Chandi Prasad Bhatt

Sometimes am a proud Indian. Chandi Prasad Bhatt is the reason. Ruchi Shrivastava and Sumit Khanna have made a documentary on Chipko Bhatt: The Man Who Dwarfed the Mountains and The Indian Express has put a short note today. Unsure watching the docu as no Mumbai theatre will screen it; no blames as there will not be a Thalaiva rush; cannot expect a youtube release as the film-makers will go broke. The 60 minute film has won the award for the Best Environment Film including Agriculture (non-feature) at the 63rd National Film Awards this year, says IE. The citation makes no sense; what has agriculture to do with the film? Chipko Bhatt makes sense when hacking trees and chipkoing cars are trending. Chandi Prasad Bhatt was reluctant; the film-makers got round and made six trips to Gopeswhar, Uttarakhand, home of the 82-year old gentleman, to do the film. Ramachandra Guha has chronicled Chipko in The Ramachandra Omnibus. 1970 floods in the Alakananda valley got the villagers to link logically erosion, floods, downing of trees and was born Dashauli Gram Swarajya Sangh (DGSS), a co-operative in Chamoli district. On October 22, 1971, the DGSS set up a protest in Gopeshwar, Chamoli distict. 'The demonstrators called for an end to liquor sale and to untouchability, and for giving priority to the local use of forests....Led by Sarvodaya workers, such as Gandhi's English disciple Sarla Devi (who had set up an Ashram in Almora districct in the 1940s) and the leading local activist Chandi Prasad Bhatt, the procession was of a size never before seen in Chamoli district,' says Guha. And then the story is best written by Guha: 'In early 1973, the DGSS had asked for an allotment of ash trees in order to make agricultural implements. The forest department refused to accomodate their request. Instead, they asked the DGSS to use chir trees, totally unsuitable for the purpose. However,  the Symonds Co., was allotted ash trees in the forest of Mandal, barely several miles from Gopeshwar. This blatant injustice inspired the DGSS to organise several meetings in Mandal and Gopeshwar to discuss possible action. Two alternatives presented themselves: 1) to lie down in front of the timber trucks; 2) to burn resin and timber depots as was done in the Quit India movement. When Sarvodaya workers found both methods unsatisfactory, Chandi Prasad Bhatt suddenly thought of embracing the trees. Thus 'Chipko' (to hug) was born. Led by their headman, Alam Singh Bist, the villagers of Mandal resolved to hug the trees even if axes split open their stomachs. Young men cemented the oath with signatures of blood.' Today, in Tirunvannamalai, a 14 km forest path, Girivalam, is set to go away. Age old trees will not be; Animals will flee; a Highway will be. For ages, pilgrims have trudged, walked and rested Girivalam in silent prayer with trees and animals as witness. Girivalam is 14 km round a hill. Will Himalayas and Ganges be in 2050?  

A Song 72

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
in waves of clouds,
negotiate
catch of crabs and fish
from youth in vests
squatting seas;,
put them back home;
funded by Jasmine and Jehangir;
crabs and fish,
knock at doors
in Thanksgiving;
offered sofas, tea and kharis;
out of funds,
all at Sea,
became news legends.

A Song 71

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
Jasmine and Jehangir,
July mornings in rains,
share tea,
khari biscuits,
with sadaphules
on window ledges,
door edges;
a must
for
cars,
chauffeurs,
corporates,
commoners,
in byes and cheers,
toing and froing,
the Drive;
kitted with
verbs and nouns,
cure
asthmatic breakdowns. 

Who moved my interest rate?

Sometime in 1972, Duvvuri Subbarao debates Man is condemned to be free of Jean Paul Sartre. And the gentleman in Who moved my interest rate? writes, 'The governor is condemned to be free! Ravi Krishnan and Govy take kindly to Duvvuri Subbarao; 'decent, fine man', they remark. In July 2016, the RBI is condemned to be unfree as three Finance Ministers - Pranab Mukherjee, Pallaniappan Chidambaram and Arun Jaitley - and an obliging RBI governor Dr. Raghuram Rajan do away with RBI as a stand alone thinker on public finance. With Duvvuri Subbarao listed to be RBI governor, he walks into a chat with P. Chidambaram and Monetary Policy Committee. 'My substantive stance was that an MPC was the direction in which we must go but that the governor must have a veto, at least during the transition period until the institutional structure stabilized. Chidamabaram did not agree. His point was that the governor should see himself as the chairman of a corporate board and try to persuade the MPC members to his point of view. And if he failed to do that, he should defer to the majority view. I agreed with him but countered that the parallel with a corporate board would work only if the members of the MPC did not owe any allegiance to the government for their appointment. They might, given the institutional structures of our system, feel pressured to push the government's point of view in the MPC,' scripts Subbarao. Today, the proposed MPC will have six members, all government nominees; after all RBI is a government body, its Rs.5 crore equity entirely owned by New Delhi; the governor and deputy governors are selected by New Delhi; governors are mostly finance secretaries (including Duvvuri Subbarao); has been IAS territory for long. Never has a practicing banker been an RBI governor. What is freedom of RBI as an institution? Somewhere in his well written memoir, Subbarao talks of Relativity theory and Quantum Mechanics being inconsistent with each other. Quantum Mechanics of Hisenberg is about uncertainty while Relativity is of certainty; something like growth being a given and inflation not given. New Delhi is for growth, price be blown; RBI believes in growth at a steady price. There sure will be differences; two finance ministers appreciating many sides of the table having a say were Dr. Manmohan Singh and Yashwant Sinha; the table should resonate to one voice, believe Pranab Mukherjee, P. Chidambaram and Arun Jaitley. 'One of Dr. Manmohan Singh's strong qualities is that he is a good listener and I always found him eager to get the Reserve Bank's perspective on every macroeconomic issue. The fiscal situation would, of course, figure in our conversation and my tale of woe about how the fiscal stance of the government was undermining the Reserve Bank's anti-inflation position was standard fare. To his enormous credit, he never interfered in the policy action. 'I hope you've settled this with the finance minister' was all that he'd say. I never felt comfortable about this bit of the conversation but I would nevertheless tell him of the finance minister's reservations, and the matter would rest there.' We will not see any such exchange as the RBI becomes a desk in North Bloc. Sadly, facilitated by Dr. Raghuram Govind Rajan. Where me has a quarrel with Subbarao is the absence of stray notings on rural credit, its regular flow to farmers dead and alive, ... in fact RBI governors have always been shut on a regular flow of credit to farmers while doing the same to avert seizures in the corporate and broking economy. Rural credit was and is a blindspot for RBI. It is ever the concern of New Delhi. Corporates walk in and out of RBI; are on RBI boards; has an ordinary farmer been a presence at RBI Towers? Has a farmer walked into the air conditioned offices of Nabard at Bandra? Subbarao mentions financial inclusion, thats about all. RBI governors, after retirement, are famous for hanging around in various committees and commissions. Thanks be. Subbarao is a private citizen. Need not have shut out private self from the memoir. Subbarao will gather many eyes and not sit in book shelves as government gears to move interest rates. 

