery called Chinese Communism end? Yes, Liu, freedom to Love alone is. Bye Liu. And Lady Liu Xia, hope you are alive. Love Liu Xia.

Of wars

How long will India and Pakistan play this hate match. Since 1947, we have been at each other, sometimes as India and Pakistan, sometimes as Hindu and Muslim. In me school times, ACC (Auxiliary Cadet Corps) was a must. In college times, NCC (National Cadet Corps) was a must. In ACC, we lefted-righted the kerchief of a school ground. Sardar Sarwan Singh, who had a special dislike for me, bellowed: Bharat Mata ki Jai. We bellowed, swinging arms, righting and lefting shoed legs with chests out (me earned hard raps as the chest never could breathe out). At NCC in college, an army man made life hard; mornings marched the Maidan; the lone command me liked was 'Vishram'; one could rest a second. Came the standing before a field gun; diving on to it full tilt; firing; always missing the target; me was good at the target of  the friend beside me; changing bullets from a hot container. And the lecture bajee on killing. You kill before you are killed. Me never understood any of it. Waited for the damn show to end, for a quiet Charminar and tea in earth cups from a Bihari who was always there under the banyan. He lived with the cheap demeaning hatred of Bengalis for Biharis. Calcutta has more Biharis; Mumbai more from UP; both are termed bhaiyas like all from the south are madrasis. And in October 1962, me became a patriot as China roamped into India. Me wanted to go to to war. Left-right at a furious pace in the Maidan. At the Madian stood in a line for army recruitment; more for the job than for love of the country. Was rejected for poor eyesight. An army man took away my specs and me could see nothing. 'Kuch kaam ka nahin hai, Sir' he said and that was it. As a journalist, read of Indo-Pak wars at the business desk of Times of India and other papers. Patriotism steamed away. And today at 71, me think of the futility of the hates and guns. Does it make any sense? Have the wars any winners? There were no winners in Mahabharata. Ended miserably for Krishna and Pandavas, the victors. Rama won the Lanka war and despatched Sita to the forest. Perhaps, the bhakti poets of the 6 th century in the south, Tuka, Kabira make more sense. Me reads Kabira and Tuka again and again. But they are not icons like Rama and Krishna. Today, it is fashionable for India to abuse Pakistan and vice versa. Ye, a must for living in both nations. Soldiers are brave, all soldiers. Do they not blink and titter at the first gun shot? Are they not nervous ahead of a battle? And should they not, being humans? Which soldier in India and Pakistan wants to die? Of course, they are patriots. Patriots are first civilians, unwilling to die, like me. Armed forces is a job, a very high risk job for all Indians and Pakistanis. Emotions come second. Me would not like me son to join the forces. Never. Will 21st century go hating each other? Will there not be a India-Pakistan cricket match at Eden? And if they can play in England why not in India and Pakistan. Pakistani hockey players dribble on Indian grounds; but Pakistani cricketers cannot in IPL. Queer indeed. Perhaps, the lone beneficiary is the corporate making arms. And they will decide. Today, Tatas, Ambanis, Mahindras are into weapons business. US weaponers are liberal with Pakistan. Trump dislikes Muslims yet supplies arms to Pakistan. For them hatred and wars bulge balance sheets. Governments on both sides may often be reluctant but not corporates. Hatred pays. An old habit, a stylish, loud way of living, since gods were imagined or born. Sir, Sir, Sir. Till date has not heard Madam, Madam, Madam. It wont go, will never go. There will be exceptions: Gandhi or Liu Xiaobo.    

