A Song 48

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
nodded change;
high rises graving
a May morning sun,
clicking selfies
with laburnums;
sun on vacation,
moon snoozy,
earth in long pause,
karma charkha still.

Me Mumbaikar

Calcutta; a paribarton Kolkata; on TV channels in the evenings with Pallavi Ghosh winding up riding a Bihari-pulled rickshaw. For me, nothing has changed as on view were many parked rickshaws, wheels pasted in fear to edges of pavements. For 24 years from 1946 to 1969, lived in Calcutta and never rode a Bihari-pulled rickshaw. Me boasts. Today it is more than 11 years went to Kolkata and do not have plans. On TV screens, Kolkata has not much changed though surprised over a Big Ben being built somewhere in the city; Lady Mamta wants Kolkata to be London. Like Mumbai politicians want Mumbai to be Shanghai or better still New York. Also saw Malayalam film, Balyakalasakhi of Mohammad Vaikom Basheer with Mamooty lost in Kolkata. Living in Kolkata mostly was addressed by Bengalis - Medru - a kick no Marathi gentleman or gentlewoman in Mumbai dressed me in. Ahead of Pujas home was raided by young demanding cash; escaped a pasting once. For then young me (maybe, they have changed; do not know), Bengalis (middle class) had a dislike for everything non-Bengali; for them literature rested with Tagore, films were Ray, Ray and Ray, religion Ramakrishna and Vivekananda. A Bihari bhaiya dragging a Bengali-family laden rickshaw was never given the fare promised; and then the abuse of the Hindi speaking non-human at the pada where the family lived. On TV Channels the city has become a bit blue; Coffee House there is with intellectuals, mostly fakes, teaing and smoking; did not see any adda session, a big miss for me. Football has lost to cricket though the East Bengal Club and Mohun Bagan Club remain at the Maidan; Sourav Ganguly has dribbled past Chuni Goswami. Usha Uthup croons Kolkata .... Gautam Ghosh (maybe wrong) says the city is secular...am not sure as India is no more secular. Like tea waste, Kolkata remains. In Bombay and then Mumbai, none, surely not a Maharashtrian, has called me Medru. Of course, Shiv Sena did hurt Tamils and all other communities. Yet on a leave alone basis as living is that, me has more Mumbai, very little of Kolkata. An hour ago, was talking to friend Narayana Karunakara Kurup from a quick Kerala run. 'Kerala is gone; its money, cheating, a coarseness and bite of a coir rope ...Mumbai is, of course, any day better.' Kurup should know and is confirmed by morning walk friends with homes in Palghat and Trichur towns; they go for short Ola rides while based firmly in Mumbai. A Mumbaikar faiths. Long local rides do deny Mumbaikars addas; but a Mumbaikar does not preen; Marathi literature is on par with many literatures, he and she are prone to contend. A shingara or a rosogolla (me likes both) does not define Kolkata as much as a vada pav Mumbai. And everybody in Mumbai picks up his and her vada pavs, chews on it, walking Azad Maidan with a Kabira, Tuka and a Kolatkar. At least, there is no boast. Mumbaikar does not boast. Between a Mother Teresa and Baba Amte, am all for Amte. Mumbaikar prefers aloneness; a Kolkatan peeps.   

Pyre by Perumal Murugan

An yellow copper pod spins on its axis dropping the air  settling at the foot of the parent tree. A thin breeze dropped more yellow dots. An April morning sun glazed mango-filled mango trees. First bright reds of gul mohur. Pagoda trees in whites. Car rush had thinned; a few cycles still dared to take the sun; there was no haste in the air. Empty cement benches on the pavements of Link Road. We sat and watched. 'Would you like to be born a human in the next janma,' Rama popped. 'Yes,' me said a half-way believer in rebirth. 'Why,' came the second question. 'To be with you, watch copper pods, ear koyals and read Pyre of Perumal Murugan,' me said. 'Many janmas for a many reading of Perumal Murugan, Saro (Saroja) and Kumaresan,' Rama came back. She is keen on the Tamil original, eager to read all his Tamil writings, now out of print. The Lady has read twice Maadhorubaagan and the mention of Perumal lights up her faint wrinkles. A gentleman at Kalachuvadu informed Perumal saar denying them from running his editions. English translation of Pookuzhi by Aniruddhan Vasudevan is kuzhambu with the Tamil tang; Vasudevan admits ...'the difficulty is because there is more direct speech involved in Pookuzhi; the characters speak a lot and their streams of thought too bear the distinct mark of regional speech patterns. In the Tamil text, Kumaresan's and Saroja's people speak differently; their speech is marked by rural and semi-urban variations.' That alone is the reason that India cannot produce English writing; its art and culture can and will have varied lingos but never English; English is no literary tongue for most Indians. When Kumaresan fondles Saroja (the village thinks she is named after B. Saroja Devi, the Tamil actress), 'Pilla', me paused savouring Pilla; Pilla has no English; in Chennai me has heard Pilla but it is now the term glows; keen to call Rama, Pilla; hope she agrees. 'The sun was blazing overhead when Saroja and Kumaresan stepped off the bus. Beyond the tamarind trees that lined the road, all they could see were vast expanses of arid land. There were no houses anywhere in sight. With each searing gust of wind, the white summer heat spread over everything as if white saris had been flung across the sky. There was not a soul on the road. Even the birds were silent. Just an ashen dryness, singed by the heat, hung in the air. Saroja listened to venture into that inhospitable space.' A sun burns. A pyre is lit. Caste casts a shroud. Villages are sour spots; towns are less sour; towns and cities have their terms of hatred; Mumbai has Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Dalit pockets, making hate easy and killing easier. Perumal Murugan respects his readers, their imagination; leaving the thinking to them; he, as a writer walks the writer; gets them to debaye. There is no thunder in the writing. A well-crafted newsreport. Wish me could meet Perumal Murugan, one day. 