Let me walk in beauty

Mathrubhoomi is quaint. A full page for the dead, tombing the dead quite regularly; a full page obit; deaths are arranged district-wise; today entire page 9, Charamam; Rama and me scan it regularly for deaths in Allapuzha and Kollam where village Kottarakara is. Do not think any other newspaper marks a page for death; am not sure; English newspapers have no space for the common dead. No near and dear ones in Kottarakara and Allapuzha. Was born there in a tiled house opposite Lord Ganesh temple; seemingly it started as a Shiva temple and then passed on power to son; all in the family more as the Gandhi family and Congress. Today, Mathrubhoomi has a death of 89 year old Sumathi Kuttti Amma, with pix, in Kottarakara: me family has no deaths in Kottarakara; me elders died in Kolkata and Mumbai. Years away from Kottarakara; never, never was a village citizen; yet, a mention of the village and there is a blood rush; a desire to be there for a day; Rama wants to go to Allapuzha for a few days; for son Ganesh, Mumbai and Yogi Nagar is all; do not know whether Vidya in Chennai misses Mumbai; for Dakhi it is Amchi Mumbai. Have not been able to explain this desire for logging the dead. In Calcutta times, The Statesman had a Personal column on the edit page writing down deaths; read it regularly. Do not know if Mathrubhoomi charges; Rama thinks it is for free. Death is life missing and me loves Life; for me it is not Maya of the Vedantist or the Buddhist; no holy books, gurus, meditations; have desires; lots of it; am not shamed of them; at 70 it does not cost any to desire writing a Sahitya Academy poem or directing an art film with Kottarakara as locale for a Filmfare critics award; or best of all to be an ordinary journalist chatting up ordinary women, men and children on the streets; in next janma, if there is one, me would like to be a journalist in a Childrens newspaper with a child as Editor. Yes, that would be enormous fun. Fun is distinctly absent in Who Moved My Interest Rates by Duvvuri Subbarao; wonder whether RBI governors and bankers laugh; or corporates. The book is deadly serious and bankers could like it. Long ago friend Narayana Karunakara Kurup bought me a less than palm-size book: The Beautiful Years: The Joys of Being Older; A Helen Exley Giftbook; long afternoons me quips its tiny pages; a Native American saying goes: Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes ever behold the red and purple sunset. Mumbai has sunrises and sunsets. Enough. 

Mee Marathi

July rains ding-donging outside the windows; from far hills they ring their coming and it is a pleasant watch of wetness. After lazing over hot filter coffee, Rama said no cooking today; am bored of my own cooking, she added.  It rarely happens as she prefers her own sambhar and beans curry. No new Malayalam films on Malayalam channels ever into ever repeats of old films; repeat ads; will Kiran and Asianet ever show fresh releases or is it that they are fated to be unfair; never, never any response. Borivili (W) is weak on hotels and malls; public races to Malad and Goregaon; they cannot go by the common definition of eateries; Rama plunked for Mee Marathi, a food basket strongly referred by her friend Mala; apparently, Mala makes it to Mee Marathi every day. So started out for Mee Marathi as neighbours wondered over stepping into yelling rains; climbed into an auto and went to Mee Marathi on Chandavarkar Road, half-wet; autos are more porous than umbrellas. Mee Marathi is a few empty wooden benches and today at 12 we had no company. We pitched for kantepohe; were told no kantephohe after 11; mood slipped; potato wada, sabudana wada, thalipeeth and they tasted fine; of course, they do not belong to the Dakhi or Neeta Iyer class; Dakhi potato wadas are AAAA; yet they were hotel class; the bill came to a Rs.225 plus tips when other hotels in Borivili serve empty plates for Rs.200 plus tips; Aura on Link Road sort of knives your purse and palate; perhaps the place where dishes taste alike; stepping out we thanked the man at the computer; no response; queried timings; was told in a rather uninterested way, 8 a.m onwards; understood Wednesday as closed; maybe the man at the counter was in a bad mood as it happens to all of us; he does not realise a smiley is good for foodies. On shelves, stood chewda packed in  plastic; no way to know whether it is fresh or many months old. Took a try; a packet cost Rs.65; again thought of Dakhi. Reached home, downed digestives; no insult meant to Mee Marathi; just an old age precaution. Called up Shreya and passed on our outings; said the lady: 'Aai could have given you a better lunch, kya Aai,'; followed Dakhi with a why did you waste cash. Yet, Rama and me liked Mee Marathi and have decided to go for a full thali costing Rs.125 on Thursday. At 4 evening hope to dine on chewda and coffee with rains soft beating.    

Where is the Friend's Home?

