Lagori

Sunday morning Karuna Road got up from beds of bit-notices, dropping off a blue sky, talking of a Lagori match between birds and kids. Flying fox had pasted them on dark, night skies when Old Man, Lady, birds, trees and kids were asleep, below trees; being morning they were more into sleep, when the notices floated down, off a sun-dry sky. A Sunday Lagori scheduled for 10 in the morning. At 8, net practice; Old Man training crows, house sparrows, bats, mynas, warblers; Lady put 5 year olds from the Missionary into runs and throws. Old Man and Lady trained them in losing the match not winning anyway. 'Learn to lose, wins will come tasty,' said Lady, a former India hockey player. Old Man nodded, an IPL retired cricketer. Birds in green tunics; kids wore bright reds; a seven-a-side match; Lady picked the birds team, Old Man, the playing kids, for fairness. Bhagwan, the tea stall owner, arranged seven stones, one of top of the other, in the middle of Karuna Road. He stole them from a construction site in the night; shaped the stones in the night. Old Man and Lady readied themselves with whistles. Two whistles blew together at 10. Game started. Crowds of birds sat on rain trees and laburnums; morning walkers hung out on garden walls. Lagori on, more noise, many throws, never a bringing down of stones; and then it happened, a parakeet hit the stone, a scramble as the kids ran after the fresh yellow tennis ball .... it did not work out as the birds failed to reset the seven stones; a house sparrow fell off a branch in disappointment; after 30 minutes of play, there was no win or loss, as the Lagori stones ran away, leaving the kids to tend tired birds. Bhagwan spread a Sunday newspaper on the footpath, put down bhels, faffda, jilebis, Cokes for the participants. Lay down to rest under trees. Old Man and Lady signed autograph books, without pens and pencils, thrust at them by morning walkers.

Floated a Chorus:

Old Man and Lady,
left footprints on village mud;
on Arabian Sea and sands;
in cemented cities,
Old Man and Lady dropped
no fingerprints;
they knew, they couldnt.
On Sunday,
on Karuna Road,
left soul prints.
Imprints,
absent, unreported,
gone,
as the Lagori morning.

Old Man and Lady had baked their heads to script Lagori moments of Karuna on Karuna Road.
Astu.

A Borivili day

These days we find it hard to set out for a morning walk. Legs collapse sometimes, knees pain. Want to sleep more. Or is it an upsetting to see roads lined with chopped trees, broken nests and deep holes jumped over by hollering suvs and bikesover. The municipal corporation is into trimming trees in May when Niranjan and Ajit and Raja need them most selling wares under their trees. Rama and me dip into our sofas and watch windows with coffee. Newspapers dont pull. Water is set in a plastic tub for crows, mynas, pigeons and house sparrows. Broken Brittania Marie biscuits on a plate as me house sparrows dislike other brands. Grey necks and black necks land on window grills and wait. They do not make a grab. They look around with the neck moving all over. When they are sure of us, land on the sill; peck a broken piece of biscuit, store it in inside their beaks; peck a second time; a third time and then fly away. Hard to make out one crow from another, but when three sit together on the window grill, we are sure there are three crows. Then follow the myenas who walk more with their necks than legs. House sparrows wait their turn and then take over. Far off on mangroves, egrets settle for yet another May day as Rama brings a tall glass of deep pink Sharbat Roohafza of Hamdard Dawakhana (India), a surprise. A black kite up deep in the sky circulates. The best thing about the morning is the quiet around. The society is asleep. None talks. And me muses over Maya. All the mystical writings, improve your life notings, on Facebook, advise quitting desires, searching the Lord, meeting Him or Her. From me window, a feather weight heart, delights at the flowering rain trees and gul mohurs; the red of the gul mohurs go well with the fragrant yellow of the copper pod, dressing the bright May blue sky. Me can never quit desires, passions, compassions; after all you need a life to reach for the Paramatman; me would like to reach for a glass of foreign whisky with Rama on Breezers; life has never been a delusion or illusion; for me it is just lots of fun and fare, a regular film show with many free screenings; some tragedies recalling absent, old friends. Which is okay as we spend the evening under a peepal tree with cement rests in front of a gym; girls and ladies, boys and gentlemen park their bikes, enter the gym fat, come out lean. Apparently, they gym with ipads and selfies. When at about 6.30 evening, every evening, walks by Perumal Mami (named after writer Perumal Murugan) after a regular visit to the Devi temple at Jayaraj Nagar; a close friend of Rama, she is always alone; 'eppadi irrukkel (how are you), she asks, her sure intro; offers prasad wrapped in banana leaves and tilak; we accept it; today is Friday, auspicious day, she says; on Saturday, you can spot the Lady with her banker husband at the Perumal temple on Saturdays;  goes her way with a Parkkalam, made famous by Kamaraj Nadar. An evening breeze nudges peepal leaves. Copper pods drop down. The regular, light brown stray, Pagal, looked after by servers at the Aura Hotel, slaps down at our feet. 