A day in our life

What do you do at home, a neighbour asked. Rama and me celebrate failure. Enjoying failure is a satisfying art, a FB post said. Me liked it; am not sure about Rama. But failure is interesting as we slip from one day to another. We get up in the morning, brush our teeth, light the diya to the many, many god and goddesses littering Rama's kitchen plus agarbattis; Rama makes filter coffee with the fragrance descending from the seventh floor to the ground floor inviting sparrows, crows and myenas; sitting in our sofas we sip coffee, watching sparrows breaking their fast over Marie biscuits; today morning it is sheets of rain drops with the sky cleaning up its stock of soiled bedsheets. Rama has her sofa, me mine; never exchange. Warm and smelling of coffee, we walk up to Vazira Ganesh temple with our many desires; a week ago, we prayed for a mobile lost, previous evening, after a chat under the peepal tree; we found the mobile at the foot of the peepal. Comes the breakfast chat. Dosa, idlis or dry, overnight chappatis? Rama mood is the critical input. In the money, it is plates of vegetable upma plus chutney (as today) or chappatis rejected by stray dogs. But me takes it chewing in me sofa. Having retired, no fresh, Churchgate vada pavs. At long last, mobiles are pulled out, newspapers set aside. On her new mobile, Rama is into Malayalam songs, Pulimurugans of Mohanlal and of late...actor Dileep derobing, a 2017 take on Draupadi in Mahabharata; and Vinoo on Asianet News. By about 11, the lunch menu is scheduled for a discussion; or as is popular, a meeting; Rama scraps chappatis; me opt for avial and pappadams; Rama screams: no pappadams with triglycerides high; me into Zen silence; before she decides, she goes over the years, her mother (me mother-in-law) prepared sambhar, avial and pappadams for lunch at the college; the housemaid delivered it hot and Rama licked it all up. Tongues fall out. Many Sreevatsam stories get unreeled and today is the latest instalment. Rama was a tiny tot when her father, Hari Gopalakrishnan, thought of owning a cow; fresh milk in the morning for his kids; wife agreed. Gentleman Gopalakrishnan stepped out a Sunday morning and was back at noon with a brown-white cow. The cow mooed, the family responded. It was tied to a pole in the garden; free to chew up the entire garden. In the night, it rained being July. Hari Gopalakrishnan worried over the cow catching fever; he got up from his cot, took the cow to the kitchen and shut the door. Entire night cow mooed and mother-in-law could not sleep. In the morning, she pleaded for relief. Hari Gopalakrishnan escorted the cow from the kitchen to the market. None appreciated his love for a cow. Dont know about the cow. Our first Cow Bhakt, non violent, quiet and humourous. Sold it. It was a happening told to Rama by her mother, me mother-in-law. We laughed, had not laughed over a failure for long. Trapped in a good mood, Rama make avial, sambhar, rice and pappadoms. After lunch, snooze. Evenings for TV sport channels as Rama goes for her adda. Day is over. Failures are worth it. Laughing failures. 

A Song 157

Ajoba holding a bag of potatos
took rain drops on a shaved head;
Kabir hopped out from the school bus
with a backpack of books,
and a football;
Ajoba exchanged his bag
for the backpack
under a rain wet sky.
Played football,
a one to one affair:
Ajoba young,
Kabir old;
Kabir won 6-0,
to applause of rain drops.

A Song 156

With packed
tambooras, looms,
Tuka, Kabira
spotted,
catching a flight to
Beatlesville. 

Our mother, your mother

At school, Chiyu was told by her teacher to write 100 words on the school times of Aji and Ajoba. 'Talk to them and write,' the teacher said. Every home does not have Ajis and Ajobas, but that is beside the point. Chiyu called up Aji and Aji woke up from her afternoon deep snores to take the call. Chiyu cackled the query and an enthusiastic Aji replied on mobile video: I wrote my first Malayalam alphabet on a plate of raw rice and that surprised Chiyu.  Aji explained and Chiyu asked: 'What about English.' Aji replied: Ajoba studied in English, I in Malayalam.' Chiyu pulled off, did not ask Ajoba; probably, me dear, little lady knew Ajoba did nothing at school. Chiyu essay got 101 marks out of 100. Mother Dakhi was ecstatic, prepared aluvadi. And when Vidya, Dakhi and Ganesh were kids, mother Rama would wait at the door step with dosas, wadas, toast bread and jam and Amul butter, something or other for them, on evenings. They would rush home from St. Mary's English School in Dombivili in the evenings, jumping lorries screaming on the road. She would not ask what happened in school; keen her children had smiles on their faces after school hours; she fed them and she was happy while father missed it all trying to be a famed journalist and did not. Rama's oblong world was her kids. Today, Ganesh and Vidya look after Rama and me; Dakhi is on phone daily and there were times when she was a regular when Shreya and Chiyu were tots.  Rama, every day, 365 days of the year....Earlier, when me was at school, mother will not leave her home at Lake Temple Road, Calcutta in the evening; she waited with food, lovely, tasty food, especially adais and vadais. She never asked what me did at school; that was father territory. She did not object when me spent hours on the road playing gully cricket, trying to be a Nawab of Pataudi. Later, she had regrets me did not own a house, a car, a 3-piece suit, a status. Today, Dakhi after serving food, rather feeding Shreya and Chiyu, makes detailed dredging of the day at school. Shreya doles out in ladles; Chiyu, eats, takes her cycle and is off to play. Chiyu does not care for classes or schools; Shreya, the reverse. Me mother, Rama and Dakhi never talked careers; they were housewives and our feminists will protest. And today, when school buses rush on Link Road, breaking signals, me thought of the School Kid 2017. Under loads of books, they climb into buses as mothers rush to put ladders to their careers. And on Link Road, there are school vans packed with kids, like vegetables on a lorry; mothers and fathers do not protest; yes, they have offices to go on time, bosses to please, money to make. After all money defines a Mumbaikar, the best. Dakhi has a friend working at a bank, a top officer. She leaves for office at 7 comes back home at 8; her daughter is fed by a 24 hour cook; on week-ends she buys everything her daughter asks. Sometimes, Dakhi asks her kids whether they will look after her when she turns an Aji. Yes, is the answer today as Chiyu puts in a demand for vada pav. Isnt that something?   

