A Song 197

Tuka full of Vittala.

Ram fills up Kabira.

Tad unfair?

Yehuda Amichai

Last morning walk on Link Road of 2017. Hugged a Mumbai chill sitting on a green, wooden bench under a banyan. A Sunday quiet. Newspaper vendor was selling news to an absent audience. Read and mused over Yehuda Amichai, the Israeli poet. Am aware of Moses. Trying to be familiar with Yehuda Amichai in poem, The place where we are right.

From the place where
we are right
Flowers will never grow
in the spring.
The place where we are
right
Is hard and trampled
like a yard.
But doubts and loves
dig up the world
Like a mole, a plow.
And a whisper will be
heard in the place
where the ruined
house once stood.

Wondered whether me will even spot a whisper, beloved country. Am into Amichai. For a Sunday, there was no work at the metro. Machinery and workers lay exhausted, asleep, at work spots. Everything looks same. At the Vazira temple, Rama prayed, me did not. At Jayaraj Nagar, the Saphale women of vegetables, were absent. Yes, the morning had an absence. Came home, fed sparrows, sank into me sofa, read Yehuda again. Was not sure whether me walked the morning; unsure what me was doing. Scribbled a notebook: 

2018,
looks, reads,
1820, 8120, 0182;
got to check me eyes.
Peeling potatos
will remain the same. 

A Song 196

At Marine Drive
on Arabian Sea,
Tuka, Kabira pray for
sun at Melbourne;
Tuka is Barmy Army,
Kabira is Aussie Winnies.
Tending sea gulls
at Chowpatty,
relaxing with seas gulls
at Melbourne,
turn commentators, ask:
Kuthe hai Laxman? 

A Song 195

At Marine Drive
on Arabian Sea,
Tuka, Kabira
skip prayers,
for Ashes cheers.  

Ghalib

Today is the 220 birthday of poet Mirza Asadullah Beg Khan, born in Agra. Google is celebrating.  Stumbled on a mobile video of NaseeBabu, licking a mango slice, chatting Mirza Ghalib's love for mangos and the poet. Till the age of 5, Naseebabu spoke Urdu;lost it at school which did not allow for Hindi and Urdu. The moment came when Gulzar chose Naseebabu for the 12 part TV serial (one hour part) on Ghalib. Have seen it even as the classical Urdu bounced. The 11 minute video, dwells on Naseebabu being enticed forever by Ghalib. And at over 70, me has no tongue or root. Sure, have dwelt on it, but the guilt is not going off. Did not even try like Naseebabu. Being born in Kottarakara village did not give me roots as never studied Malayalam, never spoke it, never wrote it, never lived there for even two moths together. At home in Calcutta, spoke Brahminised Tamil of Kerala - a mix of Tamil and Malayalam- but never went near the languages. We spoke in Tamil, as mother did not know English and father did not approve; but he pushed me into English at school and today me has only English. Have read Marathi and Hindi poets and writers in English which is not quite the same; Perumal Murugan me reads in English, losing the Tamil flavour. Come to think of it, after watching Naseebabu video, me knows India in translation. In Mumbai, familiar with broken Marathi, a bit, which is in no way appetising. Can one be an Indian without an Indian tongue and roots. Suspect, Jawaharlal Nehru knew India mostly in English. Maybe, me am wrong. But this DNA defect, at least, lames me. Take Ghalib, today, read him a bit in English.  Or for that matter, Bahadur Shah Zafar, the last Mughal emperor; a Mughal dynasty which has given us its own music, architecture, gardens, poetry and enriched me country. In the morning, for the first time, read the famous and moving, Malayalam lullaby by Irrayin Thambi ...  Omana thingal kidao ... on google with English meanings. Rama lullabied her children and two grandchildren with Omana .. Thats how me fell for it. Sorry, is India me country? Do me belongs? Perhaps, it is mot juste that me became an English journalist, typing press notes, clerically. Today, me understands: English made me a clerk. Me have to own up, is a clerk. And Naseenbabu hero. An insufficient living.  

A Song 194

Shawled in psalms
nuns croon Silent Night;
Lady, Old Man
bow in benediction,
brushing hurting mosquitos,
at the Cradle of Compassion,
under Karuna banyan
in bells and candles;
winds tickle bells,
stars lights candles,
moonlight the manger,
Cadbury Gems drop in nests,
Cadbury Silks on street kids.
Cross is far away,
Merry,
Lady, Old Man,
pray, 
to mobile tunes
of church bells
on Karuna Way.    

A Song 193

Christmas holidays.
Two sets of kids,
in greens and yellows,
bats and balls,
prayed to Ganoba
for wins in finals of 
Gully Cup International,
a 7 over per side game.
Priests wished them luck.
Ganoba said PLAY. 

A Song 192

'Waaatch maan,
lift bandh hai,'
bugles Lady from
her 7th floor apartment.
'Haanji,' responds Waaatch man
with a leap
from his stool at the gate,
to the lift.

Morning: Cars honk,
bikes roar,
with rushing middle class crows,
for society gates to open.
'Haanji,' responds Waaatch man,
hurtling open the gates.