Aware of Iranian film director Abbas Kiarostami after his death; at an obit. Got to know more after reading Anurag Behar in Mint (this paper has some fine columnists) mentioning 35 school teachers in a government school at Pithorgarh in Kumaon mountains viewing Where is the Friend's Home? made in 1987. A talk followed the seeing. Son Ganesh got me the film and me saw the 80 minutes film twice on Sunday alone with Rama on an outing with friend Mala. A verdant imagination, a veracity in a school boy Ahmed running over a rather bare up and down land with a lone tree at a far end in search of his school friend Mohamed Reda Nematzadeh; crusty olds in thick glasses, smoking on porches, frowning discipline as the school teacher threatens dismissal for home work not done; they whimper and hedge Ahmad as the charmy little fellow insists on giving a school book to his friend; the camera brings up close the innocent eyes reminding me of Satyajit Ray, Durga and Apu in Pather Panchali; Durga and Apu search a train as elders cynic; of Swami in Swami and Friends questing a little fun. Do not know what the school teachers debated but am sure homework could have been on the list. Should school children be given home-work; honestly do we need schools as they are today; are not schools an exemplar of oldies playing chor-police; gated kids; kids having no say; have we at home ever tapped them for their views? what they want? know them; we order, they obey; an unfair dadagiri; of course, without home-work Abbas Kiarostami could not have made the film; the camera intros with a school teacher shutting the class room window; ends with the school teacher opening the same window; and the flower stuck in the school book; the poorness all over. School boy Ahmed is like you and me when we were kids, wanting an abandon and today turning old denying it. Abbas followed with Life and Nothing More plus Through the Olive Trees - based at Koker. Wish someone could help me with them. 

Pagals

Owner at Piyush on Yogi Nagar Road smirked. Aji and Ajoba ordered two blank, bound notebooks, two rubbers, two pencils, two sharpeners; there were no grandkids. 'Aapke liye,' he asked punching a calculator; Rs. 72 it beeped; Aji paid, stepped out with purchases in their hands. Aji friend, Mala remarked wryly: 'Going to Junior KG at Kabir & Tuka (KT) School?' Aji nodded. Aji and Ajoba had chatted over morning kapi plans to fill the notebooks with kolams (rangolis), off and on scribblings and all that. Aji and Ajoba walked a morning to KT School on Vithala Road; Kabir was on a charka and Tuka on the tabla in the principal's room. There were no children as Kabir had given them a holiday to watch Kapali of Rajanikanth. 'Sit down,' said Kabir as Aji and Ajoba squatted on the floor. Tuka offered them chai and kantepohe as they got on to talk. 'We want to join KT School. Can you take us in Junior KG; we will pay you donations,' Ajoba remarked. Popping a spoon of kantepohe, Kabir okayed the request. 'We do not charge donations and fees. Its a free school. Today Tuka took a decision to keep the school open on weekends, not on weekdays. We have no teachers; children learn on their own; sometimes they teach us,' explained Kabir. Aji and Ajoba liked the gameplan; children may be uneasy with Aji and Ajoba; but that they were certain could be got over. On a Saturday morning, Aji and Ajoba walked to KT School; as they stepped into the school, Kabir rattled the charka, Tuka massaged the tabla; Aji and Ajoba became four-year olds; no blackboards, no chalk, no class rooms, no bells, no books, no benches; children roamed free, played, ate ..laughed, shouted..cried.; 'they are Ajis and Ajobas from an Ageless Home; turned kids; thats our magic, KT magic; when you step out, you will be Aji and Ajoba again...explained Kabir and Tuka. Or that's what Aji and Ajoba wrote in their notebooks; after many rewrites and rubbings; showed it to Shreya and Chiyu, who read it. Said: 'Aji and Ajoba pagal hai.'  Pagals.  

Chanawalla

An old lady stands outside a primary school with Falero and Pass in her purse; she spreads them to school kids scurrying out of school to the belling of the school bell; some smart kids will plead for two and she will oblige. Today, the old lady stands outside the school with Faleros and Pass in her purse; no children; she dunks requests from teachers and security staff  to keep away; she waits till the school is empty; she counts her Falero and Pass; hobbles away the humble lady in a bumble. With elders into violating children, it had to be; the lady is denied her children. 'They are my grandkids, I have none; I am alone,' she tells me with curly, white head down. Yet, she stands at street corners with Falero and Pass in palms for passing children; offers turned down; children are told not to be anywhere near elders; she does not know, she is a harm done; me watch. Schools today have no chanawalla; golawala; bumbai mithai, a pink soft sweet wrapped round a wooden beam; there are no crowds of children in a hurry to beat the school bell. Schools are spare. Fun is not. No insisting child pushes mother for a 50 paise (of course, today it wont buy anything; ye, there are no 50 paise coins). Today Shreya and Chiyu wangle Rs.10 each from Dakhi for subsidised fried rice and samosas at the school canteen with school teachers on guard duty. Its not the same as street sharing and fights. A fear is on. Like the doing away of Tamil boys vending salted, warm ground nut in Borivili. By 5 in the evening, Borivili saw young Tamil boys on pavements with stoves and kadais half-filled with sand; they warmed the sand before pouring in raw groundnut; crowds breathed in the flavour of warm, salted groundnut; dotted steel ladles sifted the groundnut from sand; packed in paper cones, a cone costing a rupee or less; if you were a Tamil, a helping more; crowds chewed their long walks home. Rama had her favourite Thampi and his best tasting kadalais; now they are not. A business is no more. Cannot walk into a home; cannot step into an office for hulloing a friend; cannot move into a mall to see Astu; ever security frisking; we are afraid; cannot joy. Thathastu. 