A Song 129

House sparrows nervy,
squirrels jumpy,
Old Man sips sleep under a
laburnum,
Lady, below a banyan,
on torn yoga mats
of Tuka and Kabira,
on Karuna Road,
a Karuna rap.
Check out on migration of souls,
(time to do so)
with Tuka and Kabira.
'In our times we migrated,
Earth did not,'
said they,
as Lady cupped teas to Old Man.
Living separate friends,
dislike relocation.
Old Man reveals a goings aways
of trees,
grass,
seas,
hills,
birds,
animals.
Said Lady,
modern times,
unwanted, go.
Tuka,
Kabira,
want to be back.
No way.
Karuna
lost
on Karuna Road.
A divorce signed and sealed. 

Bedekar Stores

Bedekar Stores in Borivili Market has no face. It has no ad. It came into being 1910 says a head board which none can see from anywhere. They are good but not material for business editors. Bedekar Stores is never in a hurry; never into a competition; never interested to be on the top of the business pile. In 1910, there probably was no Borivili market or even Borivili station. Just a deep, dense forest. Two pleasant gentlemen run the shop with smiles and sometimes laughs, except Thursday, when the shop is shut. A shop of wooden benches with masala powders, aam papads, eatables from Konkan, anywhere on shelves, without design. Yet, men and women, equally undesigned, walk up and down the steps for their papads and masalas. Me and Rama went there to buy raw cashew with skin from Konkan, May is the time to chew cashews - raw, roasted, salted. Styled Malvani Mewa, packed by Sri Gurukrupa Udyog, Taluka Kudal, Jilla Sindhudurg, costs Rs.250 per 200 gm. Have walked these tiled areas with Paul, long ago, when ago. Rama noted the price, woofed, tried to put down the fixed price, stared at me ordering two packets. They go well with liquor. Every week we make a trip to Borivili market; me stands beside Rama as she pinches, twists and tastes vegetables before setting on downing the price. UP and Bihari bhaiyas are never comfortable with Rama with some scooting their stands. Rama has her way; she counts every note and coin. She should have been running the National Stock Exchange. Borivili market is the Gateway to North India; UP, Bihar, Jharkhand; some bhaiyas stand and sell unripe bananas at 'bees ka dozen' in the middle of a vague road; unput sentences; most sit on wooden benches, spit all round, relish the dirt and Borivili market is dirty; they have no PAN, no Nilekani Aadhaar; their inside pockets banks with cash. They are spread all over by 6; and it is hard work carrying sacks on one's back; in May, it is head loads of wooden petis of alphonsos or aams as they call it. They dominate the business, trick customers on prices, weight and quality; yet, having been with them for years, me likes them. Most suspect them. Their women are absent; women from Palghar and Virar sell kothimir, safed bhopla and some gaoti vegetables. Inside the Borivili market, is our favourite Ram from whom me collects vegetables. Rama approves the price and quality on sale. On the way home, Niranjan on Yogi Nagar Road, spotted us, said: 'Kya hamko bhool gaye?' We had no answer.  

Press Club Mohammed

On Thursday, got out on the right side of the bed, down. For relief, started somewhere in BUSYBEE, BEST of 1994-95. Floated to a piece: Getting a liquor permit: I have just recieved my renewed liquor permit. My friend, Mehmood, who is the major-domo of the Bombay Press Club brought it to me yesterday. Shut the book and snoozed on Mehmood, whom me called Mohammedee, being a Malayali. 'Entha saare,' he would reply dressed in a neat smile. When me was joint secretary, Bombay Press Club, he joined the Club in a shack, from Press Trust of India, where he ran a canteen. He did everything at the Club which opened to Azad Maidan and white cricket. For a year me did nothing but be at the Press Club with Mohammed, who lived in Sion Circle. He got married, set up a family, and yet run the Club late into the night. He had his team, a friendly team; they remain so and run the Club which is mostly taking orders for liquor. Those days when me stepped into the Club as a minor boss, Mohammed would tell his team: Saab ke liye ek rum aur coke; as years went past, me never placed orders as the team knew my liquid needs. Never did me own a liquor permit, Mohammed saw to that. 'Saarinu permit venda (Saar does not need a permit)', he said and shut the quest for a permit. The Club ran losses as revenue fell short of costs, me first glimpse of a fiscal deficit much written about by many economists. When Olga Tellis was the first secretary of the Club (hope me am not wrong), there were no losses, no revenues, as there was no liquor and Club was always empty. And then came the journalists and today it is complete with public relations officers. Since Olga Tellis, no woman has held a top job in Press Club and that's a trifle sad. With liquor came, cards table run by Joshi of the Financial Express; when Murali Kumar of Financial Express wrote a critical piece on Press Club, Joshi hollered and again if me am not wrong, Murali Kumar was not allowed entry. That was unfair to Kumar. Mohammed knew all and all knew him. Me was never a member of a second club as me did not have cash and prestige. When me quit The Financial Express, the general manager, took me out to Bombay Gymkhana, for drinks and lunch. We stepped in sobre, stepped out tipsy. Have not gone a second time. Maybe, my Malabar Hill cousin, Shyamala, will take me out to the Gym. Then me retired to Borivili, Mohammed retired to Navi Mumbai. We also retired from Press Club. 

