A Song 245

Another June.
No rains.
Trains of herons,
egrets,
on tamarinds, copper pods,
rain trees,
shaping twiggy nests.
Ceremony of a faith.

A Song 244

Gossiped in chairs,
over tea and kharis,
on table
Cafe is shut.
At 72,
whatsapp on mobiles.
Gossip is forever. 

A Song 243

Taking a stand
before giving way,
gulmohur holds on
till bluster of wind
and rains;
for sadaphules,
a bloom, a bust
to sweepers' brooms.

......

A desire to go to
gaon,
a brown and green,
a touch away from railway lines,
lanes,
walking
crooked tree lines. 

Gandhi, A Memoir, William L. Shirer

From Flora Fountain, when it stacked second hand books, picked up Gandhi, A Memoir by William L. Shirer, a Chicago Tribune correspondent. Am unaware of  memoirs by Indian journalists with Gandhi as their beat. Shirer does not side step Gandhi foibles; yet sensitive and relevant in 2018 when lynching and shut downs of debates is the norm in India. Am not sure if politicians and journalists bother to take time out for the Memoir. Gandhi is relevant today if India is to be 70 to 80 per cent decent and civilised. Today, India is brutal and Gandhi does offer a many way street for all to stroll. In Gandhian times, the sub continent perhaps was as cruel with communal riots more a habit, a past time. Gandhi is a failure. Yet, more than Ramayana and Gita, Gandhi is the finest intro to India and suspect Shirer memoir is fair and square imbibing a Gandhian kindness. Gandhi is Indian, in the best and worst manner, like the Ganges, polluted and holy. Perhaps, the finest measure of Gandhi is a 'granite integrity' as Shirer puts it. Gandhi owned up everything, including sex life in old age. Gandhi does not need a blanket. Preferred to shiver with bald facts. Gandhi sets the norms. Shirer is not hassled by British unfairness, perhaps because he is an American. Still wonder at the professional and human links between a Gandhi and journalist Shirer. Gandhi took him as another human when he first met Shirer. Shirer wanted Gandhi to file reports. Scoops, analysis et al, a journalist is troubled by. The two beat a fine rhapsody, something hard to think of. Perhaps Gandhi did not mind a slap on the head. Sex, God, politics, the two dwelt on. They were friends even after Shirer left India to cover the Second World War from Europe. 'I am grateful that fate took me to him,' ends Shirer the 245 pages Memoir. A fine piece of reporting.

A Song 242

A holed soul in
a mango tree.
Catered every festival.
Best to die whole,
before it death doles,
they said,
slicing into folds
without a
check up,
a prayer,
a burial.

.....

fated?
did wiggles on
its trunk, say so?

.....

Twiddling twiddle,
Lady stared at
blank palms of
Old Man,
who began with lines
under Karuna banyan.
'Show me yours.'
Old Man blinked at
lanes of lines.
In May, a Mayness.

A Song 241

Potted sadaphules
pleaded a thumb of
Earth
at parking lots.

The Outsider

At the Shiva temple, the priest intones, softly Hanuman Chalisa and Rama goes along. No strain at the notes, a flow of pleasantness in the morning. Old Man takes in white fronted flycatcher, laburnum, yellow copper pods starring the floor, peepal, banyan .... After the prayers, the priest cups grains, scatters them for waiting pigeons and squirrels. The practice is banned by the committee running the temple but the priest breaks the rule ...'Janwar hain, bhooke hain. Are bhai, ek bhook ke liye main puja path kartha hoon... hai na hui baath,' says the priest. He is a green. A quiet green. An unshrill green. Also an Adivaitist. Sankara in Bhaja Govindam talks of Udara Nimittam bhaukrita veshah. For Sankara, life is maya to be rejected; Tuka, Kabir agree. Life is absurd. Its so for Albert Camus with the absurdity being minus god, going by many readings of The Outsider. Today finished with yet another reading. A 2018 Gita. Take out God from the equation and Sankara is equal to Camus, a poet equals a lyrical novelist. Cyril Connolly in an intro to The Outsider, dwells on Camus attitude to death: 'What does eternity matter to me? To lose the touch of flowers and womens' hands is the supreme separation.' 1970s in Bombay was that: a touch of flowers and womens' hands. Bombay 1970 was a celebration. Friend Murali Gopalan always asks me about 70s Bombay. Yes, women, wine, no mine or thine. Cant undress the soul of  70s. It is so at 72 in 2018. Thanks, priest for setting the compass right. 

A Song 240

Deep in charpoys
under Karuna banyan,
buzzed by still May air,
steep noon calls of koels,
Old Man,
no fingerprints
on Facebook,
Lady, no mobiles,
watching
a leafy sky
boated to sleep. 

A Song 239

Brownie Bear
at home via amazon.
Gift from Vidya to Rama,
taped in love.
Brownie and Rama
dwell well, 
pat, feed, chat each other 
in spells.
Swapping places,
Rama suggested;
Brownie upset.

River prayer

'In my village, trees give shade and we take the heat sitting or lying down on a charpoi under them. In this shahar, towers provide shade and there is no space for a charpoy,' mused the temple priest with a wan smile to no one in particular. Ajoba overheard it. The priest should have been a journalist or maybe will, if there is rebirth. In a white dhoti worn the traditional way, a white jibba, a suggestion of a tikka on his forehead, name and village unknown, he soft tunes to the gods and air around, Hanuman Chalisa and a whiff of faith seeps into Ajoba. The Shiva temple is Ajoba new walking corner, bounded by housing societies with a few trees on the borders; a Laburnum is celebrating the summer, copper pods kolam the earth with yellow flowers oozing a fragrance; yes, Ajoba thought, a yellowness all round with peepals and banyans plus a tulsi adding to the company. Resting in a plastic arm chair, as Rama is into Hanuman Chalisa, Ajoba thrills to the sight of a fantail flycatcher with its up and down notes. Early mornings, there are few for blessings of Lord Shiva or is it the other way round. Will Ajoba set out on a vana prastham? At 70 its time going by many ancient rulings. Has no guts. By the way, where are the forests and the few protected forests are zoos going by the logic of that fine man and friend, Varad Giri. If Borivili National Park is turning into a municipal park and Tadoba into a zoo, where is vana prastham? In Sunday Mumbai Mirror, Bikram Grewal writes of Billy Arjun Singh and creation of the Dudhwa National Park. Ajoba has met Billy Arjun Singh at a Sanctuary awards function and his words still thud in pain: Sometime in the future, when you stand on mountains in the north, will be able to sight Kanyakumari and the seas beyond. Yes, nothing in between: No Ganga mayya, no Narmada, no Godavari, no Cauvery, no Pamba, no Brahmaputra, forests and animals. There is a prayer Ajoba likes, a prayer to rivers starting with Ganga dropping down from Lord Shiva's head, Lord Shiva the first green; for washing away one's sins. Prayer taken from google: Gangecha, Yamune chaiva Godavari, Saraswathi, Narmada, Sindhu, Kaveri jalesmin sannidhim kuru ( O Holy rivers Ganga, and Yamuna and also Godavari, Saraswathi, Narmada, Sindhu and Kaveri; Please be present in this water near me,and make it Holy). Perhaps, its time to scrap the river prayer. When the priest wound down the morning with the River prayer....   

A Song 238

Ahead of water wars.
Mumbaikar
will die in car wars.


.........


Bhakti poets
clean one up
for God or nothing.



.....

April
haikus 
cool.


  

Shreya, Chiyu

Four or maybe five years,
Aji and Ajoba
autoed to Dahisar;
baby sat Shreya, Chiyu.
Noons for Ludo,
snakes and ladders,
cards,
Aji Alleppey tales.
Evenings Ajoba,
Chiyu in arms,
Shreya without leash,
wading along
to Dahisar station
and vanishing humans;
tiled Vitho temple, silent;
at kirana shops
Lays for Shreya,
Balaji for Chiyu,
Gems and Amul for both
sharing quarrels;
in blind alleys
throwing dirt,
kicking a ball,
cycling with friends.
Laughs matched cries. 
Evenings,
Dakhi walked in
to baby sits
turning adult sits. 

A Song 237

April suns
reluctant to relent
scorch pebbled palms.
Lady, Old Man
below Karuna banyan
on Karuna Road,
count on frail fingers
time, leaves, cars, bikes.
Taking breaks,
Old Man pulls out letters,
broken, cracked, wounded
alphabets,
in wrinkled smiles,
from hip pockets.
Lady,
yanks out
dried, fragrant sadaphules,
from faded frock,
worn over years.
Old ghosts
unlocking cackles
peep from banyan holes.
Did they trade in letters,
flowers and ghosts?
Birds into knocking nests
for the two to drop
eggs with dreamy yolk,
ahead of rains.
Eggs have no buyers,
dreams hatched no takers.
Deva, the donkey,
parked with two umbrellas
stuck to ears,
on alert,
sheltering rains,
when and if they come. 
They were like that,
They are like that,
They will be like that,
says friend Rose, a nun
lazing on Karuna Road.

Mumbai Mirror

Maybe because me friend Tariq Engineer writes, like Mumbai Mirror. Writes all bones, no flesh, like the gentle Parsi he is. MM costs Rs. 3 when a chhota Gold Flake to go with it costs Rs.10. MM cares for Mumbai like The Statesman in Calcutta of yore in Calcutta Notebook. An old news editor said it more human interest stories. Yes, Mumbai Mirror has them. Perhaps they should have a FP cartoon and something of a daily Third Edit on FP, a 300 worder, single column. A Mario and Busybee of 2018. But Editors know better.  Today, it heads of with the news of Mumbaikars touching Alibaug by RoRo. Modern times, computer times, mobile times need RoRO. From Mumbai to Alibaug it will be about an hour. Me thought (as usual wrong) Alibaug is of the rich and they own yachts to swim across to bunglows. They sure will not take RoRo. Maybe, Tariq Engineer will take it to talk up and down a corporate on Alibaug life. A new Chinese toy as the first vessel will come from Confucius land. Realtors and corporates are developing the area (get a stroke every time me bumps into development). Has Mumbaikar, at best a torn, dated newspaper, a chance? From a daily local, crushed to a RoRo to Alibaug sandwiched in plastic. And long times ago they took the sea in dug outs if one goes by J.C. Daniel on Salim Ali in Salim Ali's India. He writes: 'I watched the heaving monsoon seas with a sinking heart. Being tossed about in a narrow dug out canoe was not something I'd bargained for when I joined the Bombay Natural History Society a few months earlier. As one of my legs began to twitch uncontrollably, the tiny bearded man sitting next to me asked, "Can you swim, Daniel?" 'Swim? Y-yes,' I stammered, wondering wildly if Salim Ali, the legendary honorary secretary of the BNHS, was about to give the order to abandon ship. Instead, Salim Ali looked at me for a moment and said quietly, 'I can't.' 