Astu, Astu, Astu

With a crowd of plus 60 women and men, Rama and me waddled into Inox, Thakur Mall, Dahisar (E) for Marathi film Astu (So be it), perhaps a shorthand of Thathastu. After two hours waddled out lipping Astu (So be it). Dr. Mohan Agashe as Dr. Chakrapani Shastri, or Appa, popping Sanskrit verses, syncing with every slip into Alzhiemer. His daughter parks in a no parking area, steps out to buy some royal blue cloth for her daughter...Appa also steps out ...after an elephant and his mahout... and the film unreels...not one in Inox sneezed, silenced by Astu. Yes, it could happen to any of us; either as a Alzhiemer patient or tending one; the film is taut, crisp and pains; no waste of words and film rolls; cameras dont jerk, have eyes for green patches in Pune. Is an Alzhiemer patient human; sans memory is he anything; family links do not stick him; can the family derisk; and to the gods, is it not all unfair. 'True to life ...Deva, deva....' remarked an aged frocked woman tending a walking stick; her friends paused the lift for her to step in. Rama and me have seen Amitabh in Black, Mohanlal in Thanmatra, Dr. Mohan Agashe in Astu. Appa is way deep into being an Alzhiemer patient; Rama exclaimed: Mohanlal and Amitabh are nothing; Dr. Agashe is the best. And as the wife of the mahout Amruta Subhash (Channama)  holds; she held me in Killa. A helpless Dr. Agashe stares absently at Channama with a 'Mother' and me pulled out the handkerchief. Rama wept. Directors Sumitra Bhave and Sunil Sukhthankar, credit be; they seem to have studied Alz patients and the disease. And this film, a Marathi film, is not shown across Mumbai; no viewings in Borivili, Kandivili and Malad; Sultan shows everywhere. Perhaps, by Friday, Astu will be pulled out for Rajanikanth's Kapali. Can a Chennai theatre in Tamil Nadu dare deny Kapali. Is this fair? Astu...Astu...Astu...

Rains in rums

Rum with raindrops in rains. No Coke, no ice. That's rum neat, some say. Chilled rain drips in rums, alone, in rains with a smoke, poets the drinker. Sips no gulps. Arvind Krishna Mehrotra: Collected Poems 1969-2014 goes well with the moment;

 'My first watch is a fat and silver Omega
Grandfather won in a race fifty-nine years ago;
It never works and I've to
Push its hands every few minutes
To get a clearer picture of time.
Somewhere I've kept my autograph-book,
The tincture of iodine in homoeopathy bottles,
Bright postcards he sent from
Bad Ems, Germany.
At seven-thirty we are sent home
From the Cosmopolitan Club;
My father says No bid,
My father forgets her hand
In a deck of cards.
I sit on the railing till midnight,
Above a worn sign
That adverstises a dentist.

Playing bridge, the bidding excites; and the slams. At 70 in Borivili (W), miss three hands for a bridge session with rains in rums. In Borivili (W), me, rum, rains; when out of the Collection slips out a newspaper cutting of Ruskin Bond: It's all right not to climb every mountain. Have this habit of scissoring newspapers if Bond or Shivani Naik writes on sports or Soufi in Mint. 'What have I learnt after 80 years on planet earth. Quite frankly, very little...it is all right not to climb every mountain, writes Bond. Have never walked up a mountain; been a less than average plainsman. Today laugh alone with rains in rums at a table waiting for a game of bridge. At 70 waiting to be dealt a hand. With rains in rums, it is worth. 

Lord's

Have nothing to do today at 3.30 noon. The five day England-Pakistan Test at dear old Lord's got over in four days with Pakistan 1-0. Father Time at Lord's perhaps has watched the game most, over a hundred years and could be the best informed cricket scorer. For four days sat in front of the TV from 3.30 to about 11 licking cricket at Lord's. English supporters for England; Pakistan supporters for Pakistan; a norm, a rite and a democratic right honoured; Lord's full or near to; champagne, wine in glasses below a blue sky; champagne corks lined up in designs on the green grass; men and women in love with cricket and themselves; pigeons; did not spot anyone smoking; TV cameras caught Sourav Ganguly, Mike Brearley, Imran Khan.... At Lord's, medium pacer Chris Woakes takes 11 wickets and England loses; leg spinner, 30 year old Yasir Shah, collects 10 wickets, Pakistan wins. Cheers Curator. Felt, Englismen could not much read Yasir. Offie Ravichandran Ashwin please note. Suppose, you cannot play Yasir with stiff legs. Yasir breaks or spins the ball, easy; some are curlers. England did not have Jimmy Anderson and Ben Stokes. Comfy with Pakistan captain Misbah; a chilled Coke; smiles; thanks Lord's crowd for not booing Mohammad Amir. DRS is doing fine; sure, it is not perfect know-how; but science does not argue perfection. When Pakistan won and push-upped, Thomas Lord of Lord's thanked all. Me did. The first match at Lord's present ground was on June 22, 1814 between Marylebone Cricket Club and Hertfordshire, says google. Lord's today is not at its original site, being the third of three grounds put up by Thomas Lord between 1787 and 1814. Eden Gardens in Kolkata, was designed in 1841 and named after Eden sisters of Lord Auckland, governor-general of India with the first recorded Test in 1934. Will India invite Pakistan for a 5 Test series in India with DRS and pitches unpicked. Son Ganesh asked if Indians in India could watch and enjoy a Test with wine, women and wickets fair? Well, are we sporting? 

Guruvayur Arjunan

Karkadakam begins in Kerala today. Adi in Tamil Nadu. It is also Ramayana masam in Kerala. Thats what Mathrubhoomi says. Me does not know; nor interested. Perhaps the beginnings of the festival season and bad times for temple elephants in Kerala. In Mint, Aakar Patel, in Reply to All asks: What do we mean when we say we love India? Have a query. Do we love India at all? Is there an India? Pepper spray Kashmiris, violate North East, and do what we want with adivasis and tribals of Chhatisgarh, Jharkhand and other areas; somehow, somewhere and somewhat our unkindness gets chronicled... Our dislike for animals has not even a somehow telling. Wildlife is not Nice. Wildlife is a filler news item .. Two tigers from Pench Tiger Reserve locked up in the enclosures of Borivili National Park because they are tigers, Mumbaikars can see, shout and scream at. In Kerala of excellent social indicators, a Canadian lady Sangita Iyer has chronicled our beastliness to elephants. Saw bits of her documentary Gods in Shackles on youtube after reading a piece in The Indian Express: Faith in Fetters. Kerala temples are Holocaust for Indian elephants; anything, something, everything is done to harm them after chaining them; brought illegally from Assam and further.  In a Malayalam TV ad, popular actor Prithviraj exclaims There is only one Pooram. It is Trichur Pooram. Tell that to some 100 and more sick elephants employed at the Pooram and they will go into a shivered collapse. Vandana Kalra in The Indian Express writes: 'There is also a reference to Guruvayur Arjunan who was beaten to death earlier this year because of Katti Adikkai -- continuously beating elephants with weapons such as bull hook and long poles that have pointed metal spikes to shatter their spirit and reduce their energy during the musth period, when the elephants experience a surge of hormones and thereby become aggressive. ' It is the cruellest of rituals. Seven to eight men get drunk and beat the living daylights out of the elephant,' says Iyer. Hope one day Iyer youtubes her documentary. And at every temple the priests perform Ganapati homam, a smoky invocation to Lord Ganesh. Is this fair? Sir Aakar Patel, Gandhiland is no country for elephants .... not for trees and animals... can it be for humans....   