Two top dogs

Bow...bowoorious. Up..rorious. Two top dogs of literature. Muggs, an Airedale, of James Grover Thurber and Bolshoi the Boxer of Busybee (Behram Contractor). Thurber drew an immortal Muggs while Mario Miranda illustrated the bright Bolshoi. Me had many strays the most remarkable being a nameless brown  in Sevak Baidya Street, Calcutta; at 10 in the morning and evening, she made a rush at me for two rotis and some dal each. And then the entire day, me would wag me tail at the delighted Lady. In the famed piece on The Dog That Bit People, Thurber writes or is it glides: Probably no one man should have as many dogs in his life as I have had, but there was more pleasure than distress in them for me except in the case of an Airedale named Muggs..... A big, burly, choleric dog, he always acted as if he thought I wasn't one of the family. There was a slight advantage in being one of the family, for he didn't bite the family as often as he bit strangers.' Bolshoi the Boxer, perhaps is a Parsi gentleman and Busybee does not offer many clues. In the BEST OF 1990-91, Busybee reveals: 'You are from India plain and simple,' I said. Why dont you realise and admit that, the only thing Russian about you is your name. And it is about time you changed that.' Bolshoi is a thinker, Muggs is bite. Every time me reads, The Dog That Bit People, me does not laugh, me roars pushing Rama to look at me in surprise as she knows me morose. Working in the Times, Mulki Laxman Kamath and Dilip Raote introduced me to Thurber and the New Yorker gang of etchers like E.B. White. Me used to trip to USIS Library on Marine Lines to read all the Thurber volumes like me did in USIS, Calcutta to read everything on Lincoln. Written in 1933, My Life and Hard Times, is the best piece of autobiographical fiction and nothing, not even non-fiction autobiography, comes near. The 100-pages book makes you wonder about Thurber, who borrowed a bit of comicness from his mother. Harrison Kinney in his rock size book of 1211 pages, James Thurber, His Life and Times, writes up a hilarious mother. But it is hard reading and me has given up. And me do not know what is better: Thurber language or Thurber drawings with all its curves. Cartoonist Abu Abraham seems to have adopted Thurber lines. Forced to make a choice me will go for Thurber drawings and Miranda paintings. Have pondered over them for hours. The best reading at 70; air conditions May. Wodehouse, Ring Lardner, Groucho Marx, Mark Twain.... yes they are all favourites but James Grover Thurber, in me family, is perhaps the best. Over the last two days, me has been reading and laughing My Life and Hard Times, twice. Lucky to have lived the 20th century. Wonder whether in the 21st century humans will ever laugh? Or have we had our last laughs?  

Laburnums

'We are going to Singapore,' said one little Lady. A second piped: 'We are going to London. A third said quietly: 'Uncle, we are going to InOrbit and Bhaubali.' Rama and me laughed. Stretch around IC Church and Mandapeshwar CHS lay empty. None stirring to koyals, inaugurating the morning at 4 when not even the gods stir. Stillness dripped from koyal notes. Do bird music have music rules, ragas and saptaswaras; or are they repeats? Koyalling went on and on as Rama celebrated May Day from a balcony in arm chairs, running to bird calls, crowing of cocks, at Alleppey, in the 70s. And she lost it all in Bombay, after marriage. She knows more about flowers and fruits than me. She has an organic timer in her. And today rejoiced in an empty Borivili when all the gods and goddesses took to loud speakers and silence broke as glass. Shreya and Chiyu were at imagica, leaving Aji to her imagination as thats what we live with alone. By 6 after a cup of coffee we started out from Dakhi's home on a walk. IC Church was bare as we stepped into the quiet. We stayed a silent minute, stepped out, strolled into a blissful the gold of Laburnum anaygyroides atop the grotto, blessing the dead in the graves and living outside. 'Konnapoo' glistened Rama, as she hugged the tree with more golden chains of yellow flowers than leaves. Apparently, laburnum is a foreign citizen from France to the Balkans. Out of the church and into empty St. Francis Assisi ground; no footballs, no kids, all in foreign lands and Bhaubalis. At one side stands a Laburnum in yellows, alone. As Rama walked, me went up and stared. We chatted after a time. Me and laburnum became one like a dream and its dreamer. Sure trees think and talk. None admires me, why, o, why, the laburnum chirped. Me patted her off-white trunk in trust. The tree nodded and told me of a Jesuit father looking after her some 30 years ago. He read a Psalm every morning, watered me roots, and signed the Cross, the tree said. That's why me am still around when two house sparrows landed on the branches to join the adda. Please do not harm this tree any, wrote down the Jesuit father in his dairy before he left for France. Its a lucky charm. Sometimes, he writes a letter and me replies. Now it is long since a letter came. For this May Day, the laburnum is breakfasting with the sun and sparrows and talks of the many brothers and sisters on Karuna Road; at least there are about 10 in the area relishing the karuna of the public. On the slow walk back, looked at a koyal atop a mast tree, twinging its throat.