Earth Day

On Earth Day watched a google video on Jane Goodall telling of her life being always with animals, animals, animals. The Earth thanks Goodall. Me thanks Goodall. Me spent an ordinary youth in Calcutta, none talking to me of Earth and me not caring much of Earth. Today, me thanks my stars for having three wildlifers as friends. They taught me what little me knows. They are: Kishor Rithe, Nishibhau and Varad Giri. Rithe looks after Melghat Tiger Reserve, Nishibhau is a fine birder and Varad is the cecilian, snaker and turtler working in the Western Ghats. Today me Thanks them as they put Nature in me. Got me into the habit of hugging trees, stopping on roads to watch a magpie robin call and once watching new borns Oliver Riddley Turtles scampering into the Arabian Sea in Konkan. Still have not got over me Eureka moment when Vivek Bendre and me released two new born turtles into the waves of Arabian Sea on prayers with Varad watching and chatting the turtles. Wonder whether the two are around as they have long lives. We did not name them. Thanked Lord Shiva, the first green creating the Ganges, silently and long at the temple off Yogi Nagar Road. Being Sunday there was a quiet as the priest spread grains for pigeons and squirrels. Tried to mobile click them when the priest noted: Bhag jate hain. Hamse darthe hain. Yes Earth is afraid of Humans. Scared of Man. Waiting for the time moment when a squirrel will have faith in me to take a fine clic. The temple, bounded by housing societies, has a few trees, and me hugs the peepals, banyans and bananas. On Monday mornings, women after bathing Lord Shiva take glasses of water to wet the feet of trees with prayers and bows. And on Earth Day, the Fadnavis government wants to usurp the land given to Bombay Natural History Society for building a Film City, reports Mumbai Mirror. Yes, appropriate. Why be Mumbai green, why set aside Earth for Mumbai?  

Draupadi

Me piece of earth needs
a Lady.
Not Kali, Saraswathi, Meera,
Mary
but a Draupadi
in a salwar kameez,
dark and trim,
a cross of Smita Patil and Shabna Azmi,
refusing Krishna,
daring Krishna,
shooing men and me,
on the run.
Draupadi,
halting the chariot,
demanding Arjuna to turn back
from manufacturing widows
to appease peace, paramatmans;
littering me piece of earth
with still, saltless tears.
Dialling me piece of earth
with heft and compassion,
under banyans,
for grass to grow,
children to frolic,
no blood.
Draupadi thinks its easy;
maybe not;
me does not know.
Draupadi silent as far horizons.
Sets norms.
Dropping the search,
a drooped, fierce head,
Draupadi
mulches me piece of earth
with dry eyes,
births 8 year old Asifa Bano
and many more.
Draupadi
will not be a twelth woman
in any team,
on me piece of earth.
She bests Bhishma
in a wash of disgust.
Her friend is Sita,
but she is not Sita.
She has the charity of Shabari,
is not Shabari.
Is she where Asifa is?
Where is Draupadi?

Aesop fixing?

Legs seem to have given up. Morning walks a crawl and rest on stone and wooden benches. A year ago did the distance from home to the church on Link Road in 10 minutes. Now its more than 30 minutes. Rama beats me to it. A hare and tortoise Aesop walk. No race here. Eknath Easwaran advises slowing down the pace. A shuffle .... no, that may not suit Eknath Easwaran, no sportsman or sportswoman should read Eknath .... one step after another, not timed to a watch, snatching a stillness, staring and smiling to self if none is there to share laughs, counting the laughers on the road .... a noisy warbler on a copper pod (cant identify the fellow) and a halt.... Jontie the Labbie comes up with a bound ..... and on the last stretch smoking a Gold Flake, wondered whether there was any fixing the Aesop Hare and Tortoise race....the first fixing ever? Where was the race held... a piece of forest cleared for a stadium...When and the timings...Did the hare and tortoise shake legs and hands? Before and after. And which nation they belonged to as Aesop does not talk of flags and anthems, gold and silver medals...who coached them .. and officials bursting with cash and friends. Understand Hare offering a handicap but not snoring away (or is it drugged) for the Tortoise to scramble past the finishing post.... maybe rich farmers in Aesop times were into betting and fixing, an art older than creation.. gods did bet on creative outcomes .....Can the claim be made? ... When Rama beats me home, to be ready with a coffee. 

!!!!!

In Walking Around, Pablo Neruda verses: I happen to be tired of being a man. Yes Pablo me am, very tired. Cant get over the raping and killing of an 8 year old girl, Asifa Bano. She gave us no reason to hate except of course a smile to live. A time to be born, and a time to die, says the Bible. We didnt giver her a time scale; quarter of a chance; she was raped and killed before she was born. Bhakts laugh, contend they dont rape and kill unborns and they are always right, me country of violent hates, cultivated to a fashion statement. Yes, her mistake she was born. But that was not her mistake. Her religion was given her. She, like all of us, had no say in the matter. To everything there is a season and a time for every purpose under the heaven, says the Bible. Season she understood. It was winter. But purpose she did not grasp, nor anyone. A blundered mystery. Anyway she is no more. Where is her tomb? Has she any to lay a flower. Earth did not tumble. Nor the sun dim. Yes, Neruda, no excuse in being a man. 

Channel Nine

Channel Nine is no more. Outpriced. Vijay Tagore in Mumbai Mirror reports the RIP of Channel Nine in Australia with talking rights snatched by Seven and Foxtel. Richie Benaud with Morning Everyone to add: Glenn McGrath dismissed for two, just 98 runs short of his century, writes Vijay Tagore. Me has not much eared Channel Nine. Or for that matter any cricket commentator. For me the best was Noob as he never spoke. Sports for me, is watching and appreciating not talking. Talking is later over rums after the game, rewinding the cover drives of Sobers and manslaughter by Viv.  And is there any cricket, any class cricket, any style cricket? Music minus notes. The recent SA-Australia series was all about cheating. Talking fixing. For me cricket started with gentleman Frank Worrell leading West Indies at Brisbane against abrasive Benaud's Australia at Brisbane to a Tie. Worrell, Sobers, Kanhai, Hall... And then followed Lloyd's magic men: Greenidge, Richards, Roberts, Holding ... Sobers, the greatest of them all. Master. Bradmans and Hobbs are not on me memory pads. OK, they are great for you, not me. With that Test cricket for me is over. Not for me gods and gentlemen as the first were the West Indies. T50 and T20 are not cricket ... an insult to decencies.....and nothing to talk and write and click about. Me dhobi told me the other day: Saab, I dont see the entire match. Last five overs or better last over.' Every last over is the same as the previous and future last over. A swipe shot is an abuse of the red ball and willow bat. Bowlers bowling knuckles, not an inswinger or a turner, an off spin or leg spin. And the loutish audience, waving flags and spilling abuses. Today, cricket commentators, all, every one of them, have no poetry in them (perhaps are ill read), zilch imagination and lots of volume. Gavaskar making faces is not Commentary. Channel Nine saw all of me greats, the Calypso symphony. Harry Belafontes all. Today, there is no West Indies cricket, no cricket, no Channel Nine. Astu. 

-?-?-?-?-?

Nirbhaya to 
8 year old Asifa Bano:
You are now safe.
Rama hates,
Tricoloured hates,
Trishuled hates,
Overflowing with hates,
there is no drought
in me country.
We hates,
Ask for more hates,
Our anthems hates,
Our prayers hates,
How many hates enough
for an 8 year old
Asifa.
Not enough,
says Old Man
wiping hates. 

Innocence lost

Other night, Shreya, 13 year old grand-daughter called Ajoba on the mobile: IPL mein fixing hota hai? she asked. A minute silence. Ajoba, she yelled. Ajoba alive. 'Yes', he said. 'Why didnt you tell me,' she asked. 'Bala, you will lose all interest in cricket,' Ajoba replied. 'Paisa deke na?' she asked. Yes, Ajoba outlined fixing. Bare facts, no details, no names taken. Shreya: 'Ajoba, football mein nahin hota hai na?' Shreya is a hollering Messi fan. Ajoba: 'Bala, sab sports fixed hai.' 'Tho kya karun,' came back Shreya, refusing to break off. 'Sports khelo, maja karo, aur dekho,' said Ajoba disappointed an Innocence has snapped. Did not want to tell her corporates have made all sports sick. Fast cash is sports and the best way to touch fast cash is fix with the aid of sports associations and sports commentators. They are all in it together for their good. Soup it with flag waving for ATMs to spew cash. Not for sports. Is there anything called sports with alphabets of sportsman spirit. A big word for being just decent or fair. Winning and losing make any sports. Sure. But not when its all done before a game starts or an athlete takes the blocs. Cricket, football, athletics, tennis, weight lifting....Sad Shreya will be a cynic like venal Ajoba. Asifa Bano was not even quarter that lucky. Perhaps, she might have played with horses while grazing. Or felt the wind in her hair, bird songs in her ears, mountains in her eyes and laughs, a few, somewhere. She may not have known IPL or a mobile, being too poor. A dry roti and dal would have been her seven course meal. Today we have denied her that. Simple. Rape, kill, misplace her tomb, tomb for an 8 year old. Her innocence knifed. Is India worth it. Its boasts worth it. Its humans worth it. Bye, Asifa Bano.   

Asifa Bano

Koyals wailing.
Strays silent.
At the Church,
friend Sebastian,
head down soft toned,
I have a 8 year old grand-daughter,
Daisy;
Me has two: Shreya and Chiyu.
Why hate so much?'
Head down, silent.
Sorry.
Lady Asifa Bano, poor,
went to graze horses.
Lady Asifa Bano,
8-year old,
none tried to
say a Sorry.
Never carried a Sorry
to a memory
you have been reduced to;
didnt pray at your
absent tomb. 
Amen, said Sebastian.
We didnt.
Sebastian, on his knees,
crying
before his Lord
for a gone Asifa Bano.
Amen?

