A Song 182

Two parrots
upside down
from an electric wire
romancing.

A love over

A love over. A romance runs out. Affair stirred in the 50s at Lake Temple Road with The Statesman. Rare days Amrita Bazar Patrika. As a six to 10 year old, scanned the Sports pages of The Statesman; never went below the headlines; Pataudi, Abbas Ali Baig, Sobers, Kanhai ... stylists.... read their names and also Mohun Bagan, East Bengal, Balram, Chuni, Jarnail, Rehmatullah....a five minute job; and then at Sevak Vaidya Street, dwelt on The Statesman, the Monday last page, M.Krishnan column.....In the 70s, The Statesman dropped in favour of The Times of India, K.N. Prabhu, Joe, Leyland.....In Chenna it was The Hindu, never much appreciated it.... orthodoxy ..... never slipping or making mistakes. Grim. And as an old, The Indian Express. Over. Told newspaperman Patil to stop dropping newspapers... why, he asked, had no answer .... upset the entire day...Today, sipped coffee staring the window, no newspaper. Yes, me am living and laughing. From 6 to 71, a long time for an affection to end. Being a journalist all living, there is a tang of disappointment .... as if me am debunking me profession. Could be, dont know ....Friends, me wont do that. They said me do not change. Switched to iphone, a fresh instrument presented by son Ganesh and the social sites on wildlife, Thay, wire.in, scroll.in are a good read. Social sites deal with humans and animals and forests and cinemas and sports .....read a fine essay on P.V.Sindhu by Shirish Nadkarni... after a long, long, long time an honest piece of sports writing. And there is humour. Me has changed. 

A Song 181

On Marine Drive mornings,
Kabir,
Tuka,
joggers,
walkers,
yogers
walk into each other,
mocking each other.
Birthed by Ram,
mutter Ram
for uplift from a traffic jam,
made by them and Ram.
Arching over them,
BSE Towers flags:
Insider trading,
a stock market scam.
   

A Song 179

Evenings,
sun crawls down backs
of high rises;
sips a chilled coke.
on the way,
moon, in an escalator,
on duty.
Mornings,
moon slides down
mobile towers,
at ease with steamy, chais;
Sun, fresh, takes an ontime
flight,
describing 24 hours in
Eternity.


    

A Song 178

Old Man
palmed a still butterfly,
breezing on the window sill,
a morning;
buried the flyer
under a mango tree,
with prayers;
returning favours.    

Remembering Kurdi

Sans roots
zero memories
absent stories...

Gangubhai Kurdikar walks a mud track in Kurdi, perhaps to her Shiva temple; with daughter Kishori Amonkar sings a bhajan with a Kurdi crowd; some identify a few names in the crowd. Kurdi town in South Goa is no more. Her home is no more. Gangubhai Kurdikar is no more. Kishori Amonkar is no more. Salaulim Dam, some three decades ago, displaced more than five hundred families; they protested; they were resettled; in summers when waters dip, the unsettled flock to Kurdi to nest in memories. As one generation births another, there may be no memories. A gentleman settled in Mumbai talks of Kurdi to which his daughter is no relation; she was born after the dam, cannot imagine Kurdi. Director Saumyananda Sahi rolls the cameras over Kurdi under and above dam waters; Muslims, Christians and Hindus have little to quarrel about as all of theirs is below vast stretches of water, brought in by rains. men and women stand on shores trying to pin down  their homes; yes, that was my house; here was mine; a ration shop, a chukki, abandoned along with gods; cruelty of a marred love is mentioned and the camera hurries. A Films Division of India film; Sahi shoots facts; does not much trade in opinions; curated by Tatasky. The one hour film left me a bit frozen; at least some 500 families got settled; at Tehri and Narmada, humans have been plucked from their homes, dumped on contractors and agents. Yes, the Salaulim Dam has helped some get water; we agree, says a displaced resident; but ....  Perhaps, Development or Vikas with broken tails and tales of cruelty, may be necessary; is there no humane alternative. How long can we live without stories? Bhils in Madhya Pradesh still seem to have stories. A drought; villagers go to the soothsayer for relief; he is drunk and driven; they paint their homes with trees; thats what they know; rains come. Hum Chitr Banate Hain is a short animation film by Prof. Nina Sabnani with Sher Singh Bhil, an artist. Painting stories on walls is a wall art; it needs villages, homes, stories; when Smart Cities come, India will turn dry. A country is known by stories. India has lots. Will it be so 50 years away?  

A Song 177

'Hi, what are you doing?',
asked the house sparrow,
pecking Marie
at the window sill.
'Watching you,' he said.
House sparrow:
 'Old Man and Lady are missing,
leaving us guessing,'
He: 'Are you sure?'
Sparrow: 'Many times over.'
Karuna banyan, temple peepal,
mangos, copper pods,
flying fox
flew the news around.
Deva, the donkey, rolled brays
on Karuna Road.
Marched to the police station
with protests of compassion.
Police offered chairs, tea,
asked for photos, Aadhaars....
Missing need a sure guessing.
With nothing working,
waited at Karuna banyan,
when came a bicycle
with Lady and Old Man
on its back.
A Magic Cycle,
had its own mind,
out of time,
had wheeled
Lady and Old Man
over minefields of cars, roads,
metros, mobiles;
a vacation.
Ordained by Magic Cycle, 
Lady and Old Man
turned parts and portions
of Karuna banyan;
A spectacle not for opticians;
A waking not of Zen;
A compassion,
not for TV stations;
out of  internet equivocations; 
sparrows
light diyas in devotion.



A note to the reader if any:

A poor, incomplete affair. Anyone can add or delete parts of the poem. Make a new poem. Take a byline for the effort.