A Song 155

A postman
pressed the door bell
took out a yellow post card
with a Gandhi stamp;
a Marathi flier:
'Sri Gajanan Prasann'.
An offer of Gajanan murtis
from Vinayak Kala Kendra;
address, mobiles neatly
black-inked.
Time: 10 a.m. to 10 p.m.
Break: 2 to 5.
Autoed to Kendra,
placed an order;
Vinayak Wadke
referred the panchang
before taking the order
for a red Ganesh,
at 10 per cent discount,
free delivery.

Born unfree

Man is born free. Woman is born unfree. In India (do not know of other countries). Can women get freedom from men? Did Sita get it from Rama or Draupadi of her five husbands? Why should women plead? Will she get freedom from her father, brother, husband, son, grandson ever? Will she be left alone? Why is marriage dumped on her? Rama, me wife, addresses me, Neenga, Vanga; me addresses her: Ni, Va; she does not call me name; me calls her Rama. My mother was scared of my father. Everyone at home avoided father. Yes, the denial starts at home, me home, not our home. Rama used to address me parents, Amma, Appa when they were not biological; me never did that to her parents. When Dakhi got married into a Marathi family, her name was changed; she had to accept it; her husband did not object; but somehow her old name, Dakhi, still remains. Everyone calls her Dakhi. With prayers to Lord Ganesh, Dakhi sends Shreya and Chiyu to school. Vaidehi in an essay in The Sunday Indian Express, styled Alice in predator land, writes of an Indian mother: Listen to how a mother readies her daughter for school:

Keep it in your satchel
This blade so small
With your pen, paper, books and all
Dont forget the packet of chilli powder!
And to your bangles a safety pin
"Maa...they'll make fun"
Two hoots to them
You may need all of these.
When the time comes my dear,
By God's grace, may you remember
To use at least one of these!
Get ready, it's getting late...
Down the steps and off to school
May you come back soon and safe
And all the best, my child.

'Father Time has always been a Man,' edicts Vaidehi and none can object. She ends: 'A legal system for women, created by women, is a deeply felt need of this age and times.' Yes, me agrees but me will not grant it, Vaidehi. Power is never given away, it has to be snatched. Gods have not, men will not. Me took a dowry when me married Rama in the traditional way; tied a thali, the dog collar, for identity of a married woman; me was and am still free of any such. Over the last three years, Rama has got rid of her thali, not because of me but to avoid chain snatchers. Todays and tomorrows, females should be females and they wont get any help. As me will not help. Take to arms, grandmas, mas, wives, girls....