A Song 235

Kishor Rai -
a pull of breath on legs -
is not us.
From village Kathmandu,
allowed parking space
in Borivili.
Manning gates on unsure smileys,
sprints to honks of cars, bikes,
opening, shutting creaky gates;
proffers a Saheb! namaskar,
none cares for.
Nights in a plastic chair,
no parting gates
as memsahebs, sahebs
are in bed;
moons, mosquitos
offer company.
  

A Song 234

Morning,
Vithoo munching a
double vada pav,
licking fingers
dipped in theeka chutney -
prasad from a girl
pleading a topper at SSC.
Rakku: Desire okayed?
Into a corporate smiley,
Vithoo: That's fated. 

A press note

April warms the third floor newsroom of the Times in 1970s. A few chuckles, a few smokes. Journalists listless in chairs with and without arms and legs. Between the Sports and Business Desks, a lone one-legged rotating fan shares hot air. Phones never rang as land lines were always dead. On long tables, typewriters frogged. Smooth for some fingers, hard for others. A chaiwala places glasses of tea ahead of newsmen and newswomen. Dear old biblical Joseph Kurien, talked of times earlier to the 1970s and me, a journalist trainee heard. A Congressman in Travancore-Cochin exiled for shouting for Independence; landed in Goa and on to Bombay. When a young gentleman, suited in smiles, stood ahead of me, bent low and handed a press note. Me first press note, setting me on the way to press note journalism. 'Sir, a few lines in City Notes. We are working hard,' said the gentleman. Never again did a corporate stand in front of me; me always stood in front of them all my life. Me took it, read it, did not understand it. 'Sure,' said Kurien and the gentleman left. Me took the press note to the cabined, Financial Editor. He asked me to sit. Sat, edgy. Stared at the press note upside down, downside up, ran his fingers, shook it before applying his eyes to it. Associated Capsules is into production, read the press note or something equivalent to it. The Financial Editor trimmed a page of press note to two lines for an In brief item in City Notes. Me  typed it as if it was an international scoop. Passed it on to Kurien. No byline, he said. About 60 words became some 30 words. Forgot it as evenings were meant for hooch with friends. Next day, the gentleman surfaced at the same time, looking as if he had just stepped out of a holy dip in the Ganges. Those days the river was surely cleaner than today. 'Thank you, Sir,' he said and me the Sir, fell off the chair. Did not know the In brief item had been carried, making many readers wiser. Today sitting under the peepal on Yogi Nagar Road, a medical van donated by Associated Capsules drove by with horns agog. Associated Capsules is still around. Claims to be a leading producer of empty, hard capsules. 

A Song 233

April noons,
across siestas,
a house sparrow
on the window sill
chirps:
siestas for sleepless;
silences for sore throats. 

Moong over Microchips

Microchips are a must. Moong also a must. IBMer Venkat Iyer, House Number 752, Peth Village, Dahanu taluk, Palghar district, Maharashtra, tills farms organically, grows moong, sells moong, quits comupter keys. After 14 years with the Earth he writes: ' For us, it is different. The open sky, the beautiful scenery, our pets, the crisp vegetables, the fresh fruits and eating what we grow gives us happiness. The joy of seeing the seed you planted push out of soil and in a few weeks turn into a huge plant is something that can never be experienced in a city mall. No Nat Geo Specials you saw would come even remotely close to seeing a buff striped keelback catch a toad and eat it in front of you, a hissing cobra just a couple of feet away or the swaying mating dance of two rate snakes or the Russell's vipers.' Venkat Iyer and Meena (Meena Menon, journalist, who worked with The Hindu?)  make a firm case for moong. 'We have lost out on love and sensitivity,' Venkat Iyer writes. Agreed. Early on, they decide against bribes. Bribes or prasads to the rural bureaucracy are a must in India Interior, no farmer, none can escape it. A must like dance numbers in Indian films. It keeps the rural bureaucracy dancing. Venkat Iyer and Meena break it. But farmers are unsure as protests will ruin them. Who will listen to them? Who will back them? Yet Iyer and Meena plod. To get farmers off chemicals is hard. For governments and the rural bureaucracy, there is money in pushing chemicals, ruining farms over the long term. Farmers are squeezed of cash and when weather and marketing fails, they had it. Every government scheme, reaches a farmer, shrunk; rural officials ram into them, loot. Marketing is impossible and today no farmer can get a price plus profit to keep farming. Venkat Iyer admits to not reaching the city kids. Young in rural areas are quitting farming leaving their olds in farms. The book is the best reason for farm protests across Mahararashtra and India. Time to gherao cities. Lock the rural bureaucracy. The book is better than the many, many prosaic rural inquiry reports by experts. The book lives, hurts. Me friends, Madhavi and Ajit,  confirm there is no money in farming. They live in slums. Madhavi is a house maid, Ajit sells vegetables. Both have land in villages. Venkat Iyer keeps down the disappointments; he hints and moves on. But it is there for the reader: Farming is not worth it in India. He writes: 'I cannot bring myself to think of what will happen to the agricultural land that the next generation will own. Most of the young generation are working in companies or studying in schools and have no intention of farming at all. They are already migrating to the city to find a job and settle there. They will be part of the GenNext of the country. ......Is this where we are headed? A scary thought.' Venkat Iyer will not leave. It could be argued his arm chair has a strong back. Farmers do not have it. Yet, can India do without moong? For Venkat Iyer and Meena it is Moong over Microchips. Thanks be. 

A Song 232

Hanumanji's birthday.
Temple in colour balloons;
eggless, birthday cake cut;
cheers.
Said Bhagwan, the tea vendor
to Lady, Old Man under
Karuna banyan.
Lady: Said your hullo?
Old Man: Prayers cold me.
Old Man: You?
Lady: Psalms deposit regrets.
Remains of many, morning walks,
the two are turning numb.
Years ago,
Pais stumbled on staffs.
Lady Pai eaten by Alzy,
went away.
Gent Pai, 90, in bed.
Alzy wasted Rao Bahadur.
Ms. Pareekshit dropped, a day.
Her man, eased off,
in an arm chair,
watching windows.
Today's young of aged,
know not them.
Their pets are different.
Lady, Old Man
belonged to them;
today, have none to belong.
Exception, Mary, their nun,
versed in smiles.
 

A Song 231

on stripped bare
Yogi Nagar Road
an asleep, sweaty
stray whimpered:
bloody hot
for bark,
bite,
sex.

Mobile is me Panduranga

Lost it. Yes, lost it. Can tap computer keys, not write with a pen. Try to scribble your notebook, I wasted cash on, says Rama. But no, the letters keel over; verbs and adjectives dont form. A mess. Fingers cant hold a pen when me was kicked into life on slate pencils, chalk and Pilot pens. Ganesh ordered a set of pens from amazon (we love amazon) to last three generations and prompto, they landed in a day. uni-ball eye, fine, pens of many colours, me chose wine red; liquor never leaves me. From Mitsubishi Pencil Co. Ltd. Made in Japan, the lone item in India not from China. Held the pen and wrote; smooth pen; couldnt make much of the words me put down. Cant blame the pen. Rama warns: pens are not free; better use them; she is using a black pen but for what me does not know. She is off writing after post cards and letters died. She is ever on whatsapp. Writing gone and now reading is going with smart phones. Me keeps a poetry book beside me, a rosary, switch on the mobile, and on it till battery runs out. Can me have a running mobile without a battery. Rama says: We have lost writing and reading. Cant read a book as our eyes cant stay on print. Can read a mobile for hours, not a book beyond 10 minutes and that could be too long. Me curses if the internet fails and it does not fail easily being operated by me Bhaiya friends in Super Laundry; a branching from laundrying; and they have contempt for the bhaiya!Me parents sat and stared. Rama and me stare, stare into a mobile, videos of Manju Warrier flash in promos of her film MohanLal. Rama has switched off the TV with Malayalam films plenty on hotstar. Thanks be, tomorrow is Good Friday. Will watch South Africa versus Australia, Fourth Test match. Fixed or unfixed, cricket it will be. Follow, Commonwealth Games, World Cup football, Slam tennis and more of cricket with India at Lord's. Fixed on TV. During ad breaks and after sports hours, mobile yet again. And tapping me fake, sage advice on everything. Mobile is me Panduranga. 

A Song 229

between is, is not
bhakti eats bhakt.


....

March sun
over Lady, Old Man
under Karuna banyan;
road smelters,
snooze hard to come by,
a burning, unskins.
Lady hops to a vendor,
for two Bira 91;
drinks are no sins,
(match fixing sure is)
muses Lady over a buckled
Old Man.
With summer on,
schools shut,
cant buy laughs from
kids with Kismis.
Clicking Bira 91 bottles,
sip in silence...
waltz to a piano sitting
a few steps away,
playing notes lent
by a Parsi soaked in Chopin.
A young nun,
off duty,
their friend,
spiked in psalms,
came on.
Lady, Old Man
went for a second,
a third....
their day made...
evenings on knees
before Karuna banyan,
happily clunked,
a summer done. 

A Song 228

creation has no bylines,
argued Stephen Hawking.
he is snatching headlines,
counter gods,
in small letters.
a katha, without a story line.

.....

pop ups
in short sleeps.
a wooden chest of drawer;
an arm chair;
wall clock in reverse;
beedi-faced Bhootu from Dacca
chewing beedis,
sharing with maid Sotho
from Kolkata. 

Doing nothing

At the chai dukan an old man, sipping tea, asks me, another old man: What do you do, the day. 'Nothing,' says me. He smirks, continues at his Four Square. Walks, dry on the clothes line, clothes, washing machine spins; lay down vessels cleaned by Madhavi; pick up milk from Shree Jain Dughdhalay; buy vegetables mostly at Niranjan or Saphale women; chop them --- all under orders from Rama. Like times spent at school under teachers; home below parents; office taking directions  from Bosses; now Rama. An entirely orderly life. Triple rated existence. Rama turns blue at the poor quality of vegetables, me sometimes picks up. She feels the vegetables, tosses them in the air .... buy cheap, dont take prices as stated, she argues as an occasional sabash walks past. Over the last five months trying to get a few fingers on vessels dressing the kitchen; Rama says its her kingdom and she the Queen. Me agrees but would like to make a contribution to the dining table, sorry we sit in sofas and eat. Lady hovers as me tries to begin with dal and aloo bhaji. Lady coughs in disdain. For six times and more, she has dinned in me the basics of dal and aloo bhaji making; after many slips and falls and tumbles, reasonably sure of aloo bhaji; in fact, it now turns a brisk brown; the technique turns faulty, when the salt has to be inserted; mostly, little and Rama makes a face before adding Tata iodised salt. Do not know if it helps but everybody says Tata Salt and me nods. These days practicing non argument. Dal, ordinary dal, is near to perfection, if it can be. Rama has declared a curfew.  Beyond, I will cook, you will eat, like it or not, Rama oracles and me sad as the Lord on the Cross. This is not your expertise, you do not have any, says she. As an option me kneads wheat dough for chappatis. Simply cannot role them. They take odd geographies. Left to nothingness, read Bhakti poetry, Neruda, Kolatkar ... a few lines a day, heart tablets to keep BP at 130/80. Its so. Into eyes shut after a few lines of Thay ... sleep as yoga ..... One day follows a one night and into the second day and second night ..... 'So I close my gate, shut my door, and hum songs and sing songs by myself says Four Huts, Asian Writings on the Simple Life. Me also writes poetry, lone reader, dwells in pleasure. ...

