November 1, 2015.

Jeeves reads Spinoza. Jeeves protests reluctantly, decently. Did Jeeves buy a copy of Marx and Lenin; were his famed disagreements with Bertram Wooster on dress codes come from Marx. And seemingly, Jeeves, the famed help, always won over master Bertram Wooster; earned everyone's cheer. Am starting again on A Pelican at Blandings bought in Bombay by Ramesh Anna on September 15, 1971. Was Pelham Grenville Wodehouse a Marxist; not the loud and grim Marxist with guns in pockets and red flags in fists; not the Sakhave of Malluland; but an English dry laugh, liberal version with 75 per cent of his soul for Jeeves and 25 per cent for the lazy Wooster and Lord Emsworth with Empress of Blandings; no writer elevates a pig to an Empress unless touched by Karl Marx. Me has not read all of Wodehouse; not even many of Wodehouse; but reasonably assert he delighted in nonsense ragas; an air of nonsense than sense. Me am not sure whether Dr. Raghuram Rajan, RBI governor, musician T.M. Krishna and corporate Narayana Murthy are Wodehousians; a market mix of laugh and protest; the threesome are humans, Emsworths? No RBI governor has ever told the press he goes by the name of Raghuram Rajan, doing a job. And me has watched from afar S.Venkitaramanan, Dr. C. Rangarajan, Dr. Bimal Jalan, Dr. Y.V. Reddy. They never spoke out of turn; they were the jawans of the government ever ready into an attention and a salute. Interest rates had to be correct for them like jawans their uniforms and shoes. Dr. Rajan became Jeeves; space for every view across a talking table for all. Dr. Rajan need not have said it as Jeeves need not remark on the suit of Wooster. At IIT-Delhi, me is not sure if Rajan chuckled, of course there cannot be belly laughs; perhaps, he would have gone home to watch All Blacks play All Yellow in World Cup Rugby. That sort of man. Also firmly declare no Carnatic or Hindustani musician has elaborated on the raga of dissent; T.M. Krishna is the one; he does not plead for a sabbash to his music; he only wants he to play his music. Narayana Murthy, did something unpleasant when he tried to get back into Infosys; well, he walked away;and me has made more mistakes than Murthy; cant blame corporates passion for cash; Murthy looks a broken brick crying over a broken nation. And a lady Kiran Mazumdar Shaw backs him. Jeeves, Rajan, Krishna, Murthy....liberals...Wodehousians in demur....Yet, Tavleen Singh in The Indian Express writes: The sad truth is that our public intellec tuals have always acted as a fifth column of the Congress Party for reasons of 'secularism', and that is now more obvious than it has ever been.' Sad, indeed. Amen.  

October 30, 2015.

A dip in the morning air. Rama switched off the fan. A Mumbaikar may hope for a few less hot months. Hes and shes may not wipe their wet brows. There may not be a cloudburst of smiles. Living could be about fractions of pleasure. Pens off Ved Mehta in Daddyji: 'In winter, the sky is blue and hospitable, the nights are frosty and starlit, the fields are left furrowed by the plow, and the air is filled with the call of partridges, the honking of wild geese overhead, and the languid creaking of Persian wheels as the bullocks turn them round and round to draw water from the wells...' Mumbaikar has no such luck; from me window watches parakeets, fresh as ATM currency notes, screaming their joys, landing on any perch...  before a bye till tomorrow. Ved Mehta is blind; became so when 'not quite five'; was put in a train at Lahore station for a blind school in Dadar, Mumbai, says the last page of the narrative, picked up a month ago at Strand Book Stall; a relative went along; the last words Daddyji said to Ved (and the first words I remember hearing) were:'You're a man now.' Became a man to write Daddyji, of times when the family started in a Punjab before 1947. Daddyji is about Amolak Ram Mehta written by the second son and fifth child of Daddyji and Mamaji --- Ved Mehta. Politics, partition, patriotism are mostly, perhaps, entirely excised; no blood, no Gandhi. At Port of Aden, Daddyji opens a letter from father Lalaji, which he destroyed in 1938; why, the reader is not told. Lalaji began by 'remarking that his great-grandfather, grandfather, and father had lived and died in the same village of Nawankote. His great-grandfather had gone on foot as far as the next important village, and that was all. His grandfather had been on a pilgrimage to Hardwar by bullock cart, and that has taken several months. His father had been a passenger on the first train between Lahore and Sahranpur, and that journey had taken only a couple of days. And he, Lalaji, had ridden in a motorcar, and his sons had crossed the ocean in steamships - something his own father could not have dreamed of.... But, as we say in our beloved Punjab,'Even the meeting of rivulets is a matter of kismet.' Me morning turns a bit warm. For a few minutes tried to act blind; fright, opened me eyes. Ved Mehta goes to be on the staff of New Yorker in USA and write. 

October 29, 2015.

Today at me spot in LIC Colony -- Krishnan point after me favourite wildlifer M.Krishnan- watched a lady koel and three parakeets in raucous conversation. 'Are you a Muslim,' asked a parakeet of the lady koel, who shot back, 'Are you a Hindu.' No fights, no police, just shouts across branches. Parakeets flew away, leaving the lady koel in a muse. Home, into coffee, watched two drongos shift from the rain tree in the garden to a window, not mine. Watched them. They called. Then the routine. They fly out to fly back to the spot they started from. Two crows, from a safe distance, asked them: Are you bhaiyas from UP? Are you Madrasis? Drongos have had quarrels with crows over food and nest, but never over identity; the earth has always been theirs. Not so today. No more. Jay Mazoomdaar in the front page of The Indian Express reports Rajasthan government will not share Great Indian Bustard eggs with Gujarat. Gujarat has yet to part with its Gir lions for relocation in Kuno wildlife sanctuary in Madhya Pradesh. Rajasthan, Gujarat and Madhya Pradesh are BJP ruled states though one is not sure if lions and Great Indian Bustards know it. They have decided to check it with the Boss. Great Indian Bustard is getting rare with some 200 birds in the wild, says the report. Bustard eggs go to Kutch to breed in safety and cut the fall in population; Maharashtra, Gujarat and Rajasthan are to take part in the rescue. But Vasundhara Raje of Rajasthan says no; experts are in a quarrel and thats unsurprising; like Indian politicians, modern-day padded--eyes Gandharis. Bikram Grewal of Rajasthan wildlife board questions the 'rationale' behind sending Rajasthani eggs to Kutch when the birds favour Rajasthan; birder, Dr. Asad Rahmani, sees 'no merit' in Grewal; Kutch has grasslands for bustards. Relocation of Gir lions is in the Supreme Court and maybe there till infinity. Kerala elephants cannot stroll into Karnataka. Me is into reading Jungle Folk, Indian Natural History Sketches by Douglas Dewar; written more than 100 years ago when earth and India belonged to birds and trees, fish and fowls; Dewar never thought of tapping a crow in Madras, warn it of flying to New Delhi. In Zoo in the Garden by EHA (E.H. Aitken), India is one piece; Krishnan, oddly and unfairly, was against foreign flora. Nobody has asked lions and bustards. Me India needs a new India; me, a new me.For today, bye India. 

October 28, 2015.