A Song 47

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
runaways from faraways,
shorn of puja-pat,
phewing, chewing koyal
Aprils,
mop bald, sweaty heads
with hand-spun, red gamchas.
Fingers plying palms,
Kabir weaves lemon yellow
kurtas, to a fated design;
Tuka strings tampoora,
tweets notes,
decreed.
Weave or song.
Weaver or songster.
No takers.

Co-optex, Borivili

Singara Chennai, where it seems me dear writer Perumal Murugan lives and whose Pyre is scalding me, is in Borivili (W). Malathi, belonging to Rama evening adda near Aura Hotel, threw a heard news of a Tamil Nadu Co-optex shop off Chandavarkar Road; the first in Borivili; she had not gone to the shop; Rama decided to search it with me following at around 10.30; after asking this man and that woman, located Tamil Nadu Co-optex of the Tamil Nadu Handloom Weavers Co-op. Society offering 20 per cent discount on all items, going up to a festival 30 per cent; a neat, quiet shop with one attender, a Madhav; no clients, yet; liked it. He spread out the sarees, chudidars and towels; allowed Rama to bring out a few from the open shelves; 'made of extra long staple cotton,' explained Madhav. Suvin is the extra long staple cotton growing in Coimbatore, derived from Egyptian Giza 45 grown on the banks of Nile, an information given me when covering the textile industry; Suvin in those years was priced at around Rs.12,000 per candy; me is boasting; Madhav should know; yet a doubt over handlooms weaving extra long staple cotton yarn nagged; maybe 2016 technology is doing it. Rama waded into the shop with Madhav obliging, pulling out a fleet of towels, churdiars and bedsheets mostly made in Erode and perhaps Gopichettipalayam. Credit card flashed, Rs.3,000 moved in a cashless economy. Packing the items, Madhav informed of shut downs of Co-optex in Matunga and other places; the Borivili shop is a few months old. We wished Madhav the best and walked to the Borivili market in an April sun on some more spending ways. Near the Borivili police station sat a young ragged fellow nursing a basket of clay tavas with wooden handles. Rama as usual spotted the item for inquiries to start; made of burnt brown clay with a wooden handle, the tava cost Rs.100, going down to Rs.80. But Rama has stopped haggling with street Ambanis and Adanis under roiling suns, she paid Rs.100. The young fellow told us to place the tava in a bucket of water for an hour before use. Me handled it for everyone to look and ask. The last stop as usual was Madhuram where me became a curiosity; no questions, a large amount of stares; bought badam and kismis; took an auto for the driver to subject me to a questioning; 'saheb, buddhu banathe hain, ye log'; Rama smiled, graduated to easy laughs. At the housing society, eyes were politely glued to the reddish clay tava; Madhavi came up with her joyous invectives; her laughs were made. Placed the tava in a bucket of water for an hour; took it out for a dry; Rama made a dough of wheat, nachni and jawari for two bakris which she placed on a warm tava; the clay tava stood the heat; the bakris came crisp. Made clay sense of Rs.100. Earth is okay.