A Song 227

Checking at Vaikunt,
Tuka, Kabira
into 51 drums welcome,
lunch with Vithoo and Rakku.
Broke for a yawn.
Evening into a guppa
when Tuka popped:
'We have said our prayers,
will you return the compliments,
ever?'
Mused Kabira:
Did you sledge, curse
Creation?
playing dice,
did Kauravs and Pandus
sledge, slang?
No evidence.
But You Lord are supreme.
Passports snatched,
deported,
Tuka and Kabira
at Marine Drive
on Arabian Sea.

.....

For years, o years,
a paltry journalist
with story lists.
Soups of facts, fairies,
dressed with
kothmeer, curry leaves,
salt, sugar
for 5 minute reads
into nods,
storks
in packed locals.


....


Morning walks
on Yogi Nagar Road,
a zeroness.
Evenings,
Niranjan,
Ajit,
Chitkabra,
Raja, 
a manyness.


...

At the race,
hare and tortoise
slept
on the tracks
tired of pace. 

.... 

A Song 226

Koyals midwife March dawns.
Shiva under a drip
at an empty temple
below a peepal
leafing a temple bell.
Tapping a walking stick
count 10 peepals,
two banyans,
sundry others,
tagged in brownish greens.
An undyed, middleager
lights a diya,
to a peepal, bows.
Peepal bends. 
Blunder into a
waiting, hot day.
Walk over.   

A Song 225

Suggestions of a kiss
when Lady and Old Man
were the size of a
banyan stalk.
No talk, then.
Today,
Lady, Old Man
hold palms,
swap Parle kismi,
bought by Deva, the donkey,
for Rs.2 a piece.
Lingers, a kiss,
an old belief.

Poonachi or The Story of a Black Goat

Monday morning flipkart handed a goat to me. flipkart man chuckled as the goat bleated. "Ye kya hai, Saheb," he asked and me did not know. Rama got it right. Was Poonachi, the black goat of Perumal Murugan. Spent the day with Poonachi somewhere at Odakkan Hill, free and unfrozen. "There are only five species of animals with which I am deeply familiar. Of them, cats and dogs are meant for poetry. It is forbidden to write about cows or pigs. That leaves only goats and sheep. Goats are problem-free, harmless and above, all energetic. A story needs narrative pace. Therefore, I've chosen to write about goats," confesses Perumal Murugan. In fright, closed the doors and windows, lay under the cot and read Poonachi. Switched off mobile. 'Be careful,' warned Rama, Perumal Murugan could get us both in jail. Me read. Fright like sweat dripped away. Yes, am a coward. Of the seventh seed, black Poonachi, ears middle finger long with the top edges flopping. Perumal spreads out a horizon for readers to seat themselves... ' There was a small pit below the hillock where he sat, beyond which lay a stretch of sun-baked fields. He loved to sit there at sunset and watch the spectacle of a crimson blanket spreading over the horizon. On the days when he grazed his goats, as well as on other days, he would leave only after watching the colourful spectacle unfold in the sky. If he happened to miss it, he would feel aggrieved, as though he had been robbed of something precious. 'Sit in the field and gaze at the sky for some time. It will clear your mind,' the old woman would tease him.' On the fifth watch, me was on page 170: What lay there was not Poonachi, but a stone idol.' Me Perumal alone could have imagined the turn. Perhaps, humans are not comfy with miracles. Passion of Poonachi for Poovan, humans cannot stand up for; they make money of seven kids birthed by Poonachi; N. Kalyana Raman, the translator, refers to 'a hoary tradition in the folk culture of Tamil Nadu whereby the memory of an innocent girl destroyed by the random and ever-present violence of the world is worshipped as a deity.' Could be. For me we cannot handle  compassion, compassion of Poonachi,  Poonachi-Poovan desire for each other, compassion of Poonachi for a forest pond, our genes are flawed by hate, dislikes. Did it happen in 2014 or was it always there? Maybe, 2014 turned hatred fashionably heroic. Poonachi is bleating a reminder to me, this morning... Perumal folk style. Thank you Sir. Thank you so much. 

Pullela Gopichand

O No, Sindhu out again this time to Akane Yamaguchi. With that India quit Arena Birmingham hosting All England Badminton. Night sleep went phut. When will Sindhu win a World Cup, an Olympic gold or All England. Superseries she has won but thats not the same. Her backhand looks a bit soft, her smashes rare and court coverage a tad slow. Worse, she looks beaten. Experts know better. They say its a Golden Era. Is it, going  by the trophies in the bag?  Prakash Padukone became World No. 1 in 1980 after winning the All England. Pullela Gopichand became the All England champion in 2001. A few Superseries. Thats it. Nothing has happened since. Saina Nehwal won an Olympic bronze in 2012 when China's Wang Xin retired hurt and if me am not wrong the Chinese was leading one set (saw the match on TV). At Rio, Sindhu earned silver. No Gold yet. Yet, this is the golden era, write experts and me concedes they know. Pullela Gopichand set up his Academy in 2008 and has coached and placed Nehwal, Sindhu, Kidambi, Pranoy on the world badminton courts. None has won the prized gold, though superseries have been grabbed. Its now about 10 years and Pullela has or should have parted with all he knows. Has he anything more to offer to say Sindhu or Kidambi? Should not these two players search out an European or South East Asian coach? Should not Pullela help the search process? For me Sindhu is a big hope. She is 22. She can make it. She needs a counsellor; not flay around the racket, drop her shoulders or wince over a point lost. One badminton expert (forget the name) has done an analytics piece on Sindhu and her mental grit. If we have to win the Olympics Gold in Tokyo 2020, Sindhu and Kidambi need a foreign coach. Nehwal is over. Pullela can and need to work on fresh names letting go Sindhu and Kidambi. Pullela Gopichand, a big Thank You. But your time is up. Indian badminton wants Sindhu and Kidambi to win Golds in Tokyo 2020. A change please, no offence meant. 

A Song 224

Gods never got lost
in transit.
Yellowed pages of The Statesman,
Tamil mags
missing.
Cash for cauliflower. 
Migratory path:
Raja Basantha Roy Road,
Jatin Das Road,
Lake Temple Road,
Sevak Vaidya Street;
At Vishnunagar, Dombivili,
Rama and Malayalam knocked;
Borivili:
books filled shelves,
a showing off,
more than half unread;
Gods were a constant,
the first to park
at home
with a particular Goddess,
Kalighat Ma,
bright red, tongue out,
a must,
leading the family.
TamBrahms
(me being one)
may live away
from wives and kids,
but no, never, not
from prayers and Gods.
Priests on tap for cash,
were sure the family was blessed;
or at least will be.
Chained to faith,
have applied for bail.
No dates given.

A Song 223

Musts
for a goal in life...
a field,
goal posts,
spiked shoes,
Messi jerseys,
refrees,
... a football.
Old Man and Lady
under Karuna banyan
have none.  

A Song 222

Lot of thought
has gone to make
the pot,
said the salesman
at the curio shop.
'Potter's wheel,'
thought and thought
the pot. 

A Song 221

Morning prayer

caged in cities:

a stream,

a flower,

a bird,

a sky. 

A big ask? 

Bye, Hawking

God is power. Science is power. Believe in God or be emailed to hell. Dont have to with science. It allows a living. God is unchanged. Science changes change. Most, including me, do know neither God nor science. Both in a way are faith matters. In a hospital bed, one is not sure what helps: a faith in God or in doctors of medicine. Power is all. Power of politics. Gods know, none else. Science is not a know all, suffers all. Big Bang is not the final word. Nor black holes of Chandrasekhar. Nor leaking black holes of Stephen Hawking. Science power is not final like God. Tuka, Namdev, Kabir.... Ram Krishna Haris are the last full stops. Namdev surrenders with a Kaya hi Pandhari, Aatma ha Vithal. A Stephen Hawking could never effect a bow as science allows for doubts, takes and retakes. God offers no allowance. Scientists are uncomfortable with immutable power equations; they write, they rewrite, rub out to infinity... That turns a Stephen Hawking and poet Arun Kolatkar humans. They are human. They cant abandon life and living relations like Tuka his wife and family, for Vithala. Met Stephen Hawking at Oberoi on a wheel chair. Me had no science to talk. Me just watched, a twisted piece of human existence, a living. Gave up on his books, preferring haiku poet Basho... His books black hole me. You need some courage to ask, probe .... Hawking has lots of it. That may deny Hawking a chair at the Lord's table. He may prefer a beer at a pub, share it with three cheers...'Look up at the stars and not down at your feet. Try to make sense of what you see and wonder about what makes the universe exist. Be curious.' That's his living equation. And they say he could laugh, take all questions .... a decent bloke. Me mostly look at me feet as me needs and feels the Earth below me ... or take a tumble on a metro dug up Link Road. Earth holds trees and flowers, skies stars and space ships. God touched, curiosity goes. Curiosity bites, God goes. Life and Death constants in all equations. They bug scientists and saints. Hawking admits to no final solution unlike Kabir's Ram. Yes, me reads Bhakti poetry, pray at temples, darghas, churches .... But for me blooming sadaphules make sense; Rama-made gulab jamuns brights life; a Shreya birthday excites; Hawking curiosity suffices.  

A Song 220

Lagori on a Sunday morning
at Marine Drive
on Arabian Sea.
Tuka, Kabira, Namdev, Meera
versus me.
Tuka team ahead when
ball dropped into the Sea.
Morning walkers decreed:
Match over. Tuka team wins 10-0.
'Cheating,' me yelled;
in a katti with Tuka team.