5 in the morning, circle of a moon dropped by me, in bed. Moon looked, me looked; in the quiet of 5; a deep blue sky broomed of stars; a white whole; scientists term it Supermoon; Calmanac marks it as Kojagiri Poornima; me am not a songster to song the moon; reading Gajanan Madhav Muktibodh in New Poetry in Hindi, an anthology, by Lucy Rosenstein; 'Chand ka muh teda hai (Moon's face is crooked), writes Muktibodh; maybe he wrote a half-moon night; 'In the middle of town/midnight-on the walls of pitch black rock....Across the factory enclosure/the minarets of black-faced chimneys--Exclamation marks!/Between the minarets the moon's crooked face,/suspended,/in my heart, apprehension--/now a scream, now wretchedness.....'  A short essay on the poet mentions a work of some 46 poems in a Muktibodh lifetime. Perhaps, haiku poets singing the moon, will just walk away. Me in the morning went over and over Chand ka muh teda hai. Leafed over to Raghuvir Sahay with: 'Hum tho sara ka sara lenge jeevan/'kam se kam' wali baath na hum se kahiye' ('I will have the whole life/dont give me this 'at least' talk). And in Phoot (Rift): Between a Hindu and a Sikh/A Bengali and as Assamese/A backward and a forward:/Rift deeper than these-/between a victim/and a survivor. Muktibodh and Sahay were Marxists but not contained by Marxism. Critic Shamser asserts: 'Muktibodh crossed the romantic limitations of Chayavad, upheld Marxist philosophy, armed himself with the weapons of Experimentalism and advanced Nirala's pure humanism, as a free poet, above all parties and ideologies. Sahay walks by Marxism to add: But Marxism should not be put on top of poetry like a cover. Vidya and me bought the book at Oxford Book Stall on December 5, 2002. There sure is something teda, crooked about the Supermoon over India 2015. By 6, the moon slid away, leaving me with an upset sun. 

December 27, 2015.

For years the lane lay without a name. A mud-tar patch, five feet wide, bound by jackfruit, jamun, mangos, rain trees and others me know not, housing societies inside, twirls along in quiet .. from the home of Mission Sisters of Ajmer to Shanti Ashram. Me has walked this wavy line of land in LIC Colony for years ...at least more than 15 years... Today it has a name: Sri Ayyappa Mandir Marg. Lord Ayappa first took residence in a garage of a housing society; when it went for redevelopment, he shifted residence to a tin shed edging the track .... that was when we became friends...no fear nor peace of prayers, just a Hai... Lord Ayyappa and me....with the redevelopment over, Lord Ayyappa sits in a ground floor apartment, owned by prides of threaded and unthreaded Malayalis...there are more associations than Malayalis in Borivili, more gods than in Kerala... me am out. They say America has more temples than all of Tamil Nadu. But does any have a lane with a bouginvillea at the Sisters end and a bird spot towards the Ashram end? Me doubts; pink and white bougainvillea always, blue morning glory and morning glory in October, wild ladies' fingers, red star glory and others me know not. Me breaks walk every day to gaze at the plenty. At the bird spot, one is sure of enjoying a warbler or a crow; over the last three days, has been with two female koels on a dry tree ...me stands under the tree and waits; they breakfast on some insects; sit and watch morning walkers pass by loudly talking Sensex and Modi; today me stood for more than five minutes; she was above me, white barred and brown, some 10 ft. away; a second lady flew in; talked of the weather and crows' nests; flew away.. walking resumed...with the namkaran development will visit the lane, me fears... into Link Road and the Dogs Spot with aparajitas in blues and whites: strays, an Alastian, a pomeranian, a Labrador with their owners. Yes, dogs are the best humans. Patting me back for the day ... one beamed at Rama, surprising the Lady. 

October 26, 2015.

Paulie (Paul Noronha) met Rita at Mittal Bedi and then 'you know what happened', chuckles Paulie on 24 years of husbanding Rita. Met Paulie in 1994 when Business Line started; bumped into him working in Financial Express but we were just hullos. In BL he had a dark room, where his camera clicks went live when he gave them a chemical bath.  It ate hours, tensed Paulie; after landing his artwork on the desk of News Editor, Ashok Reddy, in Chennai, Paulie would wink a rum and we went to where but Press Club. Tote up time and Paulie has been with a camera for a near 30 years; first 5 years were 'chhota, mota' in Paulie tongue. With dad, a cameraman, he rang in with  'spotting of pics' and 'tinting the negatives'; stints at Kanthi & Co. and Mittal Bedi; one morning he strode into The Indian Express at Express Towers, Nariman Point; joining up with Vivek Bendre, worked under Mukesh Parpiani. One night at Tadoba Andhari Tiger Reserve, Paulie chatted of photos, photography and newspapers; 'for me, Mukesh Parpiani is the best,' he told me and today Mukesh is a Boss at National Centre of Performing Arts (NCPA). Vivek and Paulie go together; Paulie joined BL, Vivek followed to The Hindu, still are. Adjectives and abuses dont go with a Goan and surely not me Paulie; loves his rums and chats and sometimes goes fast forward, me with him. Fennied late nights at his Goan adda near Madgaon; Paulie is a laughing, kind, rummer; clicks to music; politics and business, pains; leaves self and others alone. In BL in 1994 we shared a kiosk; before me became a cabin boy. If he is in the mood (that's a big ask), the clicking moment turns a touch divine; for me one of the best pix of Paulie: two tiger cubs with mother a fraction behind on a late evening at the Ranthambhor Tiger Reserve; me son Ganesh is for him. In BL, when K. Venugopal was the Editor, whose name never made the imprint line, pics were welcome; today its a no-no; a sin. Raghavendra Rao, put up exhibitions of a team of about seven photographers in various cities to pump up Pauls. Nothing of that happens today. Me and Paulie went to forests and villages (a joke with wife Rita) in western India; through the day he was trying to catch a shot.... in Bastar, a cirrus, blue evening sky ... man that was a catch and click ..neat and sharp.... Paul beaming when BL put it up for public notice; evening would come the drinks....another day, another trip. Today, in the morning, me called ...the familiar laugh....going to a Maruti function, he said...we should meet up for a chhota... Paulie: me am lucky to have you around.... 

October 25, 2015.

Paul Salopek will be walking now or lying on his back. In times without names Paul Salopek will be striding from Ethiopia to the tip of South America. Let's walk, he writes in National Geographic; wonder why Salopek ideas never pop in me; that's why me am me; a Sunday morning walk. Perhaps. an Ethiopian lady could have been the first walker in the world with her man and kids piled on her shoulders; they could have taken turns as they could have loved each other; they could have had no religion; sun, moon, many stars, earth; sufficient unto their lives and their living; lone walks not marathons; thinking came with the walking. Paul Salopek thinks and writes. In India, Buddha could have been the first walker; Way is Buddha. 'On the writing table,/ woodcuts of Buddha, women;/ Buddha, a haha buy by Ganesh from Ladakh;/ women, Bastar buys/ art of Chokin, gold and silver plated, framed Japanese miniature from Tokyo;/ a camel, Bikaneri miniature;/in their Ways/ never jumping traffic lights', me scribble of some times ago. They are all in a lone, sensible option: a Salopek walk and thought. Paul Salopek has electronic gadgets unlike the first Ethiopian; he could be rescued in trouble; the first Ethiopian had no policeman. In a death rite in Brahmin families, the priest offers a diya, a dhoti, a walking stick to the soul on its after-death walk to where the priest and gods do not know; a ploy of the priest to pocket a fresh dhoti; yet, me will not deny the poetry in the gesture. Soul is on a walk, alone or in company, not a triathon or any thons.. Surprising. Paul Salopek does not talk of runs. Previewing the end in South America, he writes of an 84-year old woman, Cristina Caderon: 'She sat at her window, knotting her fingers, peering out at the inkey chop, enunciating objects, and animals in a dying language that sounded more like lapping waters than something human -- words that are sinuous and supple and sheer. She was trying to remember.' Me poking memory, of the Big Bang and 600 million years after when the first stars got spotted in the skies recently by Hubble and an Ethiopian looking up at them alone in the first walk... Paul Salopek is in search of time... when me spotted two lady koels on a dry tree in the LIC Colony... they could have also belonged to the first Ethiopian...maybe me grandma and grandpa raised to infinity.  