A Song 70

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
Jasmine and Jehangir,
abhang in windy devotions,
ice-packing a bleeding Earth;
they could not do more
than what they knew;
what they were taught;
could not make it beyond
of the beyond;
drenched,
wet,
still,
at Chowpatty
on Aashad Ekadashi.

Johntie

A 5 morning wind sheeted me in bed with rain drops; hugged the cold and quiet; decided against a walk; counting rain drops, fell away; went to poet Mangalesh Dabral and his collection This Number Does Not Exist; it was the review of Stephen Alter in The Hindu that got me to Dabral; have read it over and over. In poem, Words,

Some words scream
Some take off their clothes
And barge into history
Some fall silent.

Words turned athletic in sleep. At about 6.30 dear old Rama came up with filter kapi; she was not in a walk mood. We discussed breakfast; firmed on coconut rice, lemon rice, potatos and papads. There were no coconuts at home and without coconuts there cannot be coconut rice; and at 7, Raju will not be at Yogi Nagar Road with coconuts; these days bypass him for Basheer Ahmed with a handcart of coconuts, small, medium and large. Basheer comes from the Dahisar slum and parks his handcart at the Link Road-Jayaraj Nagar corner by 7; Rs. 50 for three medium sized coconuts; me do not bargain with beady-eyed Basheer and his off white beard brushing the chest; wish me could buy his beard. As Basheer dropped three coconuts into my cloth bag, me fell forward, rather staggered, a bit. A labrador was scaling me and as me turned he chest leaped; me put down the bag and played with the labrador and his owner had no objection. Six-month old, goes by the name of Johntie, he did what he wanted; his owners asked whether me had a dog; no as a one BHK does not allow for dogs; love them and Johntie knew me was not lying; it showed in both of us; after Naman said bye forever, had no dog in me life; Johntie came in today. Like some prayer fruiting. Now will be at the same spot every day 7.   At home, scraped the coconuts for Rama to figure out an ideal coconut rice, lemon rice, potatos and papads. Breakfast became a lunch. Am into my arm chair with legs up on the bed rewinding a Johntie morning. No words.

