Today morning on Link Road pavement met up a squirrel; squirrels at large on the Link Road stretch till Saint John Bosco Church, busy mornings, absent evenings. Two feet between us as we paused; dropped a palm of chana dal; some rolled to the squirrel; sitting on its hind legs, the squirrel held a dal in its forelegs, nibbled, gnawed all of five minutes to consume one dal. Me watched. Quiet. Got me to think of me best times; 20s, 30s, 50s and now in the 70s. If me ever write of me, a remote chance, will write of 70s, when me turned 70, as they are to me the finest. Have no watch, rarely glance at the wall clock; afternoon siesta a must, only it is not a siesta but a prolonged shut down from 2 to 5 in an air-conditioned afternoon; thanks be to Ganesh and Vidya for the air-conditioner. Mornings, after more a drag than a walk, Rama and me settle down under a peepal on a less crowded Yogi Nagar Road; every time a school kid is led to a school bus (schools have opened), Rama demands of me a grandson or granddaughter; 'life is no good without a kid to run you down,' she says and adds for effect: 'You are not bothered about Ganesh and Vidya marriage. You waste money on books or tap nonsense on the computer. Every father takes interest except you.' Pummelling stops when a mother leads her six-month old Chhaya to coaching classes for junior KG. 'My grand-daughter will not go to KG; she will be like you, unread,' grins Rama. Me nods; have tapped some friends and all of them have sons on demand not daughters. 'That's because, you are selfish,' Rama says and me like Ali takes it on the chin; a many times broken chin. At home, the mood changes gears, as she makes filter coffee and adai plus gunpowder; the mix sets me free to skies and space, far, far away yet near to Rama. We sit in our sofas with adais and coffee; Rama reads out Kerala news in Mathrubhoomi; not one policeman or policewoman in Kerala has a clue to Jisha murder; Pinarayi does not care. In the afternoon, we settle for Kilukkam and Sphatikam, our infinite viewings; Vidya, Ganesh, their marriage, slip away as Lalettan descends into the hall; Malayalam channels refuse to show anything new; old is cycled and cycled and cycled; a rather, unfair trick. In the evening, Rama walks out to chat with Mala, her friend, an admirer of Salman Khan; me alone watches Kurosowa or read On the banks of Plum Creek by Laura Ingalls Wilder; late in the evening turn to open windows as egrets, pond herons and others fly in to their appointed spots on the rain and badam trees. Count clouds. Wait for rains. Could anything be better?
Tuesday, June 7, 2016
70s
Today morning on Link Road pavement met up a squirrel; squirrels at large on the Link Road stretch till Saint John Bosco Church, busy mornings, absent evenings. Two feet between us as we paused; dropped a palm of chana dal; some rolled to the squirrel; sitting on its hind legs, the squirrel held a dal in its forelegs, nibbled, gnawed all of five minutes to consume one dal. Me watched. Quiet. Got me to think of me best times; 20s, 30s, 50s and now in the 70s. If me ever write of me, a remote chance, will write of 70s, when me turned 70, as they are to me the finest. Have no watch, rarely glance at the wall clock; afternoon siesta a must, only it is not a siesta but a prolonged shut down from 2 to 5 in an air-conditioned afternoon; thanks be to Ganesh and Vidya for the air-conditioner. Mornings, after more a drag than a walk, Rama and me settle down under a peepal on a less crowded Yogi Nagar Road; every time a school kid is led to a school bus (schools have opened), Rama demands of me a grandson or granddaughter; 'life is no good without a kid to run you down,' she says and adds for effect: 'You are not bothered about Ganesh and Vidya marriage. You waste money on books or tap nonsense on the computer. Every father takes interest except you.' Pummelling stops when a mother leads her six-month old Chhaya to coaching classes for junior KG. 'My grand-daughter will not go to KG; she will be like you, unread,' grins Rama. Me nods; have tapped some friends and all of them have sons on demand not daughters. 'That's because, you are selfish,' Rama says and me like Ali takes it on the chin; a many times broken chin. At home, the mood changes gears, as she makes filter coffee and adai plus gunpowder; the mix sets me free to skies and space, far, far away yet near to Rama. We sit in our sofas with adais and coffee; Rama reads out Kerala news in Mathrubhoomi; not one policeman or policewoman in Kerala has a clue to Jisha murder; Pinarayi does not care. In the afternoon, we settle for Kilukkam and Sphatikam, our infinite viewings; Vidya, Ganesh, their marriage, slip away as Lalettan descends into the hall; Malayalam channels refuse to show anything new; old is cycled and cycled and cycled; a rather, unfair trick. In the evening, Rama walks out to chat with Mala, her friend, an admirer of Salman Khan; me alone watches Kurosowa or read On the banks of Plum Creek by Laura Ingalls Wilder; late in the evening turn to open windows as egrets, pond herons and others fly in to their appointed spots on the rain and badam trees. Count clouds. Wait for rains. Could anything be better?
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