October 24, 2015.

Me weeps this morning for Amchi Mumbai; me cries for Mumbaikars. 'Kay jhala,' asked Rama in Malayali-Marathi. After consulting Dakhi me wailed in Marathi: 'Amchya Mumbaila tumhi kay karta ahat (What are you doing to me Mumbai).' O world, please get off Mumbai. Mumbai be. Mumbai belongs to Mumbaikars boarding Virar and Kasara locals, third class with quarterly passes. Reader, if there is any, may ask why this wail. Answer: Cooking on Mumbai streets illegal, ordains High Court. Court asks civic administration to take stringent action against street vendors, reports dear old The Indian Express, page 3. Perhaps me friend, a venerable Leftist, Vidyadhar Date may nod in agreement as the Order should free pavements. Make for a clean Mumbai. Me do not know if Date picks up a vada pav (a Hindu-Muslim joint venture) from Bandra's Cadell Road. Me, in soft tones, would like to bleat a query to the two judges, Justice Abhay S.Oka and Revati Mohite Dere, writing the ban (hope me am not barred in the anda cell of Arthur Road Prison): Justices have you never eaten a bhel puri at Khao gulli a few yards away from the High Court? Dont tell me not eaten as that cannot be; like Mumbai without VT and Churchgate. Daughter Dakhi autos to Yogi Nagar Road from Dahisar; a 20 year habit; she picked up her double roti (daboli) from Ram Singh and today his son Lakshman Singh; Vidya flies in from Chennai to Mumbai, drops at Yogi Nagar to have bhel and paani puri from Daya Ram, now into 70s; Ganesh has chicken tangdi off the streets; in recent times, a mousi has set up shop at Yogi for crisp, bhajiyas; when Ravi Krishnan was without Khushboo in Dadar, he would drop in at Borivili, auto to Kandivali for Raju vada, idli, sambhar; its disappointing, the gentleman is an amoral dietist; when me covered the kapada market in Kalbadevi, delighted on toasted sandwiches with bhel and other items thrown in, made on a fire over a gutter; these mornings in LIC Colony Tampi hails me with paruppu wadas...Saar, paruppu wada; am serving a temporary Rama ban; there is a style to it; the bhaiya knows the regulars; they dont order; bhaiya makes and offers; comfortable with delayed payments; bhaiya makes tastes; Sanjiv Kapoor cannot make it on Food, Food; street food is linked to street living in Mumbai; minus six hours for sleep at home, a street is home for a Mumbaikar. Street food has to be dirty, adds to ting and tenderness; the bhaiya has to be unwashed. Me has never taken an Eno after street food. The Indian Express writes: Recent surveys have shown there are at least one lakh hawkers in the city and a rough estimate shows at least five lakh people depend on hawking as a source of income. Ban and they drop below poverty lines, measured anyway by Deaton or Mint. Starve. With that Mumbaikar starves. Taj, Oberoi and home food do not a Mumbaikar make. Honourable High Court: Me case ends. It has no law; a bit of harmless, lawlessness.  

October 23, 2015.

Stepped into morning darkness, bumped sideways into a smelly cow; lady did not mind, did not butt, moved on with a head shake; maybe she was not a Hindutva; not a lady RSS shakha pramukh. Every morning, six off-brown, unwashed cows, strung in twos by coir ropes, string down Adinath Marg urged on by a sleepy youth with a twig; fellow dreaming a job at car repair kiosks littering Link Road; hai-hai-hai, he nudges; cars with Rambhakts at the wheel, ever breaking traffic lights, halt ...these are cow moments, cow times; the moo era. Ladies do not seem to have had a wash for long years; gobar stains on their sides. Two break ranks on Yogi Nagar Road; wait near the paan shop under a copper pod; piss and shit; humans do it a few feet away; a middle-aged files in with long, green grass and a bamboo basket of sweet millet (?) balls; men and women stand in queues; they buy the grass and food balls for a tenner; feed the reluctant cows, bored and disgusted with grass and balls; they might be cursing their cow fate; public finger cow tails; place touched fingers on their foreheads before hailing a waiting auto...din achcha jayega (the day will go good), achche din, they say... business for all.... In Borivili (W), cow stands are brisk business; a second stand has come up near the Don Bosco Church with the cows tied to a peepal; a third one can be spotted at Shanthi Ashram with the lady managing cows selling a spread of farm vegetables; cow lovers after kissing cows buy vegetables. Paul Noronha and Vivek Bendre told me some time ago of cow urine; a washed bhaiya from Palitana, Rajasthan, with a sacred thread peeping from inside a white vest, is ready Goregaon mornings with bottles, tapping urine when his two cows decide to urinate; public waits for the urine; some doctors say it cures cold to cancers; friend Paul has seen the cow being shaken by the bhaiya for additional supplies of urine. Paul Noronha and Vivek Bendre are prone to pumping their tellings. Bahar Dutt in her column Green Line in Mint, the best Indian business paper, disagrees: It is common for most commercial tabelas, or milch farmers, to pump oxytocin, a hormone, and incidentally a banned drug, into cows and buffaloes. The indiscriminate use of oxytocin is one of the dark secrets of the dairy industry. Unsure if cows, grass and maize balls can be styled dairy. When me was 9 in Calcutta, a priest bound me with a white sacred thread, offered me gomuthr (cow urine), me drank it, became a Tamil Brahmin. Gomuthr supplies came from a Bihari bhaiya earning a fresh dhoti. Me perhaps was the first Hindutva cow or is it bull.   

October 22, 2015.

1. A greenish-brown, kallu chatti (stone pot) sat silent with a yellow metal uruli and other wastes on the top shelf of the kitchen. Waste has a place at home. A few days ahead of Durga Puja (me cannot call it Dassera, having timed in Calcutta), one put in a oral plea to Rama: why not use the kallu chatti for little onion sambhar. Like babus she said No. Me pleas continued; a conditional nod, 'if I have the time.' Kallu chatti (kachchatti) clinked; breathed. Then the file was signed by Rama,'Okay'. Like babus, did not offer details. 'Your mother gave it to me, brought it from Calcutta in a 3-tier Gitanjali Express. Kallu chatti is heavy weight. Has a name: Kuttappan. It clicked. Mother used to make sambhar and avial in it. She would place it on a mud chulha, aduppu, fired by charcoal and cow-dung cakes (gutiya); there was more smoke than fire; it took time; the sambhar and avial had a distinct taste or maybe just a culinary imagination. Mother could have only bought it from Kottarakara, as she never went anywhere in her life. Perhaps, me age or near about 70. Her mother, Ananthalakshmi, had many chattis in her kitchen. Mami (Vijayalakshmi, Rama's mother) fleshed out superb appais of avial and sambhar in kallu chattis. That lady was the Durga of Tamil Brahmin cuisine; others are minor deities. Then kallu chatti retired to shelves; aluminium, Hindalium, copper-bottomed stainless steel followed; Nirali, Prestige, Nirlep brands; kallu chatti unstained by brands; do not know the birth place or the artist of Kuttappan. Today, me downloaded Kuttappan from his perch. Gave him a bath, placed a zendu inside, offered aarathi... helped Rama to unpeel small (Madras) onions, a tiring job, did it. And then to Durga shloka chanting, Rama placed Kuttappan on the gas, poured  water, started on making sambhar; the babu got to work. Rama was afraid the stone would crack under gas fire; nothing of that happened. Seemingly, the sambhar aroma was making its way to Vidya in Valsarvakkam, Chennai. She called; making sambhar, she guessed as Rama made sambhar everyday for son Ganesh; Rama detailed; Rama whatsapped Kuttappan; Vidya has promised to buy a couple of kalu chattis, brothers and sisters for Kuttappan, makings of a family, a shift to oldness. Kallu chatti sambhar is ready. Vegetables lie cleaned and chopped on the table for avial. Paruppu wada is in the making. Ma Durga has blessed me for sure. 

