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.