Pamulaparti Venkata Narsimha Rao

About six in the morning. From an idle auto, the bhaiya said,' Saab, saanp (snake);' 'kidhar' me asked and the bhaiya pointed to a green vine snake among the leaves of possibly a jasmine bush; as usual, me struggled before locating the snake; a leaf green with a sharp snout; 'katega, kya,' bhaiya asked; 'nahin', me said. In rains me has seen boards warning of snakes in the the area but never met a snake; the snake slipped away, bhai started the auto, me continued walking slowly having spotted a green vine snake. A warbler, a white fronted kingfisher, a bharadwaj .... bumper sighting today. Some days are drab, no urge in the walk. A long time ago spotted a barn owl. At home in the arm chair and over coffee, me rewinds and that keeps me going. Settled into Vinay Sitapati, Half Lion, How P.V. Narasimha Rao Transformed India; quite uncomfortable with the Half Lion, fox and mouse of Vinay Sitapati. But the book is a good read and could lead to more studies. Also timely. Theory and practice of governance in India got a new grammar; needs to be worked upon. Leftists predicted the end; today they are at an end. Rightists did not care; they were on a Babri Masjid trip; they broke it. Many in many ways have belittled Pamulaparti Venkata Narasimha Rao from Vangara village in Andhra Pradesh. It is there in the book. If today Madhavi has a mobile on hand, son Ganesh a job at an IT company, thanks be to Raogaru. Nehru, Indira, Rajiv were of the west; Sonia is nowhere; Rao belongs to the east. In the east, we talk in circles before getting somewhere or anywhere near to a straight line; always shy from a straight line; that's India. Raogaru did that; and did it silently; Raogaru relished camouflage. A Rajiv Gandhi incident from Sitapati's book: 'Narsimha Rao was in a meeting with Rajiv and a school friend of the former prime minister. Rao was wearing a dhoti, kurta and leather slippers. Since his feet were aching, Rao placed one foot on the other thigh, and began gently pressing his toes as he spoke to Rajiv. It is common enough habit among village men in India, but would be considered uncouth in a western setting. The school friend turned and whispered to Rajiv, and on his cue got up and pushed Rao's foot down to the ground. The sixty-eight-year old was being taught manners.' Raogaru was and is an Indian. Many wrongs, many rights and some in between as Sitapati ably puts down. Raogaru replaced the Trishul of an ancient India with a mobile and internet; a mobile India has still to clock Olympic timings; quite short; but today there is the chance that it may; today India is stuck in a game of favours and favourites; but that may not last as technology seeps the Indian soul; there are some likes; more may come. Raogaru reversed Nehruvian socialism quoting Nehru. Today none can reverse Raogaru.                        

````

Gubbare

Gubbare (Balloons). Early morning a short film FB by Mangesh Pitale with Nana Patekar in the lead. Have seen it twice, shared it; do not know much about art films or ways of a film make; Mangesh Pitale sent it; saw it. A bus ride with red balloons on the Mumbai-Pune Express Highway to learn, write and say a SORRY. A short film for a SORRY with a toned down, febrile Nana saheb clasping red balloons, not guns and women. Come to think of it SORRY is the best word in an English dictionary; Hindi term is maaf kijiye or maaf kijiyega ....googling suggests the Urdu term maaf kijiyega as politer. SORRY belongs to West Germanic stock; old English is sarig (pained, distressed) from the base of the noun sore; English it is SORRY. Maybe, me country needs a SORRY. Kashmir is upset, North East hurt, Jharkhand and Chattisgarh sore; the other humans, gays, have to be ever in shadows; India could think of saying SORRY. Me country there have been more hatred than peace in recent times; have been a 1946-born witness; but none says SORRY, it is thought to be a weak and bent state of mind. Mangalesh Dabral writes in One of Gujarat's Dead Speaks:

....When they burnt me to death
I hadnt even known fire could be used this way
I used to dye cloth and fibre
repaired broken wares
carved wooden swings and colourful sticks for the garba
dance
fashioned little bicycles from aluminium wire
In return I was given a pair of sandals a cloth for my waist
covered my poverty with it by day and curled up in it by
night
sharing half with my woman ...

.....Though I was killed as if
a great number were being killed alongside me
there was no larger purpose to my living
But I was killed
as if there were great purpose to the killing.


Maybe, today me country finds 'great purpose to the killing', rejoices and that sure is living unfairly. SORRY is a sadaphule. Nana Patekar fights, many, with his wife says SORRY to his wife; seriously how many of us say SORRY to our wives; me has not. Today me learnt to tell Rama SORRY. Me learnt to say SORRY.  

Sunday walk

A morning breeze, breeze rain-bathed leaves and trees in LIC Colony; warblers, magpie robins and koyals tune the air, couldnt spot any; am not even an average birder; a Sunday quiet, making me way from Link Road to LIC Colony; with unsure legs and knees, more than two months made the walk. Rama hesitated as me tied up old walking shoes, which know the area better than me and stepped out at 6; Rama eased into bhajans on her ipad. Most, if not all the trees, are there; the silk cottons, banyans, peepals, rain trees and good friends - fruit bats - opposite Karuna Hospital and the Missioniaries of Ajmer; nothing is amiss as me pray at the Lord Shiva temple and on to IC Church to meet up dear Mother Mary with an Abide with me, written by Scottish Anglican, Henry Francis Lyte in 1847. Leg past the wooden kiosk near LIC offices with the old man put to sleep by a rain crooned air in an arm chair; there were no Amul packets today as the van and driver are into a Sunday; plastic jars hold no chocolates; rarely any business; a time pass for the old man with specs resting on chest. Like the idea, smile, walk on. Muthu is there at the turning with vadas and smabhar and less clients as a lady vendor in a mobile van, ten steps away, is into nibbling customers with pohe and medu vada. In earlier times, snails crawled on to tarred roads, lost their way, struggled like snails in TV ads between football and tennis matches; an old couple, not to be seen, picked them up, put them on grass; they did more snail picking than walking; the lady held the snail in her palm and her old man admired it; the show could go on for minutes; today snails are not. Poet Mangalesh Dabral will understand as he lost his Tehri village to Tehri dam. He writes:

On Mother's face I see a picture of a jungle
A picture of wood grass and water a picture
Of something that's been misplaced.

And then the poet comes to the city. To verse,

I looked at the city
and smiled
and walked in
who would ever want to live here
I wondered
and never went back.

Me does not have a village to go back; for me it is IC Colony, walks, Sunday mornings,
rains and Dabral verse.  

To the Lord