.....

In doubt,
a journalist chatted
Tuka, Kabir on God.
'Yes, we have seen God;
something like God,'
said they.
No confirmation from God.
A scoop went phut. 

A Song 219

Twittery March
mornings
a magpie robin
on the terrace,
serves verse
for me to
chew the day. 

A Song 218

Born a year ahead of
nation's midnight hour,
on a midnight watch.
Spin weaves on
winding streets.
Still do.
Need the street
below me feet
for a night's
scribbled sleep.

A Song 217

Old Man
harakiris,
protesting statue
violence.
Garbage trucks
with Old Man
bald heads,
specs,
sticks,
charkhas,
speed to Gorai
garbage dump. 

A Song 216

Leaves drop
screen printing the air.
A leaf dawdles mid way.
Another doodles the air.
A third rises, falls, pauses
before the final rest.
An earthy crowd,
below trees,
brushed off streets
by sweepers
in mornings of candour;
a laying the table
for fresh drops.
Leafmarks of a living.

Metro work

Koyals, red vented bulbuls call March morning. Irrfan Khan seriously sick, beeps FB. On a walking stick, tottered 7 o'clock Wednesday morning. Metroing Link Road shut up, resting from Tuesday surgery. Bhaiyas were nodding away, bhaiyas from UP, Jharkhand, Bihar. Debris of India. They do every dirty work as their villages have no work. Their lands for politicians to usurp and sell for cash. Bhaiyas do any work. At Vembanadu Kayal, they were laying bricks for a home, trudging all the way from Siliguri in West Bengal. In between, they dived the kayal, to keep cool. J.Kumar, the construction firm, blazes the trucks and cranes; Metroing Link Road, hundreds of them chewing tambaku or smoking a biri between work and a tea -- their daily wages can fetch them that much. Operating tonner cranes, they slog, contract workers. Uneasy yellow helmets atop heads, cannot take crowshit hits; no ear muffs; no goggles; they will be deaf and blind in four or five years working in noise, unsleeping middle class in apartments; outsize boots, hindering walk; bare hands, some with torn gloves. Denied life decencies and protections,  the bhaiyya is unminded, being familiar with karmic cruelty. No bhaiyya can afford the metro when it speeds past; may not  be around, killed at work spots. Bibis waits in gaons with buffalos for company. With red and yellow beaming sticks, they guide middle class in mercs rushing to work places; no mercs care; they run over bhayyas; bhayyas fall; stand up; dust themselves; wonder whereto the Mumbaikar speeds, to hospital or work place, both same; bhayyas are turned tougher than mercs. No ambulance stands by. Ah! bhayya is dispensable. At the police chowki, pot holed policemen nose for bribes. Morning walkers and me dribble by, trying to put down yesterday's dinner; bhayya has no such walks; he sleeps standing; he dozes sitting; snores lying on wooden and stone benches built by charitable trusts and politicians. Today, Wednesday he is still asleep in helmets under a 32 degrees sun. Is bhayya a human? Or God's nasty mood product with no expiry dates?   

A Song 215

Father died.

Relief.

Mother died.

Fright over.

Living 

an aged no show.  

...

Parents are Gods.

That's when me 

came apart.

Sorry, that's it. 

70 years lost. 

A Song 214

An yesterday's newspaper 

of a woman

in torn headlines, 

sweeps clean a grave 

under a trumpet tree 

with today's yellow flowers,

at the Church 

early evening.

Lights a candle 

holding up an 

evening sun and breeze. 

Crosses self, a habit, 

taught when she was a 

Parle Kisme, 

as prayers flow 

as kids from belling schools. 

Knees down, 

head down, 

reads an aged post card.......

with green scribbles,  

as a Sister stands by. 

Mary,

worked at a post office,

now no more. 

A morning, a postman,

passed on a post card

reading:

Let's meet at 4 

under the peepal 

at the Church gate.

Mary knew the man, 

keeling at pews in the 

Church. 

They were a few then 

and few knew few. 

That was when 

calendars breezed on 

broken teethed walls. 

Clocks rode cycles.

Mary waited.  

Today, 

Mary folds a smile 

and post card, 

into a purse, 

her mother had shared. 

Sets up on her feet, 

hobbles away...

She comes daily, 

says the Sister.

 

r   

 

A Song 213

At Marine Drive
on Arabian Sea,
Tuka, Kabira,
Vitho, Raku,
one and all 
in Abir Gulal;
hard to tell,
any from all. 

Sridevi, Bye

'She was not my friend. She did not know me. But Sridevi belongs to me,' unwinded Rama who prefers Munram Pirai to Sadma and of course enjoyed Mr. India which she saw in Tilak theatre, Dombivili East. Madhubala, Rekha, Dreamgirl.... Yes, film actors and actresses always belonged to the Indian family. Our soul. Rajappan Anna, Alleppey Mami and Dadi Ganesh own Shivaji Ganesan; Mohanlal is Radhai and Rama property; for long Dakhi had colour pics of Shah Rukh Khan, her All; today, she turns a 400 watts bulb glimpsing King Khan in a theatre; perhaps, all Indian families have their favourites, like today, Sridevi, is; today, Sridevi will be cremated; but she will belong to me. They are on par with the many gods and goddesses in the prayer rooms; maybe, they are a floor above gods as they make dreams and sell them to us with swaying music, burnishing an ordinariness of Indians. There is no class, community, religion or cash about it. No god has scripted a dream but Mr. India has. Indians could buy it. Today, they can be with them in their one or two room homes. Of course, dreamers paid for it. Females much more. They are touched by drinks, drugs and demons. How many of us are not? Nawab of Pataudi played cricket, wife Sharmila acted and they lived happily. Are they that? Me does not know having never seen a film actor from close. Saw Jeetendra in a car at a traffic junction and he waved at many of us. Thats the nearest to the kingdom of filmdom. Every Indian has his lover or love, a roll of a film; and none is ashamed. Every Indian wants to be an actor or actress... as there is no age bar. That probably explains the love of Indian cricketers for films, mostly Hindi films. BS Chandrasekhar, Sanjay Manjrekar, Virendra Sehwag.... and Virat Kohli could get inducted by actress wife Anushka. Cricketers age not films, filmstars, film music. Possible, we may not be able to relish a Khuda Gawah of Amitabh today. But one day we did. Today, it may be a Khan. Our screens can never go blank. Each of us at some moment has stood in front of mirrors, awoke a Rajesh Khanna or Sridevi or someone else in us .... me has ... havent you? Films do not start wars and bombs and hates. Sridevi swung me. She happied me. Today, Mogambo is teary. 

A Song 212

Shepherd, shepherds
sheep, goats
to butchers.

.....


Gods, goddesses
armed,
for peace.


.....

A right to information:
Tuka, Kabira
did you doubt?

....

RTI reply:
abhangs, dohas
bout with doubts.

.....

An Adivasi dies

Mornings In God's Own Country, Malayalis chuckle over Baby Krishna stealing butter, breathe in and out a Guruvayurappa. God's Own Country is also Krishna Land. Madhu, a starving Adivasi in Agali, Palghat, is accused of stealing food, tied to a tree with his own clothes, beaten to death, mobiles and selfies taken, on February 23, 2018. Amma Malli, waits in front of Agali police station. Lady, do you have the cash to placate our law makers? Sorry, if you had, your son Madhu would have bought some food. Front Page of Mathrubhumi is of an Adivasi death... Madhu, mappu (Madhu, Sorry) is the headline written by poet Sugatha Kumari. Balachandran Anthikkad writes: Malayaliaai janichchu poyi, kolayaliai manasummayi (Born a Malayali with a kolyali mind). Death takes away, never says or accepts Sorry. Madhu this is no poor human country. In UP, Gujarat, Rajasthn, adivasi killing is a must, on the daily agenda, a rite, as Adivasis are not humans. But in Kerala of EMS, Kamala Das, Sugatha Kumari... hurts. Well, starving to death an Adivasi or killing him in 2018 is okay, all said and done. God's Own Country has become Gold's Own Country where everyone is a  Kalyan Jewellers bill board; with dirhams posted from Dubai by a relative, a marunadan (far away) Adivasi. In Dubai, a Malayali is an Adivasi; in Kerala, an Adivasi does not belong to the high and low castes, graphically thought over by Madhavikutty. In her times, it was caste, community and women measured by their skin, their sex and their gold. Today in February 24, 2018 ditto. Its Lent and me reads the Sermon on the Mount, St. Matthew ... Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth... If Jesus had read Marx he would have issued a correction: Blessed are the moneyed, for they will inherit the earth. EMS read it that way. Pinarayi has read nothing. Naxals revolted. They were bulletted. For Adivasis and the poor, is there an alternative? None. 

Strand Book Stall

November or December 1969. Had come to Bombay for an interview at the Times of India. Trainee journalist. Interview over, lunch was declared, results promised by 4 in the evening. Went on a lone walk and bought me first book in Bombay at Flora Fountain. Footpaths, more books than bricks. For eight annas picked up an yellowed, Death in the Afternoon by Ernest Hemingway. About bull fighting in Spain. Had the book for years, lost it. Becoming a Trainee Journalist in 1970, used to walk the book streets, never book stalls. Simple had no cash for first hand books. And when Dilip Raote and Komilla Raote walked into me life, went to Strand Book Stall. They are in New Delhi. Miss them. They introed me to Bombay. They searched for Ibn Batuta, whoever he is, me was into Enid Blyton. Never chatted with the owner Shanbag, paunchy and spectacled, bit of a high school master. He was too far away for me. Never exhanged Hais. Over years, became friends with assistants. That was when me latched on to Jejuri Arun Kolatkar. Have the Strand Book Stall receipt, dated 29.9.2004, Rs.48 with a Thank You. All the English writings of Kolatkar bought at Strand Boom Stall. And then Tukaram Says Tuka by Dilip Chitre. Possibly, Strand Book Stall needled me into Bhakti poetry, A.K. Ramanujan, In the Dark of the Heart by Shama Futehally, on Meera (Rs.150).... at the Stall prices were pencilled in the right hand corner of the flap without discount. And when amazon came, ordered Essential Kabir by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra ... sorry Stall.... should have taken a local to Churchgate, walked to 15 C, Dhannur, Sir P.N. Road, Fort... And today me carried the Tuka and Kabir to sunning Tuka and Kabir on Marine Drive. They had heard of the Stall closing, sounded like Vitho and Rakkumai closing business at Pandharpur... they were regulars... were offered free books on Hinduism ... but never read any as Ram, Krishna, Hari sufficed. They are into songs and prayers.... with Kabir intoning: Pothi padi padi jag muva, pandit hua na koi, dhai akshar prem ka pade so pandit hoi.... Books are not a habit for them. After mawa cakes at Yezdani, they walked to Strand to say their regrets as they wanted the world to write books, read books, had no objection to reading and discussing any and every book... after all abhangs and dohas make literature ... and today there is no Stall, no books, a Bombay, a Mumbai diminished.... Mumbaikar is hurting.  