Death in the Gunj

Hey, Rama and me enjoyed the 109 minutes of Death in the Gunj by Konkana Sensharma on amazon. In remote McCluskiegunj, Jharkhand (earlier Bihar), a group comes to rest, relax, refresh. Heard and read about McCluskiegunge in the essay, Somewhere to Call Their Own by Ian Jack in his collection Mofussil Junction, Indian Encounters 1997-2012. The word ganj or gunge means a storehouse or market in Hindi. Anglo Indians settled here, died and more or less no more, me presumes; or mixed up with tribals. Which is perfectly okay. 'About 1,500 feet up in the Chota Nagpur hills, in eastern India, there lies a sprawling monument to racial fears and fancies, and to an idea of nationhood that shimmered temptingly in the years between the two world wars and then vanished leaving this as its only trace,' writes Ian Jack. And for Konkana Sensharma it is to play a ghost game. Playing it, sitting around a table, Shutu (Vikrant Massey), is put down for attention; and Vikrant does it well, with minimum chatter; every man and woman in the party is traced, fine mud paths rib forests and Konkana starts cameraing. Please, it is not a ghost or horror film. The film has the pace of a middle-distance runner; being with the crowd and then Shutu breaking away... he and a little girl Tani, become friends; bury a dead insect with prayers; he does not and desires a woman, who else but Kalki; he is a failure, broke and plans to go back to Bardhaman, near Calcutta; including Tani, everyone gives up on him. Om Puri does a mad, rummy role with ease; a scene is enough for the Master; the music of forest dwellers has a zing. We liked it a lot and perhaps breeding backs Konkana. As the camera beams into a moth preserved in a book by Shutu, or the stray puppy wading into the party, and the high tempo when the little girl Tani is lost in the forest and we thought the film is climaxing. No thats left to Om Puri and Vikrant Massey. The telling has grace and some style; there is a sharp drop mid-way; yet, the film kept us in our arm chairs. When is your next film, Konkana. A request: Do one with your mother, Aparna Sen. Thanks for Gunj.  

A Song 154

A chalk scribble
on the black, notice board
at the temple:
MISSING:
Since Ashad Ekadashi,
Tuka, Kabir.
M: 0000000000.
Pink, white sadaphules
in silent bloom. 

Two birthdays

Lady and Old Man were born on Aashad Ekadashi when rains sheathed the earth and lightning drummed prancing clouds. On Karuna Road, magpie robins, crows, sparrows, mynas, flying fox put down two birthday cakes on the footpath; with wet breath, sat down the rains to jingle their many calls ..... to Lady and Old Man....but they were not there. Old Man was holding an umbrella over a waif with one drink less on the footpath; rain drops could have helped the waif; but no, Old Man could not see him wet though he was wet. Bhagwan came up with a cup of hot tea and poured it on the waif, who nudged and went back to sleep. Lady, in tears, was holding an umbrella on a run over stray pulling at the last few breaths left him. Lady patted the stray, her friend, to a soft end. 'When cars and bikes run over humans, there are police cases and all that. When they trample a dog or any animal, not even a breaking of vehicles, a Sorry,' Lady mused. Many birds spotted them, pulled Old Man and Lady away, cut the cake from Hot Buns to caws and coos, funded by Bhagwan. Years were not inscribed on the two cakes as Old Man and Lady did not know age; they blew two candles. They were born, they will die. It did not matter, living under a banyan, outside Aadhaars. Under many, many raindrops. No grouse. A day ahead the two had stumbled their way to Borivili West station, to buy umbrellas, lots of it, surprising the shop keeper: small, medium, big and beach umbrellas, in colours, not black as Lady disliked black. July rains are uneven, if they are present; Old Man opens umbrellas for dripping birds; Lady opens the fans for poor children walking to municipal schools; not that they want it; they resent it; but Aji they love, walk with her for a minute under the umbrella, run away, leaving the Lady laughing and folding the umbrella. Lady becomes a child. Lady keeps an eye on Old Man, crawling on a rain tree with a beach umbrella on his head; reaching the top, he opens the contraption, holds it over wet flying fox asleep upside down. 'Savkash,' yells Lady; 'Ho', returns Old Man. Met office has predicted heavy July rains; Old Man and Lady will stay wet through July to keep birds dry. Now they have a crazy idea. Together they hold an umbrella over their dear old, banyan. 'Getting old. Will catch a fever,' fears Lady as she gets the banyan to wear a plastic coat. 'Will have to find a tree doctor; vets we have,' replied Old Man.

A Song 153

At Marine Drive
on Arabian Sea,
young couples
tugged Tuka, Kabira
into windy blurbs;
young drummed,
Tuka strummed,
Kabira spun,
to Vithala rhymes
on Ashad Ekadashi
with vada pavs, mawa cakes;
stuffed mouths in fun confessionals;
no claims to know the world,
neither Ram nor Hari;
the puzzle hums.
Lost in a monsoon blow up,
burping laughs;
we will go, others will come;
will Tuka, Kabir be?
Will Chandrabhaga dry up?