As-Salaam-Alaikum, me wished Noor as he parked the Maruti at the gate; young Noor with a French beard returned Wa-Alaikum-Salaam. After the peace exchange in Arabic, Rama and me boarded the vehicle for the 33 ft. tall, single granite stone, Hanuman Temple at Nerul. It was a quick overnight take; we decided on Hanuman for Saturday and got son Ganesh to fix up a car; friend Dimesh Patel promptly put Noor on the job; he came at 6.15, some 15 minutes late, a pardonable sin in Mumbai; does not need a causatory essay; morning roads bare; Powai Lake still pocketing rain drops; walkers and runners, a few; in about an hour we were at the temple, empty on a Saturday; girls and boys were sauntering to the SIES College, sharing space with Hanuman, hands folded in an ever ever ever pranam. In quiet we stood, in prayers in front of the Lord from on high; the Lord has a presence and this Saturday there were not many to share grace; Rama was into Hanuman Chalisa and me stood reworking words of Frank Alexander: 'Pray, Pray - pray constantly, pray always.' Of course it did not happen. The Boss and his family - Ram, Sita and Lakshman - were there, have to be where Hanuman is. Spent nearly an hour before Hanumanji as the priest prayed prayers; the prasad of til rice was tasty, requested an extra helping, got it. Rama stepped into famed Giri Stores, picked up Tamil writers Laskhmi and Shivasankari as me stood by trees; jackfruits, rain trees and the ever, ever Sadaphules - pink and white. Taking in the Devi, Shiva and Adi Samkara clocked two hours in the dripping quiet. A bye, a hullo to Hanumanji and a Siya Ram ji ki before stepping into the car at 9. Offered a banana - prasad - to Noor; he accepted it easily. Noor is from Jamnagar, settled in Dahisar for years; a Class 10 boy, runs a school bus and tourist cars; 'main mandir dekha hoon,' he adds. Parked at a Udipi hotel (what else), ordered masala dosas and wadas (thats for sure); Noor went for masal dosa and tea; and the long run back; in the car we chatted to tunes of a popular Sai Baba song, followed by Sairat craze; if Kerala is swinging to Premam, Mumbai and Maharashtra are jiving to Sairat; and the stopping is not. Noor spells out every detail in Sairat, having seen the film probably many times at home; nothing like Sairat has happened in Mumbai in recent times; every Mumbai young couple on Marine Drive is the famed Sairat pair of Rinku Rajguru and Akash Thosar. Trip over Noor said: Yaad rakhiye. Khuda Hafiz.  

A Song 70

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
scanned panchangs,
for namkarans
of Ms. and Mr. Parsi;
with French wine,
Carlsberg glasses,
mawa cakes, chicken patties
from Kayanis.
Jasmine Tata for Ms. Parsi,
Jamshed Tata for Mr. Parsi,
proposed JRD,
carried by suited strays
in sofas at Peace.
Kabir and Tuka
proposed a toast:
Tatas all,
pagal Parsi babas
with compassionate
biodatas.
Rounds of winy, cakey
applause
to keyless pianos. 

Please write....

Days ago, a stray dog tore into good friend Ashok Reddy on his morning walk; had to be in hospital for a day, now at home recovering a lingering pain. We talk often, he on the landline, me on mobile. 'A few deep cuts, but am better,' he tells as if editing a copy. He was  my news editor in Business Line for years; the paper never showed off a Reddy byline; wrote some fine edits on stock markets; like the man, the writing had no flourish but was easy to digest. He is not on ipad, Facebook, whatsapp; more a monk these days in Chennai than a journalist. If anyone asks Reddy his name, he will shy away. Today morning, there is a whisper of excitement on the phone: 'The Madras High Court judgement perhaps is as literary as Perumal Murugan, did you read it,' he asked and me affirmed. Ashok in flow: discussed The Hindu edit on Perumal; the daily morning edict from Mount Road Mahavishnu though Ashok will never go into that. Ashok is into books, tennis, football .... of course cricket and newspapers. Chat over went back to the judgement of Justice Sanjay Kishan Kaul and Justice Pushpa Satyanarayana; they quote from Shanti Parva of Mahabharata; 'in response to the demands of time and place what is proper/may become improper, and what is improper may become proper'; conclude: Let the author be resurrected to what he is best at ...Write. Perumal Murugan could not have made a better case.The Intolerance debate gets a knock. Perumal can park his wares. Justice Kaul as a Delhi High Court judge ended the exile of M.F. Hussain in 2008. We have a compassionate Judge in Judge Kaul. But will Perumal Murugan write; he suggests as much in a one line chat with Mathrubhoomi; will he allow Kalachuvadu, the Nagercoil publisher of his books in Tamil; they could not do it; Rama is keen as much as she is on Perumal. In Pyre, Saroja has a lone cat as friend. Perumal writes: ..A cat that had screamed and run away from her when she had first arrived had finally warmed up to her. It would come, arch its body and rub against her legs..... It didnt matter if she didnt feed it; the cat was still affectionate to her....' Rama, me and many others are for Perumal. Khushboo Narayanan knows well Aniruddhan Vasudevan, translator of Perumal; maybe Perumal Boswell. She has promised a chat with him and me hopes with Perumal also. For now, Perumal please write. Tamil alphabets are your metier.  

Trees

Sitting on the wooden bench outside Murari, under a rain tree, the fellow in unstarched dhoti and jibba with a face and eyes housing more lines than me has ever put on paper, was sipping chai from a glass; a sip, a thought, a sip, a forgetting before backing to the chai.., maybe, the chai was enjoying the fellow ... me did not probe or the few crooked lines of rains ... came home, settled into sofas; with kapi, Rama and me talked trees, this morning. Of trees Rama grew up.... at school, St. Anthony' Girls High School in Alleppey of no cars and no mobiles, grew an Ilangi maram and mango trees, the scrambles when they fruited... and they talked to Rama and her friends.. of birds nesting in them and of times when humans prayed to trees more than gods; of that fine tradition of kavus. Growing up in 34B Lake Temple Road, Calcutta-26, me had a friend in a neem tree outside the window; with Horlicks or Ovaltine (coffee was banned), me sat quietly with the tree and chatted; sometimes crows and sparrows dropped from the branches for biscuit crumbs; and the wide circle of thick, brown tamarind trees (me am not sure) in one corner of the Maidan; every day me went and touched them, sometimes they turned dreams; when upset by class teachers for not doing home work, me would complain to the clump and feel happy. Do not know whether they are around but they pop up in sleep; more in afternoon snooze. Many trees on Link Road me was friends with on walks are no more; most have gone to widening and extension of Link Road as without development life cannot be; downing trees for roads and cars; never got this logic but there it is; in serene IC Colony, cars go round trees with footpads; remember a jamun and tamarind, of many clocks, with birds and seeds; yet, some still are around; the couple of rain trees on Karuna Road with fruit bats upside down and the many-beamed banyan outside the Karuna Hospital; the silk cotton tree on LIC Road; on mornings to Vazira Ganesh temple, stands a peepal; a tree never sits or lies down; a lady lights a diya every morning, prays and walks round before turning to gods; Rama and me follow; there is also a banyan near Lord Ganesh; the faithful put their heads to its trunk. For sure, the peepal and banyan will be there forever; till gods are; as none chops a peepal and a banyan in a temple; peepal and banyans are Brahmins.  

A Song 69

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
Ms. and Mr.Parsi,
in T-shirts
and Perumal Murugans,
picked up
by JRD from overseas streets,
posted:
Verse and verb
dance on kerbs.

A Song 68

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
swept into a sulking Sea;
in search went
Ms.and Mr. Parsi
cycling an up and down Sea,
a windy sky;
souped souls
made wholes
surfaced at Chowpatty
to rums, brandy and
bhelpuris.
A Sunday choir
of unforced errors.  

1991