Neermathalam

In our sofas, Rama and me, every morning, drive away on a Neermathalam set to Neelambari raga in Aami. A Neermathalam tree in a nallukettu somewhere in Malabar, tiled roofs rain wet in joy and despair ... open spaces of a compassionate silence. Howrah Bridge, Maidan, Victoria Memorial, Bihari hand-drawn rickshaws, slatted homes ..... me first love; and for Rama, the Neermathalam, her first love. And when Shreya Ghoshal slips into silence, sit quiet, tuck into the music, into ourselves... ah, me am getting senti over Aami. Its been near 20 years, since me kissed my first love... maybe today she is as old as me and a kiss could be proper in loveless times .... when Rama clipped in with a desire to be with her naadu, Allapuzha, kayals mating seas and her school, St. Anthony Girls High School where in Class 10 she was caned by Kunjamma teacher... is the lady around? Rama dislikes English Winglish, a hatred seeded long ago... She scored 2 out of 10 in Class 10, in English and Kunjamma teacher asked Rama to get the cane from the Teachers Room. Cane arrived, Rama stretched her right palm, got stinging fives, ... she winced in the telling... took the report card home and H. Gopalakrishnan, her father, signed the report without comment. 'He never shouted or beat us,' Rama wisped. Me never had such luck, parents never spoke softly ... me signed me report cards, faking signatures .... lets not spoil the morning. Aami had Ammamma... maternal grandmother ... like Rama had her father and mother. 'Amma never cared for school, marks; she wanted her girls and a son to eat well.... and be careful of men. Naadu,' Rama said. Naadu is green, the society is brown. Neermathalams and sacred groves, hid and hide a dirty Kerala of caste, community and women hates, going by Madhavikutty. Women were ever absent from home registers. It did not matter whether they lived or not lived. One woman died, another took her place. Madhavikutty in 2018 can still spot some greens; the rest, unchanged. Best intro for Kerala 2018 is Madhavikutty of A Childhood in Malabar and My Story. Rama hums Neermathalams ..... 

Madhavikutty

''Prem korechi, besh korechi (I loved), goes a long ago Bengali song. Madhavikutty, for me dear Amme, loved. With pride confessed. Wrote of it. Indians could not stomach it. And when she became a Muslim, the dislike was complete,' ...the ignominy of being/undressed by strangers', as Madhavikutty writes. And still is. If a male had done and written the same, Indians would have applauded, appreciated. Today, he will be a Hero. For a male, 12 inches make a foot; for a female, 10 inches make a foot. Yet, the Lady has poetry and poems in her. In A Blessed Life, she pens:

True,
I broke a commandment
or two
but I shall not plead
for society's pardon,
or God's.
When I disobeyed
I tasted bliss
indeed
I count myself blessed
not for the fame
or fortune
bu for those wanton hours
of pure abandon....
(from Closure, some poems and a conversation, Kamala Das and Suresh Kohli)

Madhavikutty is a stand out in life and film. Rama and me have been going over and over the video song Neermathalam (lyrics by Rafeeq Ahamed, music M. Jayachandran, singers Shreya Ghoshal and Arnab Dutta). Stills. But Aami is off Mumbai after living in some six theatres, for a week, one show each day. Rama and me saw the film, first show, first day with some 15 citizens. Perhaps, superstars (no way artists) have numbed, coarsed taste buds. Dishoom dishoom, cheap dialogues, women reduced to add ons ... make hits. As if Madhavikutty does not belong. She belongs to Rama and me. In some manner, Aami reminds of Karuthamma in Chemmeen. Or is it that Madhavikutty is not in favour because she became a Muslim. For me, it is her fundamental right. Do religions change Madhavikutty? The Lady tells Kohli: "The only religion I know is the religion of love. I fell in love with a Muslim after my husband's death. He was kind and generous in the beginning. But I now feel one shouldn't change one's religion. It is not worth it." When will we accept Madhavikutty as Madhavikutty ...'It is a sad occupation but I wouldn't choose another.' Her last poem  Alzheimer's:

Alzheimer's disease
is a spider
deadlier even than
the tarantula.
It weaves its web
within the brain,
a web rugged like
wrought-iron
and thought-proof.
My mother
for seven years had
Alzheimer's.
It looked out
through her eyes
although she was
silent as a safe
plundered bare,
emptied of memories,
her disease talked.
Like a Buddhist monk,
it said
life is sorrow.....


Maybe, Madhavikutty, most of us are down with Alzheimer's. Have a laugh. 

A Song 210

Mornings.
Rama names
aadhaarless
sparrows.


.....


Search for roots over.
Cities dont grow trees.
Pincodes change.

A Song 209

Betwixt

twin peaked Howrah Bridge

domed Victoria Memorial,

jhal mudi, shingada,

a lone rickshaw puller.

Between

flats of Arabian Sea

Flora Fountain

vada pavs, mawa cakes,

a lone Parsi, alone.

A Thanks to city living. 

A Song 208

Maidan.
Rumbling trams.
Marine Drive.
Clanging trains.
Length, width
of a living.

A Song 207

Mahashivaratri.

Three temples, triple prayers.

After plates of spicy

saboodana kichchadi, 

faith undigested

burps. 

A Song 206

Chatting Madhavikutty
realised why me was a journalist
she a poet.
An absence of grandmas.


.....


Dripping desires
from a
walking stick.

Aami 2

How long should a film me. In the 60s, a film had to be 180 minutes for a paisa vasool. Over the years watching off and on western films, prefer 90 minutes and lots of silences; an absence of background music, incessant noise, is a relief. Rama and me liked Aami substantially. If you have not read Madhavikutty, Aami may not be interesting; must is a connect with Madhavikutty, says Rama. Have car loads of it, locked in, affections given me by Kamala Das and Joseph Kurien, a journalist in the Times of India. None else. Kamal need not have stretched the film to 150 minutes; shots of Aami losing a Parliamentary election despite having a two lakh readership; the death of Madhav Das and Aami lying beside the body after clearing the room of visitors; this shot is particularly needless and could have been passed over with a mention; has every death to be shown the same way, the dead body covered white, head and jaws tied up, a diya and huge doses of glycerined tears;  better is the telegram in brief informing Aami of the death of  Ammamma; Aami has written of a star dropping into a pond beside her home, rivers being far away, could have been better viewing. A child Aami having lunch tells low caste, Valli, 'Adiyannu pappadam venda.' 'We are high caste, not Adiyans', Ammamma butts in and me laughed. Smiles and laughs are rare, sadly. Me knows of the Lady's laughs. Bank House at Churchgate the venue. Cant films do away with disturbing background music, continuous as in Aami plus the needless songs. Back and forth camera style is fine if the director clicks. Aami could have had more hints than hurried shots, one after another. You cant haste Aami. Kamal speeds the easy pace of Aami. An odd feeling, Aami is a bit too much for Kamal? Yet, Kamal has done his best though the best comes from Manju Warrier. Lady, a request. No more love dances and loud dialogues, no dishoon dishoon for you. With Aami you have turned an artist. No more an actor. Kamal Saar promise to see Aami a second time. 

Aami

... Fit in. Oh
Belong, cried the categorizers. Don't sit
On walls or peep in through our lace-draped windows,
By Amy, or be Kamala. Or better
Still, be Madhavikutty. It is time to
Choose a name, a role.
... wrote Kamala Das in The Old Playhouse and Other Poems with an introduction by V.C. Harris.

And in The Old Playhouse, she weaves:....

There is
No more singing, no more a dance, my mind is an old
Playhouse with all its lights put out.

Kamaluddin Mohammed Majeed or Kamal searches for Aami in his more than satisfying film Aami with candour and colour. He says the film is not based on Ente Katha (My Story) of Kamala Das. Kamal would have read the book and also A Childhood in Malabar, a memoir as the film has glimpses of the memoir. Kamal, like many, is trying to learn the poet .. as a human, as a female, as a mother, as a convert to Islam and being always, always a Krishna lover, in a harsh society ever the same from early 1930s to 2018 and beyond. Is the Krishna in film Aami the Lord Byron the poet refers to in the memoir ... 'I carried around with me a picture as my constant companion a portrait of the poet Lord Byron... What if that poet, whose religion was different from ours, arrived in Calcutta and led me astray.' If she had lovers, so what? Have not wedded men desired more than their wives? Me has. Was Aami keen on sex or was the search for an interesting, a warm human?  If she exchanged religion, so what? Thats her business not of the public. She was uneasy with Hinduism and Islam as for all religions women are cooks and chefs... or better still male, birthing machines. Certainly, religions did not satisfy her. Today not many are prepared to accept Aami the poet, the human. For them her sex matters most and the smirks and giggles follow...Am not sure about Kamal as he searches for 150 minutes with camera in hand. He does it more than well... markers being the Neermathalam tree and the sarpa kavu with oil lamps in a Malabar village of 1930s... they do walk the film and when Aami in a wheel chair makes the last trip to her home after turning a Muslim, there are protests. She refuses to go away. A top shot of Aami in a wheel chair under the Neermathalam tree ... ah .. a verse in camera, a glimpse of a long ago caught and displayed for todays and tomorrws... is a Cadbury 5 Star.  Ammamma (maternal grandmother), dearest to Aami, remarks in the memoir: 'Let her grow up like that, not knowing fear.' Yes, Aami has no fear and Manju Warrier is a fairy act, her best she may admit in private. Close ups throw up the pinches and pleasures. Her mother a famous poet Nalapat Balamani Amma wrote on motherhood, never cuddled Aami, but I hugged my kids, wryly notes Aami. Age transitions, the laughs and grims, Manju Warrier, Rama and me enjoyed her. Yes, you have the intensity of Smita Patil and Shabna Azmi plus the subtlety of Deepti Naval. Kamal misses out on a star falling into a pond, the funness of Aami childhood, the memoir elaborates. The search is well reported but missing is the essential poesy in the poet as that defines her .... perhaps, Aami drowns the director Kamal. Someone like Ray or Adoor could have microscoped and binoculared the many messages, easily and simply. Film shuts down and the lights at Carnival with Aami lines ....wished I had been less of a poet, and more a woman  But will Malayalis accept her warmly, affectionately ..... this blogger knew her well for a few months in 1974, me called her Amme and her affection cushioned .... that Aami me missed in Aami.... Aami missed it her entire life ... Yes, it is a two humans film --- Manju Warrier and Kamal. Manju overwhelms. Thanks, Kamal. 

