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.