October 21, 2015

'Anari '. Old man Bhosle said, unwinding Sehwag over tea at Murari Dairy. In bed, through a moony night, has been tossing over Viru. A tiny hurt. His going away from cricket. Never felt like that. Asked me, when was cricket fun, a rum with friends: Sehwag moments. And then the FB post from son Ganesh: My childhood is over. Well, me old age is over. Me cricket is over. .One watched the last IPL for a Sehwag shot; a Sehwag 30 minutes; a second. He is jugaad. A modern young Indian, comfortable in Haryanvi Hindi, prizing Ferozshah Kotla to Lord's, no English hang-ups, chewing Hindi film music, funning India-way; he would have gone into a Test match in a white pyjama and a jibba; it did not matter; Sehwag made his mould; broke out of the Oxford sophistication of Pataudi, a Gangulian bhadralok, brought in the smells of an Indian street; and good, old and loud Indian home. He Indianised cricket, make in India. Balla ball pe lag gaya tho bus...aur nahin tho ..a dry smile, was his cricket. Analysts and better writers like Ravi Krishnan, a clutch of espn essays, know more about cricket than me; point conceded; seen Sehwag many handshakes away on TV screens. Gordon Greenidge and Sanath Jayasurya may not have been in his mind, but they did it first as openers cribbed by conventions; Sehwag was uncribbed. He stepped into the ground, did a half-turn, looked up to a blue sky sun, off to the stumps to take guard,,,any plans?; if the day turned good, good; ..okay, otherwise. He did not like the time when Sri Lanka plucked him out of a Test hundred. When Sehwag nudged a 18-year old Ishant Sharma to bowl the 9 th over at one burst at Perth with the okay of captain Anil Kumble and Sharma danced out Ponting ...9 overs... Ponting lost all the cricket and chicanery he had learnt playing cricket the Australian way ... will stay with me into my next janma. John Arlott in Book of Cricketers writes: Much of the game's richness lies in the depth of its tradition which, though it is such a small corner of the whole greater world, entitles it to its own immortals. Sir John Berry Hobbs is one of them. Arlott me has a second view. Sehwag. No tradition. O kya hai (What's that), he would have asked. Did not build one as Sehwag cannot be xeroxed. Built none. It may not be to the tastes of Englishmen. In Bollywod terms, he was Amar, Akbar, Anthony, a three in one. Yes, an Anari. 

October 20, 2015

'Kalathinu oru anartham (Meaningless times),' said Sethumadhavan to the Sunday air at Aura hotel on Link Road. We sit together for a chat, sometimes for a silence, every Sunday morning. Sunday evening Sethu will be flying to Coimbatore and then on to his village Kavipuram, where he was born and would like to die. 'Where would you like to die,' he smirked. 'Be buried under a tree in a green field. These are times for dying,' me said when the waiter came with two teas. Sethu has been working on the first Malayalam monograph of  Sakhave (Comrade); a persistent itch; maybe no Akademi award, no mention in literary pages; bans sure in ban times. Kavipuram village; origins vilage in French; villaticum (farmstead) in Latin; their large home with fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts, sisters, brothers lived in soft conflicts of intentions; then today, the home is not; many gone; many in Dubai, some in Australia...none in India except Sethumadhavan and wife. In that crowd, there was a Sakhave (Comrade); a lone uncle, a Sethu favourite; known over three villages as Sakhave. In a white mundu, a khadi jibba, chappals, a cloth bag of Marx, Lenin, Deshabhimani (a Left paper), beedis and broad laughs. Walked, with the cycle loaned to all. Sakhave they called in Mohana raga and went to; like Guruvaurappa of Sethu. Sakhave was a school teacher in a government school, teaching Malayalam; kids ribbed his Kumaran Asan quotes; Sethu was a change, came to like Malayalam; that tied Sethu to Sakhave. What did not was the Socialism and Communism of Sakhave; today Sethu regrets not being a Sakhave, a socialist, a communist; in Bombay, working in RBI, did not help any; none in RBI spoke the poor; the rich had a powerful constituency,walletted the discussion. Sakhave never made an extra pie; well, none was offered; sometimes lost out on wages, going on strikes. He wrote a 10 pages book; printed it; funded it; sold free to a few friends. Sethu had read the book: Oru Sakhave. A line from the book still drums: Humanism cannot be logiced. Sethu is in search of the book; he is checking out; at Kavipuram, there is a marriage; the lone son of Sakhave in Melbourne will be getting his daughter married, in tradition, to a Malayali from Sydney; a 5-day affair; mehendi, sangeet, bachelor parties of boys and girls, marriage and reception counting gifts. Sakhave married Raga in a party room with Das Kapital and a candle on the table; no mangalsutra, no gods; a 10 minute fast marriage with fast food settu dosa and tea; they lived together for 50 years. None in the family and its many out-waves has a click of Sakhave. 'When I die, Sakhave will also die,' Sethu said; the Meru taxi was on time; he drove away to Kavipuram. Sakhave and Rama, in steep lie-in arm chairs, will sound out a cheerful Va, Sethu. 

October 19, 2015.

Draupadi, Sita, moon and me crunching dried leaves on Link Road, autumned from parent trees. Draupadi and Sita make Mahabharata and Ramayana. Sipping fresh, morning tea at Murari Dairy Farm, Draupadi and Sita discussed writing Mahabharata and Ramayana, their versions which may not be Vyasa or Valmiki. Not being schooled ever, they had contracted Arun Kolatkar to put them down in English verse for a US and UK audience, fearing a ban in India. Ayodhya to Kurukshetra. From their Hindi to Arun English; no high caste Sanskrit. After ages, they were having chai with maska biscuits. In our times, Rama never allowed me out, said Sita. Today, I admit, Rama and me never got along together; he said, me kept silent; they told me not to disagree with God; my best friend has always been Draupadi; she objected to every god and goddess, when I gave up on living; no Krishna aid; some say Kismat; she was the first dissenter, Sita said. We women are a offering to men; shaadi mein beti ko dan dethe hain; purush ko nahin, Sita reminded me in Hindi. Me was silent, Sita passed on the aalaap to Draupadi elaborating into a dhrut tal. Disrobed, my kismet. UN mediator, Krishna, my kismet. Never spotted commas and alphabets of compassion that morning when Dushasana tugged at my saree. I did protest, the show could have been avoided if I had been warned by an all-knowing Krishna a day ahead. But Krishna did not; nor my five husbands. Given a chance, our Mahabharata and Ramayana could have been a different scaling; our epic imaginings would have been a hallelujah to living, not killing. We were not given a 10 per cent chance. We took it. We never cursed. We were hurt. Scooped souls. Draupadi ordered a second round of tea with samosas from a thrilled Murari. Mooned off. Their country, India and Bharat, did not snatch the dhoti of an old man in 1948. They put two bullets. Murdered Kaburgi, Dabholkar, Pansare. Lynched a Mohammed. The male telling is still on. Female hurt is on. An ancient guilt, not quick to go.  