Chamko Paints

An executive of Chamko Paints (hope, Chamko Deepti Naval will not protest or go to court or use the club) in boot-suit, mobile tagged to ears, into a running, chattering morning walk. He has no time. In Mumbai, none has time, none is without a watch ....has no paint brushes and paints. Chamko Paints is working four shifts. Last week, the executive, Hara Bhara Desai, has not seen a bed or a pillow. He with staff are painting trees in shades of green; the badam a bright green, the rain tree a dumb green, a silk cotton tree in shocking red....he talks... does not listen ... with paints and paint brush he climbs trees and shrubs and flowers touching with paints ....... and this year in Borivili there is less work as metro has put down most of the trees .... some remain with socks of green grass .... maybe they wont be there next year.... yet, business is not bad today, maybe Hara Bhara Desai may lose his job next year, the gentleman says to no one, unplugging ears..... me on a walking stick could not keep pace ... Chamko Paints may have to drop paints from their product portfolio... but for today morning, painting is brisk business with the sky getting a taste of toned pink from painters climbing ladders on sky rises. Funner of a morning with ancient DD tunes ... the first song of magpie robin came on air...  .... the bird perched on a terrace rod .... followed by a white on the breast, fantail flycatcher pecking a flowering mango tree..... a sunbird on a coconut palm... and the screech of the rose ringed parakeet .... spring painting? am not sure as Mumbai has no spring ... it is ever hot, hotter and hottest .... and then the house sparrows forever with Rama trying to brahminise their tastes ... today, on the window sill the sparrows nibbled, perhaps, for the first time, lemon and coconut rice along with Britannia biscuits.... the sparrows beaked it all, pleaded Rama a second serving ..... no more non veg for you, only veg, Rama told a chirping five sparrows .... wondered whether the birds will lose the tang for worms? At 12.20 p.m. the stainless steel plate is empty.... maybe, to every coming there is a going ... a take on the Bible:... to everything there is a season and a time for every purpose under the heavens .. a time to be born and a time to die ....Krishna and his friends have left the Society for their homes in Nepal ... a new set of brothers has come to police the society ..... and when me gets used to them, will go and one day me will go ..... Krishna me liked, his family of five in a village a day's ride from Nepal... his children at school, wife on the farm when he lands three days hence.... there were no byes, just a going away .....will it be spring in Nepal? Thats the best way to quit....

A Song 205

Sparrows in
gang fights
over puffed rice.


.....



Sadphules
absorbed
in smiles.


....


Living
soaped
in haikus.



....


A wine red leaf
lands on Ajoba,
slips into a carry bag.

She is Madhavi

Her palm held a Rs. 50 note. At home, there is no rice, no sugar, no edible oil. She extended her palm to Rama and she placed her salary. Smiles full mooned her face. Her back sometimes hurts. Today, it does. For 22 years she has been cooking, cleaning and sweeping. And it is telling. Two sisters and two brothers were taxing her parents. As an 8 year old she was sent off to her aunt, a government employee. She kept her aunt and family free. Roti making, dal cooking, house and kitchen cleaning... two days in a week if at all she went to school where she was good says she. Her teacher lauded her. She was taken out, home being a was, is and always. Thats fated, come and go, a few gods and goddesses, she says running a forefinger across her forehead. She was married at 14, has three children, husband dead .... she came in an unreserved railway compartment from Solapur to a slum in Borivili. Pasted to it. About 9 years she has been working at our place more regular than mobile timings. She now owns a iphone and is better at it than this blogger. Keeps her in touch with daughter who hurdled over Class 10 with 70 per cent (no special and unspecial classes) and is into nursing. Her daughter is 18 and her mother is musing on her marriage at least by 20, if not earlier. Thats village norm. Thats the norm set by her brother, a policeman. Thats the norm, insists grandma. She is 30 years old. She is Madhavi. 

A Song 204

India 2018 stands dressed
before a mirror,
an Old Man pops out.

7. p.m. Jan. 30, 2018. 

A Song 203

A leaf drops.
A leaf sprouts.
Badam still.

Pakoras

Over the last two days have been trying to coax Rama into frying pakoras....she is classy at it. She is on her iphone chatting friends and relatives, .... what's wrong in making pakoras for a living, she asks; reminds me of not paying her wages or bonus.... for over 40 years have been cooking for you...I want freedom. Its an art... pakora making and eating.... best for evenings with adrak chai... me certain she is into making it .... No, no.. somehow nothing is clicking. Hitched to me walking stick, hobbled down Yogi Nagar Road to make her purchases: carrots, coconuts and Dabur Red large size ... these do not go into making pakoras, of that me am sure as meet Ajit, Niranjan and Raja chewing hot pakoras to a suggestion of a cold wind ... surely not Davos, Toronto or Siberia. 'Aiye, Saab, Bambam Bhole Nath,' an Ajit chewing pakoras from Mahalaxmi Sweet Mart. Pakoras are best in the airs of his Gorakhpur village... a chill, a charpoy, a sweet wife serving plates of pakoras and tea plus gapshaps with friends. 'O maja alag hai,' says Ajit and invites me to his gaon;  Pakoras have made Niranjan silent. Ajit promises to fine skills at pakora making with his wife on an April visit; has plans to hawk pakoras on Yogi Nagar Road. Pakoras in the north are a shade tastier than in the south; maybe, the masala is critical. Ajit sees no shame in pakora employment and economics. Pakora is Art. How many chefs in five star hotels can make it; can they beat the bhaiyaji with gutka and dirty fingers standing over a gutter frying pakoras. If you demean pakoras, you demean millions of women cooking in the kitchen free and men on streets plus the many, many eaters. Today, Ajit is not into Yogi but Modi pakora politics. He smiles as Raja comes up with TN politics. Ajit knows nothing of TN politics; Raja is ignorant of UP politics. Popping two pakoras dipped in chutney, Raja praises Rajnikant. 'Awar periyavar Saar. Avar avar than. Rajni Rajni tan, he adds as Ajit and Niranjan listen. He is sure Rajni will be the next Chief Minister of TN. He will not make any money, he does not need it but of his men and women, Raja is unsure. As tea came in plastic cups, a second round of pakoras was ordered and me nibbled the deliciousness. Laughs all round, customers stood around and unkind words in the media for pakoras and pakora making deleted. Isnt it a way of living. You cant get it in Canada or Siberia. At Davos, Ajit could be making and selling hot pakoras to Shah Rukh Khan and Modiji and Uday Kotak to beat the cold. It could go well with Ramdev yoga sessions proposed at the world meet. Free for journalists. Where is the shame? On the way back, picked up a branded packet of basin powder. Maybe by 5 in the evening, Rama will oblige. Pakora hopes never die.

BL 25

A small boast. Business Line born near about midnight, January 24, 1994 in Chennai. K.Venugopal, R. Vijayaraghavan and Ashok Reddy rolled out the first edition from the presses without a dummy run. It happened amid doubts. Insiders and outsiders gave it a few months of living. Today January 24, 2018 it is around and on January 25, 2018 it will touch 25. For about a year Viji (no more) and K. Venugopal (me always addressed him Sir and it will be so always), dreamt of BL  as most in Kasturi & Sons, smirked. At the first meeting the entire board plus Viji, R. Krishnan of New Delhi bureau and me talked of it. Me came out amused as one did not know where anything was heading. Second meeting had a crowd of four: Sir, Viji, Krishnan and me. We backed selves. None gave us a chance. Viji left in about three months after launch, Krishnan said Bye a couple of years after, me remained till retirement in 2007. Sir is out of it .... almost forgotten .... and unlike Narayana Murthy of Infosys and Ratan Tata has no intentions of coming back. Some say he has no chance. Okay. He was always Executive Editor with the imprint line ever reading N.Ram, Editor. Wikipedia shows a circulation of about 1. 17 lakh. If the reader asks me how was it, the answer will always be Fun.  Thanks Sir, for that. Over to the readers.....

A Song 202

In a democratic fit
Vithala stood down for
Tuka.
Pilgrims miss prasad
as Tuka has no qualms.

