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.