October, 18.

When dear old Saxena incised me heart, out popped broken bats, holed balls and tons of twisted steel rails and burnt coaches. No Sindhu or Nehwal then. It looked a railways repair shop, Saxena said, with a persistent smell of smoke, drink and old newspaper clippings. If me notches hours spent in standing thought in locals from Dombivili, Borivili and the sleepy overshots to Virar and Kasar, living was local till one quit living to be at home. In Mahabharata, men and women, spent time killing; did Draupadi ever cook? did Arjuna have aloo parathas for breakfast; did Rama and Sita ever taste idlis with chutneys; did anyone eat beef or pork? With these got mixed the press notes supplied in surplus by sticky public relations officers to type at newspaper offices; trains were for thinking and in the 70s me could smoke and think in running trains till they said no to cigarettes; we always seem to be comfortable with Nos, nahins, nahis....never written a book; no awards yet; no returning;  me plans a rewrite of the Mahabharata with the war a daily affair in locals; no killings; a bit of shoving for the fourth seat or the window seat; Draupadis and Bhims too travel tired for anything; preferring the air conditioned tables and chairs at their offices; and an airless 400 sq.ft of an apartment; Dhritharashtra and Bhishma registered in Old Age Homes; their sons plotting to get the next promotions in government offices issuing ban orders; a ban every day keeps Bombay, Mumbai or any other moniker after 100 years, healthy and gay; and there wont be a Krishna, Arjuna and Gita; there will be poet Arun Kolatkar at Kala Ghoda or at Jejuri talking to none as India will be in prayers and cows. ...'This is the time of day I like best,/and this the hour/when I can call this city my own;.....when it's deserted early in the morning,/and I'm the only sign/of intelligent life on the planet.. poets Arun in Kala Ghoda poems. Taking a local from Churchgate or missing it reading Jejuri...'if only someone would tell you/when the next train is due.' An untimed local is my soul, my Mahabharata, my daily dole; always with a ticket or office funded railway quarterly pass; mostly second class, sometimes first class; a middle class berthed between upper and lower tiers. A sandwiched existence sans butter; neither an Abhimanyu or Karna. A silent, unprotesting Vidura clanging between parallel rails. Kismet, says Thilakan in Ustad Hotel. 

October 17, 2015.

On rain trees in LIC Colony, there are no bats in the morning; they make their quick entries and exits and have their reasons which me does not know; blue morning glories upped the mood; and two sparrow size birds, beaking strips of grass, for their nests. On the way back slipped into a dressed up Silver Scissors of Alam. Bright and white; for two months Alam, still around, unlynched, despite sipping teas at Murari Dairy Farm, took time out to clean Silver Scissors; for two months allowed free flow to me beard and head; they didnt abuse their freedom; Alam had little to do; he applied his mind to my bare head and beard; offered tea, me took; but then as Rama says me has lost me gods. Alam has timed the facials well; Yogi Nagar Road is to have a bright red branch of Kotak Mahindra Bank and their staff can walk into a fresh Silver Scissors; Yogi Nagar Road, a two-way 15 minute walkable stretch, has become the bank street of Borivili. Axis Bank, ICICI Bank, Corporation Bank, Kotak Mahindra Bank, ATMs of HDFC and ICICI; SBI at the Yogi-Link Road corner; plus the oldest of them all, Dena Bank, an apparatus only god, woman and RBI could have thought of and put up. Vegetable vendors Niranjan, Ajit, coconut seller Raju have their accounts in Dena; have never taken loans; "bhagwan bachaye," they say. Dena was there before one settled in Borivili in April 1993; before flower seller Shyama of Saphale, squatted on Link Road, the first of a business start up without bank loans and venture capital. Today it has an ATM which none uses. Most of them shy from bank loans; all, like the ladies of Saphale, prefer rokda (cash); me doubts whether any banker at these banks have said a hullo to a Shyama or a Niranjan; Yogi Nagar is a cash economy; today there is little space for more banks; Yogi Nagar has shops changing nameplates every 12 months with the last shocker being the shutting down of an Amul ice cream joint for a camera clicking venture; with mobiles and ipads, that may also wind down. Young do not care for government banks; they prefer ICICI and Axis with monies on a click; me wish good morning, the young and trim staff smile and wish back; Axis is the best; helpful and efficient; me is scared of bankers, babus and police; me shivers stepping into Corporation Bank and SBI; a grimness, no grace; only grouchy men and women relishing the sight of old men and women standing in lines. "Kitna garmi hai," they say sitting in air-conditioned arm chairs. And one day in a far future, a fear: there will not be government banks; there will not be RBI; there will be private banks and Shyama on the street.   

October 16.

Shreya and Chiyu went to school without bags and books. Thursday was Kalam birthday and their school did away with bags and books. Chiyu sounded cheery on the phone. They played; boys broke benches, girls jumped them. Teachers took a break as there was no class work and home work. Evenings for garba. Today it is green day and they will go green to school. Teachers, books, bags, study will start. Teachers will mourn from their chairs; Chiyu and Shreya will nod. Me had no such luck. Other day one had a surprise chat with a relative Krishnamurthy Gopalakrishnan. Have never met. But we talked of the school we went to, Hindi High School, 1Moira Street, Calcutta. He was my junior. We talked of principals Arthur Osborne, Scotsman Muir and Dubeyji. Muir one remembers. He said: Son, dont fail. None from this school has failed in Class XI public exams. Dubeyji backed me. Me passed, just about. Muscle man and gym coach, K.K. Banerjee (Kela Khaya Bandarji); never hit anyone; had a fetchy laugh. Terror Sardar Sarwan Singh made us march for hours; marching was compulsory as ACC (Auxiliary Cadet Corps) and NCC (National Cadet Corps) were. Misery. Hindi High School belonged to business families of Rathores, Shahs, Dagas and Kotharis for teachers to favour and me sighted the unequal equations of power. They were favoured by most teachers. Teacher-student or guru-shishya is a power partriarchy; its equivalent, the partiarchy at home. A patriarch or a matriarch is old, dominates; never suffers a debate. Till date son Ganesh is not reconciled to the bureaucracy of school, the power games of teachers with students; dislikes teachers. And the idea gets transplanted in the power games of Indian politics. In today's India, old and dead men (includes me) and women run amok their writ on youth; decide on their walks with a girl or boy, on their eats, on their smokes, drinks and kisses; on their thoughts; on their gods, if they have any; there is no power equilibrium with the young; the young have no choice; and when they dismiss their parents from their thoughts and place them in Old Homes, they are the accused in courts; street corner gossip. Khushboo Narayan told me, the young in India want to live not die before their olds hit the graveyards. Old fakes cannot an elegant India make. Quit. Or else the young will quit to US, Europe, Australia. Young rush for life is on. Give Shreya and Chiyu a chance. 

October 15, 2015.