Of Parsees and all that

No eccentrics in the family. None in the city. Success, lots of it, yes. A distressing fault line. Hit me, reading Altamont Road and Other True Stories by Shreyar Ookerjee. Me thought Ookerjee was a Bengali a Mukherjee short. Of Parsee quirks and funnyness. And Bombay and Mumbai without a Parsee? Under the Karuna Banyan, Old Man and Lady were talking madness in their families. When Old Man was young, there were many unpredictables. Mother got Father to cook to hold him from wandering. Once a year or every two years, Father took breaks for a stretch of some six months, go away to nowhere, not talk of it. Mostly tag along a donkey with each come back and the bunglow and garden around in IC Colony (yes, there were bunglows) had many, each marking a Fatherly return. Mother at best winced when Father came back. For the Lady, her parents went missing together, to any, some place for long. Ayas ran the house. No schools, only play. They brought cats and dogs, mewing and barking the house down, the spacious home with a garden-acre. There were no mobiles to keep in touch, no addresses to write letters using India Post,. This morning, Lady pleaded Old Man to trim his beard as they planned to take the City. 'Long time no see,' they chimed together. Old Man, with sheets of beards and hair in braids, went to the barber requesting a trim. Barber smiled. 'Uncle, there is nothing for the scissors, kainchi, ' he said and the big mirror reflected an Old Man clean shaven and freshly cut. A bemused Old Man walked to Karuna Road and Lady grimly said: You dont listen to me. You are all hair. Lady had gone to the parlour to stretch her cheeks to make laughs easy. And this day she was smiling wide. Wrinkles had gone. In an as is where is condition, they autoed to Borivili Station; boarded a fast local without tickets as the counters had long queues. The fast local jalopied stopping in between stations and stations, dropping the tired two at Churchgate, an hour late. Visiting their old haunt --- Press Club --- were sad. There were no quarter, half and full drunks in cane chairs, talking loudly nothings to each other. Today, byelines beamed off walls, forks and knives chuckled.... there were no journalists; there were press relations officers dressed in press notes. Disappointed, they walked the city or rather, were elbowed by speeding crowds having no times and clocks... No Parsee wished them Cheers or a Good Afternoon. Where are the Parsees, Lady wailed, me friend Bookwala reading TinTin. Marine Drive is passe ... Sea Link is the new address .... Mumbai has lost its Eccentricity. Back at Karuna Banyan, Old Man read out to Lady a few lines from Altamont Road .... ' Altamont Road was, in the days I speak about, a quiet locality. .. Hardly ever did a truck, and certainly never a cement-mixer, ply on this road. Occasionally, a steamroller (real steam) chugged up, though I do not ever remember it going down again, perhaps it just vanished after the stiff climb. .... I woke up in the mornings to the pleasant chirps of sparrows (now also gone), the dry cawing of crows (still there) and the seasonal shrill of kites, to the distant peculiar call of the purveyors of doodh na puff, with the "puff" echoed at a lower pitch. I heard the tinkle of the donkey that supplied its milk to someone farther up the hill with probably a chronic cough. It always reminded of the Englishman who was recommended donkey's milk by his doctor. He asked his "bearer" to get a donkey and was disappointed to see that the donkey was a male. He said to the man,"You have brought a donkey like me." --- "No, no sahib", protested the bearer (thought, perhaps, he thought it a correct description of his sahib). The sahib continued to explain,"I want a donkey like memsahib." Today, there is no grassy space, no laze over chais, no Laurel and Hardy MacCombo ... just a drab and proud counting of currency by time scarce men and women, an absence of Eccentricity in Amchi Mumbai. Gone, Going, Lost it, perhaps.      

A Song 201

Parents rambled in faith.
Me kept away, in fear.
Walk mornings, Link Road,
to St. John Bosco Church,
Vazira Ganesh,
with Rama;
pray down doubts,
walk back, a tonne heavier,
with doubts.
Love is God.
Check out a wandering sambhar
in Tadoba forests.
Fates sealed, packed, delivered
by amazon on time.
No DRS for doubts.
Tuka, Kabira
stranded at zebra crossings.
Gods in recusals.
Vicks balm,
out of stock,
at Milan Medico.
Seas, skies, crowds, traffic 
flow at Marine Drive,
for sure.
  
......

Roses don thorns.
Sadaphules
free of scorn.

A Song 200

Lady, Old Man,
on walking sticks
wiped pews of tears
left by prayers;
chewing Sankranti til guls,
ganged up with hollering street kids
holding bamboo brushes,
colouring skies and earths,
with kites, 
fallen, flying.

A Song 199

Bad at kites.
Never rode skies.
Phirkis always fell aside.
No bhokata cries.
Makar Sankrantis
have been that way,
always,
like or dislike.
Til guls, lone likes.

Durga and Swami

Durga and Swami. Old Man ever, ever favourites. Twins, for Old Man.  Swami or W.S. Swaminathan of Malgudi fancied by Rasipuram Krishnaswami Iyer Narayanaswami and Durga of Nishchindipur imagined by Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhyay. Friend Usha Subramaniam in USA had asked for books to read and Old Man suggested Swami and Friends, missed out on Pather Panchali or its edited version Making a Mango Whistle. Durga and Apu hear the chug of a steam engine in the writing of Bibhuti, never sight it. Swami at Malgudi Station says bye to friend Rajam boarding a train. Late night Old Man is into again enjoying Swami and Friends.. a soft snore cascading into loudness of old age... Durga boarded a train at Nishchindipur station without a ticket to Malgudi to meet her friend Swami, on an invitation. After two days and three nights she touched Malgudi and stared at the station... as Swami was a touch late ... a crowd of some five including the station master were talking in Tamil and Durga had one tongue Bengali. She had been invited by the Malgudi Cricket Club to play a Test Match with Young Men's Club on the sands of Sarayu  ... a mixed Test match, the first ever .... men and women in both teams... Durga could have been Harmanpreet Singh as Swami is Tate ...... Durga scored a double century, Tate taking ten wickets... Test match won by Malgudi Cricket Club ... with Kapil Dev presenting the Cup..... and arguing for men-women mix Test matches in a five minute Tamil-Hindi-English speech... if there can be mixed doubles in tennis and badminton, why not cricket, he argued. Swami and Durga wagged their heads, impatient for the ice creams, sodas, dosas and chutneys, teas for Durga and coffees for Tate and his team. Old Man spun out of a last whirr, stirred out of a dream. For an hour he lay still on the bed wondering over the absence of a girl friend for Swami in Swami and Friends; and the total absence of dosas, idlis and vadas in Narayan .... coffee is mentioned along with tiffin .... a smile took over Old Man, as he recalled Narayan write the best cricket reports in 1935, possibly the first Indian cricket correspondent musing Bradman, Hobbs, Duleep, .... embroidering the Indian soul with cricket, to make it the forever game of Swamis and Durgas in 2018 ...... a way to wake into a morning. With coffee he is into Making a Mango Whistle... and Ashes and SA-India Tests.... Perhaps Wisden should put Swami and Durga on the cover.

Shreya and Swami

When 13 year old grand-daughter, Shreya meets 71 year old grandpa, there is a lot to talk, though the sessions are getting less frequent with school, coaching and turn a scholar classes. Yet they meet and she talks, old man listens. And old man awaits the pleasure, like having a hot vada pav. Of her school friends into Tiger Zinda Hai of Salman Khan... accha film hai...., boring history and language classes.. she enjoys maths. Let poets write poetry, kings and politicians make history ... but why thrust it on schools, she asked at a Saturday session, pulling out a history book from her school bag; the history book spun Ajoba. For effect added, 'Ajoba, Ramayan and Mahabharat are bakwas, hai na? How can somebody give birth to 100 kids?'. Ajoba nodded. 'Stories hai. Harry Potter kya such hai,' Ajoba returned and that would have pleased all staunch Bhakts, mosquitoing the place. Ajoba did not realise Potter cannot be touched. Her aunt, Vidya, has Potter-touched her. She is Harry Potter, books, films and the many add-ons... she looks down at Ajoba not being a potty Potter. Ajoba always goes back to Swami and Friends by R.K. Narayan. But Swami is a no-no to Shreya. And then uncle Ganesh, made the point: Shreya and today's world cannot relate to Swami. He was saying Swami is dated, storming Ajoba. In another 50 years will Swami not be? Will there be kids at all or just bhakts and adults? And than Ajoba had to accept the change: iphones, whatsapp, chats, skypes, ball pens, malls have vanvassed Swami. Swami is not. School is an iphone, at least in Mumbai and for Ajoba's Shreya. Of course Ajoba is not blaming Shreya, he never can...there wont be any reversing. Swami at Albert Mission School liked history or that's what Narayan imagines....: '...Next period they had history. The boys looked forward to it eagerly. It was taken by D. Pillai, who had earned a name in the school for kindness and good humour. He was reputed to have never frowned or sworn at the boys at any time.His method of teaching history conformed to no canon of education. He told the boys with a wealth of detail the private histories of Vasco da Gama, Clive, Hastings, and others. When he described the various fights in history, one heard the clash of arms and the groans of the slain. He was the despair of the headmaster whenever the latter stole along the corridor with noiseless steps on his rounds of inspection.' Shreya yawned: 'Neend ata hai, Ajoba, history classes mein. Aur wo teacher...bakwas ... school mein koi padta nahin hain, marks ke liye jaata hai, kuch honewala nahin nahi..' me Lady firmly put down. She politely said Nahin to Swami and switched on Ajoba's iphone for a chess game. Ajoba has never won and this day did not. Will story telling and writing be... without grandmas, grandpas, parents.... will iphones or something better take over.... will there be no Swami? Swami is history not a story.  

A Song 198

Sec.144 on Marine Drive.
Arrest warrants on Tuka, Kabira,
Rakkumai, Vitthala.
Dump tamboor, loom,
dohas, abhangs,
Rakkumai, Vitthala,
selves,
into Arabian Sea.
Police vans,
fire engines,
ambulances,
search Infinity
to handcuff mutiny. 

Tuka laughs

Friend Tuka has a rare sense of humour. He poets:

Once there was a celibate man who tried to bugger a donkey.
The donkey kicked him in the balls and ran away.
Gone was the donkey. Gone was the celibacy.
The man lost face.
If you say, "Whatever is to happen, happens,"
This is what will happen!
Says Tuka, you'll lose either way.

From Tukaram, Says Tuka, English translation by Dilip Chitre. Am laughing over the lines, tummy laughs. Long months, since me felt happy imagining the scene. Am certain Tuka and his close friend Vithala based at Pandharpur could be still guffaing when priests and pilgrims are not around. No ke sara, sara, sara, whatever will be, will be, the future is not for us to see..., for Tuka. And me howls every time me watches the Mahabharata scene in Janne Bhi Do Yaaro.. by Kundan Shah. A Mahabharata rip-off. In today's time, Modi times, Bhakt times, even a smile over the scene could be certain bullets and death. Ramayana and Mahaharata are no laughs. Have never heard or read of Jai Shri Ram cracking a joke with Sita; or Hanuman with Lakshman. Grim. Maybe if King Dasaratha had four daughters, it could have had some grins. Yuddhishtra in Mahabharata is a classic Las Vegas citizen. When a man gambles his wife, he cannot qualify for Vedic saintship; but sure could be a Las Vegas icon. Again, Bhishma does not come up with a joke, even a crude one. If the Kauravas were all women, they could be abducting a man, and that should be a plot worth looking at. Think of it, women chasing down a Duryodhana down Parliament Street, ripping his dhoti off with a Bhakt trying to rescue. But me is a male. Some female artists should attempt the idea. Am sure, it will be funning. There are many Ramayanas.... and possibly Mahabharatas .... we need female versions. Aparna Sen could work on it. Why is it every religious tract has to be boring....old age India has come up with poets, dancers and all that ... but not a human being with any sense of humour. In 2018 Bhakt India, none laughs; all of us are grim with hate or fear; Jaspal Singh Bhatti was a change. When Stand up comedians are sent kill notices, its best to revert to me dear friend Tuka. Am still laughing.