Evening: Cars, bikes hoot,
middle class into mobiles
streaming Virushka,
for entry into society.

'Haanji,' responds Waaatch man,
hurrying open gates.

'Mera ladki kidhar hai,'
asks a querulous Lady,
rushing to Yoga classes.
'Haaanji,' responds Waaatch man,
in a dither.

'Uncle, mera cycle kidhar hai,'
asks a 14 year old girl.
'Haaanji,' responds Waaatch man
in a stumble.

At the gates,
Old Man asks:
'Waaatch Man, aapka naam?'
'Haaanji,' responds Waaatch man
sans Aadhaar. 

Songs of a Coward

At one of the literary events, Perumal Murugan said in Tamil: Times ago, I thought I could write anything. Today, there is a fear. Me believes Perumal Murugan, One Part Woman and Pyre. Possibly, when he wrote them Perumal Murugan was a writer who did not have to look behind. He just had to stare at the paper, write down stories, perhaps midnight; Perumal said he wrote between 12 and three midnight. Perumal Murugan announced his death as a writer and the fright morphs into a clutch of political poems: Songs of a Coward: Poems of exile. His English translator Aniruddhan Vasudevan notes: He wrote these poems during that period of exile when he was struggling to find his bearings, trying to make sense of all that was happening in his life and how it might affect his existence as a person and writer. 210 poems, political poems, are perhaps something unsual. Fear walks the book. Perumal is an honest customer, owning up a fear, a nauseating way of living. The poem, Surrender, runs: I/bring a flower/You/bring a sword .. Not only a fight/Even peace is not possible/Only surrender/Total surrender. Shivers a Touch - Me- Not: ....They waited/When the first leaf unfolded/ one of them touched it/with his threatening voice/It shuddered and shrank/ After that, the touch of their voice was enough/Not a single leaf unfurled. In A Baby Crow, the poet is upset ...Any friendly smile lasts/only as long as the traffic lights do. Are there smiles in Tamil Nadu? Son Ganesh asks: Why is he disliked so much and he has turned over reading One Part Woman. Rama has all his Tamil writings ordered from Kalachuvadu. Sitting and talking at literary festivals, Perumal may have intoned his own lines: ...It is not easy/getting used to being/an exhibition piece. Maybe in nights of 2015 and 2016, Perumal might have pondered over hanging up and the hint is there in The Song of a Coward .....A coward/never turns into a murderer/But/he does think about suicide/and does it too. Is the poet shuddering, seeing Bhakts and feeling the Modi Fear barbering India since 2014, in A Full-Body Shave: The king has decreed/ that humans shall be skinned alive.....And the artists stand/dripping blood/from searing wounds/and pretending that/they are just getting/ a full-body shave. In yet another piece Perumal confesses: I dont wish to live any longer. Bhakt India has snuffed joy in living; joy there is in killing or shutting up. It had never been so. Surprisingly Perumal does not invoke Marx and the Left and the Red Flag. The Left never has stood for freedom. The term Bhakt is nowhere. He seems to suggest an excuse to live in Nature: My gaze falls anew/on nature/Nature is the last refuge/for one who has lost everything/has nothing/is dead.... Yes/Time/asks me to make/my poetic subject/pure nature/that knows/no human scent. Will Perumal of One Part Woman ever be? He is a dryland farmer, school teacher and a poet. Will the poet tap the computer key board or is it going to be Delete? In an interview a journalist asked him about the day's politics. No remarks, Virumbavillai, said Perumal in Tamil. He is not going to back out. He is going to fight with words. If Perumal backs out, its over. One billion Cowards there will be. When is your next book Sir?   

Sunday walk

December in Borivili is not hot nor is it cold. A Sunday morning walk is a wade into December darkness with a wooden walking stick knocking. Metro Y pillars in a single row like devotees at temples with hands up in prayers waiting for the trains to run over them. A thin dash of a moon taking me to Hindi poet Muktibodh and his lines: Chand ka moonh tedha.... when me nearly collided with Cookie the brown spaniel and his lady; 'Good morning, so early, Uncle?' they said with Cookie pawing me all over. The morning innings had started with a six and me liked me luck. 'Decembers are pleasant for dogs,' they said; perhaps they could have included humans including me in a a kurta and three quarters. Went our ways wishing a Good Day.... into Devaki Nagar and onto dear old LIC Colony and silent trees on both sides of a turn and twist road...traffic, human and inhuman, absent, being Sunday. Old silk cotton tree and me locked in a hug as it has been quite some time we shook heads. Me does not do anymore a quick walk... halt, look around, take a few steps, repeat the move ... talk to self a lot, do not know what to call it .... not a Thay meditation walk as there is no such Buddha matter involved... Park at the banyan beside Karuna Hospital and lean on banyan aerial roots .... the sky crowded by flying fox moving in to roost upside down from rain trees... they glide the skies, sometimes chased by crows, the politician nosing everyone's affairs like Indian politicians, promising everything, delivering nothing....on Link Road on a coconut palm two black kites seem to be nesting and crows refusing them quiet...do not know how M.Krishnan likes them. Was not aware the morning walk was over as me hit back home, armchair, filter coffee and Ashes at WACA. That Starc ball seems to have hit a crack as it swerved and knocked back the off stump of Vince. Shane Warne thinks it is the ball of this century. Wasim Akram twittered in delight. That was a hard ball. Six innings, Cook and Root, have not done much. Hard luck. When the house sparrows came -- five of them -- for a feed backed by a crow or grey neck. Crows, crows and more of them on Monday when TV channels will yell out Gujarat elections results.... And as is common practice Pusarla Venkat Sindhu loses at Dubai Superseries. She has picked up a bad habit. Will crows and politicians be as stylish...