She shivers. She shakes. The old lady of some age, she should have been born some times, stutters under rain drops with champas in a bamboo basket on the pavement outside Vazira Ganesh temple; three champas for Rs.10; she shudders her wares and prices; Rama and Vidya know her for the last 20 years; no bargains; Rama places a tenner on quivering palms. She will be trembling for many more years, on the same terms, me presumes. Shyama on Yogi Nagar Road, displaced by police from Link Road as she and others could be aiding chain snatchers; many families know Shyama from 1990s; from Saphale, 1991 did not mean anything, 2016 means nothing. They are called poor. Outside ruling classes creating and solving 1991 as it hurt them most; politicians, bureaucrats, corporates, bankers, brokers got rid of cribbing controls as it pained them most; took them apart to bloom and boom; in 1991 they ruined India; in 1991 they saved India; for themselves. Locked outside gated communities, the poor had no say. Today, they remain constants. 1991 was and is for the ruling classes. RBI governors including Dr. Raghuram Govind Rajan do not think of the poor. Credit policy is about corporates. When the government wrote off Rs.10,000 crore of farm dues, RBI governor, Dr. R.N. Malhotra protested; M. Narasimham suggested Regional Rural Banks; were set up by public sector banks and today are not there. Wonder why Dr. Raghuram Govind Rajan has never talked of credit flows to farmers of Bundelkhand and Marathwada; maybe, they are not equations in input-output models. Our economy is the strongest growing at 7 per cent; discounted for inflation it could be around two per cent. IAS-IFS-IPS pasted to files have voted to themselves the best of Seventh Pay; none can get more than them not even soldiers at Siachen; of course, the poor outside are statistics for anti-poverty ideas. Finance Ministry has no cash for MNREGS; so New Delhi thinks up 24x7 retail trade without labour laws; will workers work 12 hours; will they get breaks; will they have a minimum pay; do not ask as the IAS-IFS-IPS, tired attending offices; they have done their best; looked into files of statistics; suits and boots of Niti Ayog know; Sitaram Yechury has no time for labourer or farmer; he is searching for Mao and Lenin quotes; dining with Pinarayi Vijayan; charity is a corporate compulsion; a taxable proposition; protesting adivasis, tribals, North-East are in safe custody of jails. 'They have no democratic sense. Without us the poor will have no India to litter,' argue the ruling class (me belongs to it). Yes, they are what they are. A ghost haunts. Dahl's Big Friendly Giant (BFG), the poor, will be around for long. 

Hanuman tailwire

Hanuman tailwire. Hanuman loses his tail quite regularly. Tail drops off or rather, he gets rid of it and there is a five-minute search, before the tail is located and put in place. But today morning without a raincoat in rains, Hanuman had no tail for about three hours. Mornings, dust up the nook in the kitchen, residence of gods and goddesses; light two diyas; spotted Hanuman minus tail, in front of his bosses: Sita, Ram and Lakshman; folded palms and bent head resembling aam admi before seventh pay government officials dressed in brown files; bosses do not much bother Hanuman; officials do aam admis into Hanuman Chalisa; Siya Ramji ki; not a hectoring Jai Siya Ram. Rama immediately went for Hanuman Chalisa and deep into 'Thum rakshak kahu ko darna (you around, why fear)'; she was queasy, something could happen; nothing happened; started out for a morning walk; honestly, it cannot be styled a walk; a walk is when you are in LIC Colony with trees for company for about two hours; Hanuman without tail bugged. Rama and Narayana Karunkara Kurup introed me to Hanuman or as wild north says Hanumanji. Took me to the few years in forests with Kishor Rithe, Varad Giri and Nishibhau; a tiger stuns; a spotted deer is a dear; a Paradise Flycatcher awes; but a langur and a macaque, smiles; lots of it; sometimes jeep halts to watch them; at Wayanad, family spent some noon hours monitoring macaques hurtling from tree to tree; they are not much talked of or written of; 'bandhar' and thats all. A monkey is school days and rum walks in Azad and Oval Maidans. After the walk and coffee, we searched for Hanuman's tail; gave up to read The Indian Express and Mint on economic liberalisation and the end of an India being in forests. Development detests forests; monkeys mean trees and deer; tiger alerts; but business editors are made differently; they are for more jobs and who can say they are wrong. Something gleamed, a Rs.10 coin flash; near me arm chair lay the tail; joy, immense joy. A brass Hanuman, forefinger size, me picked up some 9 years ago on a trip to Suchindram, more famous for a black stone Hanuman than Lord Shiva; arms folded, head to one side, before masters; the stance Hanuman struck before a civilised Ravana in Sri Lanka; friend Muthu of Corporation Bank and me prayed to Hanuman and Siva, stepped out to a wooden booth with brass Hanumans on sale at Rs.6 per Hanuman. And that Hanuman has been with me like Marx and Engels, poets Yeats and Kolatkar. Ordered a Fevi kwik for Rs. 5 (it has been constant for the last two and more years) from Milan Medicals; Rama fixed the tail. Hanuman is entire.  

Girivalam....

Sandra Maa Heber Percy, from Sienna, Italy, lives in Tirunvannamalai. That and her postings are what me knows of this lady. She is protesting along with many believers in Bhagwan Ramana Maharshi, an expansion of the Girivalam path at a cost of Rs.65 crore. A report in The Hindu, says the Girivalam expansion project will widen the path by 7 to 10 metres and a 12 minute video is in circulation of trees being uprooted; none speaks in the video; soft music as earth movers plough. Work will commence soon, says District Collector, A. Gnanasekaran. Is it necessary? IAS officers are trained on green grass and blue skies, in the Himalayas, if me am okay. Gnanasekaran at some time would have walked there. For years  pilgrims have walked the Girivalam path and today they do not perhaps need less trees and more paths. Too many projects are on shredding forests, humans and animals. A site www. Agathiar.Org talks of conditions to leg Giri (Hill), Valam (going round the Hill): prayers alone on the walk looking at the peak of Arunachala Hill; buy biscuits and the local porai to feed dogs and monkeys; bananas to offer cows; walk softly like a -- 'nirai maddha garbini ( a woman in the 9th month of pregnancy). A Zen walk perhaps, has been there for ages and seemingly does not need an additional investment of Rs.65 crore. Protests and talks are on; will Arunachala and Bhagwan Ramana be saved from investors? Do not know. Have never gone there. Am an on-off believer in Bhagwan; do not know when the gentleman walked into me life; perhaps when Arthur Osborne was principal in Hindi High School, where one went; father sometimes referred to Ramana Maharishi. But none provided firm gestures. Have read Osborne's book on the sage and liked it. Maharishi and Ramanujan had a matter common: their belief in Paramatman with Ramanujan finding it in numbers. Latest: The Hindu reports suspension of work by the District Collector; promise of an alternative route; aam admi protests and is protesting. The 14 km Girivalam path has a natural forest - Sonagiri - and earth movers had started hacking.Will Girivalam path be? Will Bhagwan Ramana help? For me it is less of god and more of forests. Its about trees and animals. A Ryokan poem:
My legacy -
What will it be?
Flowers in spring,
the cuckoo in summer,
And the crimson on maples
of autumn ....