Got up morning smiling and head scratching with Tilakan and notes of TM Krishna in the head. Achan, Father.Two actors, Thilakan and Sasi Eranjikkal, a sky piercing apartment, no women, no music, ..and the story of Thilakan as a stroke-hit customer. Speech gone, Thilakan is silent; Sasi (Rahitan) does the talking. Ali Akbar directed film got into trouble with Thilakan expelled from the Association of Malayalam Movie Artists (Amma); Thilakan is (never was) a likeable cactus. Rama had not heard of the film when one tuned randomly into Kiran TV to see a stuttering Thilakan. Stuck to our sofas, became parts of the frames. Me tried a shot of Thilakan in front of a mirror before Rama pleaded for a stop. Thilakan does that to me like two other maestros: Om Puri and Naseeruddin Shah. Thilakan, me suspects is raw, possibly no schools and teachers for him; no guru-shishya bureaucracy of power. In the evening , Rama went out with friend Malathi and me with TM Krishna expanding on Theliyaleru Rama, a Saint Thyagaraja composition, Dheunka raga, says internet; like this human; he picks up the listener for a long fly on notes, sometimes goes silent, sometimes effusive...maybe thats what Thyagaraja bhakti does; he is probably thinking loud on the stage, asking questions.. dialoguing with self, asking --the lone human right and freedom. Have heard Theliyaleru twice and on to other concerts on youtube. Not that me knows anything about sruthis, talas, ragas, thanams, bhrigas..no, surely not....TM Krishna has helped me into all of them without knowing them. He fascinates...like the one-hour Documentary on Albert Einstein.... formulas, a plus b, alphas, betas, deltas pop up chalk white on blackboards...more as stars in a night sky .... smoke rising from Einstein's pipe, they hold me not because me knows them ...me likes to stare at them ...and then dropped into TM Krishna with Entharo mahanu bhavulu...Somewhere, TM Krishna elaborates on happines, asks: Am I really making people happy...Is he happy ..Me answer: Yes Sir. Like Thilakan, Om Puri and Naseeruddin Shah. Amen. 

Today statistics made sense to me. Joy. Now realise the passion of Ravi Krishnan for numbers. Talk to him, he will like ilk in Mint spout zeros and decimals; inking dissenters is a matter of arithmetic for him. Angus Deaton is their God. My God too, for today. The British economist is all over The Indian Express and Mint, making for some interesting reading. How Angus Deaton views India by Manas Chakravarthy is a pickup of Deaton quotes with a possible statistical bias. The first quote: On India's growth: Rapid growth but slower-than-warranted-poverty decline. On Indian politics: BJP is a religious and business-oriented party, Congress is business-oriented party with a pro-poor rhetoric that sometimes delivered pro-poor policies. Mint, the Shankaracharya of free markets, pleads: Deaton's Nobel should be an occasion to bring back the social in economic sciences. That perhaps is a Marxian vitamin. Not sure as in college reading Marx scored zero in Statistics. Dianne Coffey and Dean Spears in The Indian Express write: The central message of Angus Deaton's work: Becoming richer is not necessarily the same thing as becoming better off. They also add: India has slowly transformed from a world leader in the availability of survey data to a place where meaningful statistics simply are not available. These days, nobody really knows the height of India's children, or how much babies weigh when they are born, or what fraction of people in rural India defecate in the open. The dimming of the historical light of Indian statistics matters for the world: One-fifth of all humans are born here. P.C. Mahalanobis may assent nod. Swachch Bharat, where are you. Possibly a leaky Swachch Bharat and MNREGA are better than none. In me little way, me finds less queues in Mumbai; me has stood midnight in milk and kerosene lines; today, there are no BEST lines; prefer autos; milk is flowing; it is another matter if all are not buying; but as the milk business is doing fine, the numbers should have gone up; typists and stenographers from south do not stream into Mumbai; they go to US and West Asia; poor bhaiyas in autos are the fresh replacements; they also may quit with the Rule of 8. Perhaps, the most relevant economist in the last 50 years. Deaton will always be relevant if India does or does not fudge numbers. Will Arun Jaitley and Dr. Raghuram Rajan have some time for Deaton and his ask for numbers?

Going into 70. A pleasant feeling being surely slotted old. A senior citizen, no doubt. Good wishes on FB. A small matter is the uncertainty over the birthday. A cousin gave a date which popped his mind, by a logic one does not know, on me being admitted to Class 1 at the National High School on Lansdowne Road in Calcutta; got the year also wrong, 1947 instead of 1946; the school and me are still there. Perhaps, the only sure fact in my birth certificate is the birth place, Kottarakara, Kollam district, Kerala. In those times, time had no dates or watch hands; born when the coconut was planted in  the courtyard; time, the Madras Passenger whistled the station; and then the astrologer came in to the guessing game. Father and mother had no certificates. Today it matters with certificates and Aadhars for identification; for retirement benefits. Perhaps the best thing about 70 is the near absence of routine; an existential or a moment to moment living; crows, cuckoos, parakeets and sparrows in the mornings; a flip back into times lived without TV, radios, phones, mobiles, more bullock carts than cars; walk when the mood is on; lie in bed mostly; a refreshing bath at 2 in the afternoon, an occasional beer, a nap; evenings on youtube for a Ray or Sen or songing of TM Krishna (me current fad); he takes me on tonal trips, drops me somewhere in the air, pauses ...both silent, lost in the quiet of music; reminds me of T.R. Mahalingam; some days, the reverse, like waking up to Mini Bus of Ruskin Bond, bought by son Ganesh on September 5, 2009 at the New Delhi airport. Ruskin Bond: This land is mine: This land is mine/Although I do not own it,/This land is mine/Because I grew upon it./This dust, this grass,/This tender leaf/And weathered bark/All in my heart are finely blended/Until my time on earth is ended.  

October 12, 2015.

15 writers have returned Akademi awards, reports The Indian Express. Mint, which places freedom of markets ahead of freedom to talk and write, has an OurView piece: Dinkar in the time of the Dadri lynching. Me first read of the morning as Mint was stoning norms. English language press prefers Shakespeare to Arun Kolatkar, Rushdie to Daya Pawar. But Mint today has gone with Hindi poet Ramdhari Singh Dinkar, much despised fool Jawaharlal Nehru and freedom of words. Sipping coffee one brewed on Nehru today. That fool of grace today would have personally invited the writers to his home on a Sunday evening; offered ladies Sarah Joesph and Nayantara the chairs, seated the gentlemen, before taking the sofa, ordered French and Italian wines with smokes; for dinner there would be beef, pork, aloo paratha, vada and sambhar and fine talk. No hollering tyring to tell the audience Nehru is Boss. Said 'Sorry' and promised corrections as suggested by the diners. A devil tells me, in old fool Nehru times there would not have been any indecencies to dwell upon. Well, me is not sure as me reading of Indian history, paltry for sure, does not believe in a past or present tolerant India. India has always been intolerant. Vedic society was worked by Dalits, sudras and untouchables-- equivalent of African slaves in US. They were kept in holes. Vedic society could have only been violent. Then came, the Muslims, Christians, Parsis, British...Hindu-Muslim divide is perhaps older than the flow of Ganges and for joker Bapu a divide without a bridge. 1857 is the exception. Hindus and Muslims joined up under a Muslim emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar. Gandhi and Nehru couldnt make it in 1947 like Dhoni at Kanpur on Sunday. Perhaps, coconut land, Kerala (Travancore-Cochin), alone till date keeps all together: Jews, Muslims, Christians and never a riot till date; wonder why Parsis did not land up in Alleppey to provide business sense. Business in Kerala is generally run by Christians and Muslims, the spices export trade is with Gujubhais with little loyalty for Modi. Have not been able to glean the logic; maybe, a living together has no logic; one belongs. Future: Amit Shah has stepped in to throw stones in tranquil temple ponds. 