A Song 191

Breaking steps,
a palmist,
with a jhola
of stars and planets,
paused in front of
Lady and Old Man
under Karuna banyan
on Karuna Road.
'You smell of luck and
unluck,
birth and death,'
chuckled Lady.
'No, Lady,' came back palmist,
pouring out stars and planets
at banyan feet;
am into foretelling rebirths.
Old Man stretched out a scribbled
palm,
not squaring with stars and planets.
Palmist,
scratching head,
packed a palmful of Karuna
in his jhola,
whiled away.
'Is he a palmist or psalmist?'
wondered Lady.    

Gandhi, Nehru and JRD

JRD, Jawaharlal and Gandhi stepped into Yezdani for brun-pav, maska and chai. JRD was staying at Bombay House, Gandhi at Mani Bhuvan and Nehru at Jinnah House. They had not met for a while. In stilled surprise, the Parsi gentleman-owner stood up at the counter, wished a soft Good morning. They returned the wish. He wiped a table and bench clean as the three slid on to the bench and waited for orders. JRD, with a smile wider than his face: Three plates of brun maska and chai, please. No hurry, Sir. The Parsi owner couldn't get over the early morning gift as the RBI Towers and Bombay House and Horniman Circle park awaited gentlemen and ladies. An aged Muslim, fresh from the kitchen, served the oven warm order on florally designed plastic plates as the trio stood up in grace. JRD tipped the aged Muslim before the trio took delicious bites. 'You have it every day?' asked Gandhi and JRD nodded and added with boiled eggs. 'You should take eggs to be strongly old,' remarked Nehru to Gandhi and the Old Man grinned peace. The chewing quiet was broken by Gandhi: 'Last week had breakfast and lunch with Dr. Manmohan Singh at his home. His home reminded me of Sabarmati Ashram. For breakfast, the decent Sardar aired a low key Gurbani as wife Gursharan Kaur came up with aloo parathas and tea. Made by my wife, said Sardar; he peeled the potatos and is better at it than in Economics, added Kaur.' Nehru butted: 'You would have discussed Guru Nanak.' Gandhi nodded assent, made that way. 'Sardar knows Guru Granth by heart,' Gandhi said appreciatively. 'Like you know Gita,' needled Nehru as JRD lighted a Wills Gold Flake. Nehru a Camel. And then Gandhi and Singh dwelt on Indian economy. 'Sardar talked of GDP, GVA, demonetisation ... could not make any sense and the Sardar is too much into it when dal-kichidi came via Kaur and I forgot all about growth,' Gandhi explained. A fine, laughing lunch, it was. Sardar went over times when mother made parathas for him. They were made in clay fire and vessels. Dal-kichdi tasted of Ba. Being a busy man, Sardar had to leave for Gujarat to campaign and we broke up. As I stepped out, Sardar asked whether Sonia and  Rahul had given me and Jawahar tickets for Gujarat. No, me said. We are khota sikkas, dont know. Sardar hugged and presented me with a signed copy of  Political Violence in Ancient India by his daughter, Upinder Singh. They ordered a second round of brun pavs with Coke. Nehru said he had read the book and it is history and not myths you spread of ancient India, Bapu. JRD coughed as piece of pav got throat stuck; you read every book, Jawahar. Yes, like you make and count every rupee printed by RBI, came back Nehru. Did you meet Ratan, Nehru inquired. He has no time shutting down Nano, returned JRD and added wryly: We three are the same. Unwanted scrap of Underwood typewriters. Breathing in a pinch of snuff, (a new habit of Gandhi), Gandhi wiped his nose with a towel. The Parsi owner refused to bill as they stood up for a walk to Jehangir Art Gallery to gaze at Hussain paintings. Gandhi is for the Mother Teresa paintings of Hussain, Nehru his horses and JRD the Madhuri Dixit pics. A crowd was rampaging the show, a stone hit Gandhi and a brick missed Nehru. JRD rushed them to Bombay House, closed the doors even as Gandhi insisted on facing the crowds. 'It is not 1946 or 1947; it is 2017 of a Mohammed being killed,' warned JRD.  

A Song 190

Christmas month on Karuna
Road...
Old Man, Lady,
in arm chairs,
holding palms,
count soul scrawls,
sipping Coke and curry,
sharing jams and cherries,
served by nuns
swathed in psalms merry.

A Song 189

Stars on Karuna Road.
Birds, beasts take seats
under the banyan.
Bats, on rain trees, a night off.
Lady touches candles,
Old Man spreads eats,
as an ageless bat knifes a
birthday cake,
on a branch,
to chirps and cheers.