Wash hands

Best way to choke disease flows. Wash your hands. Do doctors and nurses wash hands, not maybe with Dettol or chlorine but at least with water? Most of India today has not water to drink; a wash of hands is out. At blood testing labs, none washes his or her hands; or at least, me has not seen it happen. Each year, according to the US Centers for Disease Control, two million Americans acquire an infection while they are in the hospital. 90,000 die of that infection. The hardest part of the infection-control team's job, Yokoe says, is not coping with a variety of contagions they encounter or the panic that sometimes occurs among patients and staff. Instead, their greatest difficulty is getting clinicians like me to do the one thing that consistently halts the spread of infections: wash our hands. Writes Atul Gawande, a US surgeon in his book - Better; Malcolm Gladwell says: A gorgeous writer and storyteller. In 1847, at 28, the Viennese obstetrician, Ignac Semmelweis said doctors were to blame for childbed fever 'by not washing their hands consistently or well enough.' Doctors did not like the suggestion. 'Far from being hailed, Semmelweiss was ultimately dismissed from his job,' mentions Atul Gawande. Never thought washing hands is best. Atul Gawande comes from Uti, four hundred miles east of Mumbai. Dr. Ashish Motewar at the Nanded hospital, serving 1,400 villages including Uti, is ever under stress of ailing patients; on one day morning he saw 36 patients in three hours. 'With no time for a complete exam, a good history, or explanations, Dr. Motewar relied mainly on a quick, finely honed clinical judgement;.... at least 50 of the 250-some patients seen by the surgeons in Nanded that morning turned out to need an operation. The hospital had operating rooms and staff, however, for only 15 such operations per day. Everyone else had to wait,' flows on Gawande. At All-India Institute of Medical Sciences, Delhi it is no better. A senior resident was queuing patients six months ahead with cancers first priority; the queue can be jumped, broken or avoided by the rich - ministers and other assorted power points. 'By necessity, he accomodated them -- and pushed the least connected ever further back in the queue' owns up Atul. Increasing private medicine and medical treatment will keep the rich in, poor out; in terms of power and cost. Then Atul Gawande, who should know, winds down: ' New laboratory science is not the key to saving lives. The infant science of improving performance --- of implementing our existing knowhow --- is. Nowhere though the government has recognised this....These realities are without question demoralising. ...All the surgical residents I met hoped to go into the cash-only private sector (where patients with the means increasingly seek care, given the failure of the public system) or abroad when they finished their training -- as I think I would in their shoes. Many attending surgeons were plotting their escape, too. Meanwhile, all live with compromises in the care they give that they cannot bear to tolerate.' Atul Gawande, me has always gone to private hospitals; never public hospitals; had cash; most of India prefer to breathe their ailments on the streets. Off hand picked up the book at Oxford Book Stall. Atul Gawande is worth it. 

The Jungle Book

A little girl asked Ajoba: 'Uncle, you liked Bhaloo?' 'Yes, yes,' nodded Aji and Ajoba. A thin crowd exited Maxus Borivili after The Jungle Book with popcorn and coke. There was a lilt about aged Aji and Ajoba. They do not much know the imperial politics of Rudyard Kipling. They enjoy a story simply said; a story written by Rudyard Kipling for his daughter Josephine Kipling in May 1894; Josephine died at six. Oooos and aahs as the 3-D glasses brought Mogli and the Seeonnee forests near to their souls, nay grazed their souls. For lazy Ajoba, it is easy Bhaloo, moseys the forest, slurping honey and fun, taking Mogli for back rides in rivers. Aji and Ajoba do not want more out of a story. The Jungle Book and Swami and Friends of R.K. Narayan -- Aji, Ajoba and many have seen on Doordarshan. They will be around till there are girls and boys in the world. Become children, turn story tellers, when the mood darkens hum their signature songs...Son Ganesh saw it first and he had to see it as The Jungle Book is his childhood. He went to Wadala for a special experience. Seen the 1990 version, the Doordarshan take as a family on a colour TV; Aji and Ajoba are familiar with the Walt Disney 1967 version; and today the Walt Diseny retake with technology. Thankfully the story remains in the telling. When Shere Khan roars into their faces, Aji and Ajoba cowered; when Mogli and Bhaloo take to the waters, they laughed; when the bandarlok snatch away Mogli, they suffer an infraction. In slopy chairs, they watched Mogli running into them and the deep forests reminded Ajoba of Pench and Kanha Tiger reserves with Kishor Rithe and Nishibhau spotting Shere Khans. Maybe, in another 20 years, Walt Disney will come with a version of The Jungle Book allowing the public to roam the forests with Mogli and Bagheera; the public will participate; some new tech. Some may not have read The Jungle Book; but none at least in Mumbai could have missed on Gulzar's ever, ever lines: Jungle, jungle pata chala hai; cheddi pahan ke phool khila hai; the current version of The Jungle Book has English songs and poems, dubbed 'propaganda' by Bhaloo; but nothing, simply nothing, nothing can match Gulzar; perhaps, Walt Disney should have stitched it into their cinematic versions of The Jungle Book; The Bare Necessities is neither poetry nor song. Yes, Bhaloo, it is 'propaganda'. Aji and Ajoba slipped into sloping, comfy chairs and failed to struggle out to stand for the National Anthem; luckily were not beaten up. 70-year old Ajoba as an 8-year old saw the first film in Kottarakara on a two annas bench ticket; some MGR film; jumped the bench when MGR sworded M.N. Nambiar; and today, Aji and Ajoba felt unbalooned when the film ended with Bagheera, Bhaloo and Mogli at one place. In 1894, the forests and its citizens loved humans for Kipling to imagine and ink pen The Jungle Book; today humans have no forests and its variety shows; a Jungle Book will not be written; there is no Jungle. There will always be jungle, jungle pata chala hai ..... Mogli, Akela, Shere Khan, Bagheera, Bhaloo, Ka..... Tks. Walt Disney.