October 11, 2015

Aji and Ajoba whirled into dreams with Chiyu entered for an inter-school mini marathon at Dahisar. It was their first live marathon; they are regulars at Olympic and World Championship marathons on TV channels; Aji dreamt of a gold medal imprinted on Chiyu by a pompous official. They were into walking, not marathons; for Ajoba marathons were inconsequent as body building; no brains in it, Ajoba argued while Aji disagreed; 'lets see you run for five minutes,' was her way of putting down Ajoba. At school, Aji had won a lemon-in-a-spoon race in Alleppey; Ajoba had come last in short runs of no particular distance at the Maidan. On Sunday, they were up at 5 against the usual 9; coffee, diyas to a pack of gods and still it was just 6. The runs, for various age groups, were to start at 7. Fiddling nothings, Aji and Ajoba sat in and out of their sofas. Then it was 6.30. Started out for Dahisar; were there by 6.45. Crowds were there on the road running beside Dahisar pool or river content with all the muck of Dahisar. Officials whistled around, bikers stood on the alert, ambulances quiet, police ready with batons for a quick lathi charge on children, parents were marathoning more than their wards. Aji and Ajoba sat on broken pavements near the Start. 7 turned 7.15 and then the first run of boy seniors..they stood on the start line...the bhagwa jhanda of Shiv Sena was waved, the runners started, the gun popped ..nobody really knew when it ended .. the 11 km run ..followed women seniors ....at about 8, the under 8 girls run was announced by a wailing announcer. 308 Chiyu..Aji and Ajoba were still..start said someone..and the girls ran ..half way Chiyu gave up on the one km marathon with stomach cramps...claps .. none knew the winner though officials were furiously scribbling pads...the starters of one run bumped into the finishers of a previous run...some stumbled and fell... a couple of cameramen and camerawomen were not clicking as there were no finishes to capture ....all have been promised certificates..good enough...graceful ... it was a Sunday celebratory chaos...maybe that's the way marathons should be...or at least the Indian way...or it may just be that we are better at a bouquet of bans ...of food, music....

October 10, 2015

Tuka, Kabir, Nammalwar, Meera stood in the dirt and sound on the Kurla railway platform, Mumbai, waiting for Gandhi to bring the tickets for Varanasi. Gandhi and Ba with tickets on hand bought with cash from Ba, stumbled and fell over a steel package. There were no lights at Kurla, as is the norm, and they could not make out the train. They huddled on the platform to share vada-pav, vada made by a Patil, pav by a Mohammed and green chutney by a bhaiya, as the bhaiya crowd bumped past them. Somehow, they crawled into an unlit, unreserved compartment of Varanasi Passenger; allowed floor space though none turned an eye on them. Gandhi had on him a copy of Songs of Kabir, Translated by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra, bought from the Sarvodaya Book Stall; as there were no lights, he couldnt read. By 10 in the night, late by an hour, the train started, stopped, started..they were going to a Ghulam Ali concert at the Sankat Mochan temple in Varanasi; seemingly, Ghulam Ali has promised a Kabir doha and a Tuka abhang for them. At Varanasi station, they were picked up by Manmohan Singh; he relishes ghazals and Ghulam Ali; he listens quietly, no wah-wahs every quarter second. Having hours of time, the group loitered Varanasi, took boat rides, couldnt get tickets for Masaan, settled down for a chat on the stone steps leading to Ganga. Manmohan Singh broke the quiet, asking Gandhi of India. 'What is that?,' Gandhi came back. 'Didnt you fight non-violently for Indian Independence; I know because I was the Pradhan Mantri of Independent India for 10 years,' said Manmohan. Gandhi memory was slipping; Kabir helped: 'Speech diminishes you, Bapu. There was no India in our times. We welcomed Parsis, British and hated Muslims; that hate is something of an Indian must for all times.Today, there is no India today.' Bapu pleaded for some bhakti sangeet; it soothes; Bhaktimarga blunted all search, writes Irawati Karve. After Meera bhajans sung by Meera, Gandhi told them a modern Indian fable: There lives my friend Manmohan Singh. They say he ruined the concept India in 10 years, the concept India he rescued in five years. He never says anything. Never could. Nehru, me and many others never said Sorry in our lives. I drove out Ba from my house, never said Sorry. The concept India had and has no Sorry. This friend, Manmohan Singh alone, says Sorry; said Sorry to Sikhs slaughtered in 1984. Critics said it is easy, Singh being a Sikh. Please, sorry, thank you..are most used by Parsis and British. I should know, having lived in England; JRD is my friend, funds me in need. Concept India never.' Time for Ghulam Ali concert. Siya Ram enjoys ghazals. Winning back a losing out.  

October 9, 2015.

India is in protest. Rama is also in protest. After a tiring, sticky, October walk, one slid into me sofa (Rama has her own) and placed a request for a glass of water. 'I have also come in from a walk. Why cant you get it from the frig,' she said tersely like some Saskhi Maharaj. Offering a clutch of curry laves freely given  by Niranjan in Yogi Nagar, she took her sofa and that was that. Ice remained ice.
Me read out the Breaking Silence of Prime Minister Narendra Modi at Nawada, Bihar to win Muslim votes, in The Indian Express, Journalism of Courage. Tried out Marvin by Tom Armstrong. Ice did not liqueify. 'I am 60. When will I retire; get PF and gratuity," Rama said offering after much thought a sugarless, second coffee with Marie Dog Biscuit. Some facts: She has been cooking for me since 1976. Hard times. Never set aside PF and gratuity for her. Have transferred bank accounts to her name and the ATM cards. Now me depends on a daily dole of Rs.10; have asked for an increment of one rupee as a Gold Flake large costs Rs.11. But that, me concedes is not enough. If me can sit around doing nothing at 70, she deserves the same at 60. Me am the lone Indian not in protest. To avoid breakfast, me hopped out to pick up paruppu wada, idli, chutney and sambhar from Muthu Open Air Kitchen at Shanti Ashram. Rama dislikes Muthu and his fare;banned it; has always been a ban votary. 'Why dont you admit, my wadas are not as good as Muthu,' she said the other day. Maybe, yes, but am scared. Me has offered to cook; bought a notebook to note down the subtlties of making onion sambhar;went ahead with potato bhaji, rice and pappadoms. She decided to relax with Ravanaprabhu of Mohanlal for the tenth time on Asianet. 'You are on your own,' she said. Food was particularly bad; sambhar had little salt, potatoes were burnt, pappadoms scalded arms. Rama ordered lunch from Aura hotel.  Me suggested a cook as a part of the negotiations to sort out the protest, being a democrat. Rama is still insisting on being 60. Quitting the kitchen. Protest is on. 

Aakrosh of Govind Nihalani and Chidambaram of G. Aravindan look like each other but not quite so. In Aakrosh, Om Puri digs the screen with a grim silence through the film; poor adivasis observe, not speak; a lone yell of despair; against him is Naseeruddin Shah, his lawyer on the first case. A desperate poverty administering the right to breathe with conditions; adivasis and poor have a lone freedom: the right to die. Not with a protest but with an acceptance. G. Aravindan does the same but seems to be nowhere as hurting as Aakrosh. Vijay Tendulkar script embowels, every death is an accident; for the legal machinery nothing happens outside the law books. Ardha Satya and Tamas form the three-piece suit of Govind Nihalani with Om Puri everywhere; Sadgati of Ray with Om Puri lurks nearby. They make sense in today's violent India, posting Muslims, Christians, Dalits and the poor to graveyards. More so a day or two ahead of Bihar elections; Biharis have long dined on an emptiness; for far too long. Aakroshes happen most in Bihar and Orissa and are not going to go any quickly. Me started knowing edges of Bihar in Calcutta, an overnight train journey; the rickshawala, chaiwala, dhobi, milkman, newspaperwalla  - all were mostly from Bihar facilitating the Bengali Bhadralok with a dictionary term of contempt: Bihari. Never has sat in a rickshaw as me could not. In those years, Durga Puja celebrations for Bengalis meant good business for Biharis; am proud of my father for a single act of acceptance. He took our local jamadar, Shankar, to open a bank account in UCO bank and that set him on to marriage, family and school for his kids. And then there was me best friend Shailendra Nath from Bihar; we lost each other after quitting Calcutta. Never dropped in to Bihar. And today, Niranjan from Benares was talking of Bihar elections. 'Bihari chaku martha hai,' is the common comment of Niranjan; maybe UP and Bihar are as near as Kerala and Tamil Nadu. Me is uncertain. Me has been following Nitish Kumar and do accept him as the best option for Bihar. With Laloo, Nitish tastes of the orgy of power. Narendra Modi will salt it with Hindutva and me prefers Laloo and Nitish. Niranjan thinks Laloo will win - Jab thak rahega samosae mein aloo, thab thak Bihar mein Laloo. Shivdas selling fruit juices thinks otherwise: Modi jitega, he loudly exclaims in Yogi Nagar trying to get a Hindutva customer. Looked anyway, Bihar is in for Aakroshes. For Rama, ma impressed with Aakrosh, nothing is going to change. Chidambaram, Aakrosh, Paar...is pushing her to a Marxian identity. 

Oct.7, 2015.

These mornings Rama and me start with smiles widening into loud laughs. With filter coffees we turn to Page 20 of Indian Express for cartoon strip Marvin by Tom Armstrong; grandma cartoons; the two-frame cartoon today: You know you're a grandmother..you think it's cute when your grandkids do things that you punished your kids for doing. Rama choked on her coffee; she enjoys it while one cuts the strip for filing and future smiling. Wish Mathrubhumi shared the habit, she said sweeping into times with new born Chiyu and three-year old Shreya. For years, she took an auto to Dahisar at 9.30 in the morning and be back by 8 in the evening; Aji did everything; when the two went to school crying, Aji cried, brought them back home; Dakhi disliked bunking; couldn't afford to protest; afternoons Malayalam lullabies for sleep; Ramayanas and Mahabharatas; today, after many years, Shreya retunes them; Chiyu twinkle toes; evenings, arranged games for some 20 kids in the blind alley till Dakhi came striding at 8 in the evening; mangoes and ice creams in summer; Gems for all seasons; Ludo, Snake and Ladder, carroms...marbles... Aji does not like to admit it; she rejects any such suggestion; she loves Chiyu over Shreya by an arm's-length; son Ganesh has a complaint:You beat us when we were kids; you love them more. Aji nods assent with a hand-wave. Thinks of her parents ( Mama and Mami) growing up Ravi and Rishi in Sreevatsam, Alleppey; they were indulgence; perhaps Tom Armstrong knows them and Aji. Today at 9 in the morning, Chiyu calls crying; she wants Aji home immediately; Shreya is beating her, Dakhi is hollering. Dismissing a crisp dosa on the tawa to me, Rama rushes an auto; when Chiyu calls, it is that way. On the way, buys two Amul ice cream cones and Cadbury Silk. Chiyu is using Shreya's ink-pen without her permission; Shreya is into strong arms. Aji tries truce. Fails. Chiyu, Shreya and Aji step out to buy two ink-pens. Slightly late for school. Aji calls Ajoba with details. School is off. Chiyu and Shreya are coming home. Yes, Ajis are made that way; popcorns of compassion. 

October.6, 2015

Uma, Subbi and Rama caught the Titvala local from Dombivili a 1976 afternoon. For no particular reason; they went at the urging of aunt Radhai. She lived on a firm belief: Ganesha knows best. In 1976, the Lord stayed in a spread of greenness and turning mud roads; in a quiet; they walked having promised to walk to the Lord; a few about to die tongas with not yet dead horses stood at Titvala East station absently. Usually a 40 minute walk; the Lord then had few devotees, a minor politician yet to major into a New Delhi minister. One Tuesday, Sankarshta chaturthi, Rama and me stood at the tailend of a line starting from the local train at Titvala station; after hours, made it; Rama lost her chappals; Dadi Ganesh makes it on the first of every month; son Ganesh has business deals with the Lord: promises a visit before a trip to Leh or a promotion at the office; mostly late to keep his part of the deal. 14 years ago me made a trip; last week did it in the Maruti Wagon R of Ganesh, wading through mud, having gone astray; saral (straight), javal (near), they said, the milkman and the farmer on the way; we thought we lost it; then sighted the temple top of the Lord; about four devotees were around; me prayed, for sure, did not demand anything; at 70 one cannot ask for favours; also one was down; Mohammed Aflaq was bugging; on the way, started praying for Aflaq, sure Lord Ganesh will help; thought the Lord was upset; and then, me had doubts; does the kingdom of Lord Ganesh extend to Aflaq; is Heaven one or many palatial ghettos; yet, prayed to Lord Ganesh; then got strung into the brilliant Tilakan in Malayalam film Ustad Hotel musing over Kismet; Kismet, he tells his grandson sipping a milkless tea on a beach. Is the killing of Aflaq, Kismet? If so, what Kismet is it? There was a way out of  Kismet. We could have let be Aflaq and his family. On the drive back aparajitas and blue morning glories peeped at me. Today, wept over the sense of Gopal Krishna Gandhi pleading for sanity with Rajdeep Sardesai. Gandhi had and does take rubbish; he never did kill nor kills; do not think me has any courage beyond saying SORRY to Aflaq and his family. That surely is not enough.

Marathi film Fandry by Nagraj Manjule and Baluta autobiography of Daya Pawar are uncomfortable. They whirl in me. In Fandry, a Dalit family of Kachre Mane (Kishor Kadam) is told to trap a pig with payment promised made by the village sabha. With reluctant son Jabya (Jambuwant Kachre Mane), wife and daughters, Kachre Mane heads the chase with high castes urging with sneers...one is not sure if the pig is chasing the Manes or otherwise... furious ..reminds one of Paar when Naseruddin Shan and Shabna Azmi get some 30 pigs across a deep flowing river...again they are low caste. From Vedic times, the chase has been ..the upper castes fencing out the low castes, poor and unwanted except for pig trapping ....today's gating out of the poor...Also the calls of a drongo and lapwings hum the air. From Baluta of Daya Pawar to Fandry there is no script change.. from words to cameras...Jerry Pinto, the translator writes: This is one of the finest autobiographies I have ever read, and I count it an honour that I was given the opportunity to translate it. Me agrees.  "Its been a while since we've had a good cut of  meat in the Maharwada," many an aged person would be heard saying." Daya moves on: Carrying a dead cow is killing. Its dead weight is enormous but only two men would carry it. All four of its hooves would be tied and a bamboo would be inserted between them, a huge needle threadled through the gap between its legs. It looked as if a palanquin were being carried. When it was a cow, the sight of those pathetic eyes turned sightlessly towards the sky would chill me. Those eyes haunt me still. My mother's eyes and a cow's eyes showed remarkable similarities, it seemed to me. When it was our family's turn to carry the carcass, my mother would have to do it. I could not bear to see her struggle for breath. I wished I were a little older, so I might be able to lesser her burden." Fandry ends with Jabya hurling a protesting stone. Daya Pawar would have assented. India 2015 is Vedic.