First Garden of the Republic

'The Indian Grey Hornbills become unusually vocal too, flying from tree to tree to check out cavities for nesting, even trying to evict parakeets from the spots that they like! In response, the parakeets duck inside in the cavities, emerging only after the encroaching hornbills have left. The latter are occsionally seen engaging in territorial fights with other hornbills, fighting beak to beak. Pairs of the Black-rumped Flameback can also be seen checking out holes on tree trunks which they can hollow out and deepen for their nests,' writes Ghazala Shahabuddin in First Garden of The Republic, Nature in the President's Estate, Rashtrapati Bhavan. A happening in a New Delhi spring. Me read the lines many times over; whiled over the book about a more than 100 year old garden in New Delhi. Lord Hardinge, viceroy of India, in 1912 rode up the slope of Raisina Hill to locate the Government House. The final site was the brow of Raisina Hill. 'A 330-acre Estate with a house that covered five acres, 15 acre of ornamental gardens with lush greenery and lavish water fountains: in a country where most people worked their tiny fields to the utmost to coax out a living, a pleasure garden was the ultimate form of conspicuous consumption. Such profligacy, and at such spectacular scale, proclaimed the pre-eminence of British Raj over its dominion and subjects,' says Amita Baviskar. December 31, 2016, we should Thank Lord Hardinge for the Mughal gardens, the spacious green patch; grateful to W.R. Munroe, William Mustoe and Edwin Lutyens. In 2016, city planners have been scraping the green off old cities like Mumbai, Kolkata, Chennai, Bengaluru and New Delhi; ponds, trees, gardens, walks, open spaces do not inform their plans. The Estate has a manicured look with golf grounds and sore car parks .....less draped with forests ..., suggest the writers. Yes, the golf grounds and football field and car parks should go but for that we need a President with green paints. The book (except for the pix of Mr. Pranab Mukherjee) with color pics is me read of 2016. For the Gardens to live another 100 years, gardeners are a must; the Gardens were tapped and touched and tampered by families of gardeners over years; a cash crunch seems to have done away with the bond; the Gardens are today tended more by contract workers with less feel for the earth the Gardens. This should go immediately; hands should be retained, made permanent, for knowhow to flow and be stored; the Gardens need love in plenty and gardeners alone can offer. Sadly Amita Baviskar does not dwell on the lives of the gardeners, picking a family for mention. The Gardens need to be more wild; a team of old gardeners should guide the job as they are experts; and their suggestions should be binding; Presidents will come and go and we have not had a green thumb President. Will it happen? Will the Gardens turn a flower pot in times when green is much disliked? Pray, not. Gardens and gardeners: A Happy 2017. 

A Song 116

Ajoba,
Dandi marched
Eksar Road,
December morning,
for a blood test
ordered by the doctor.
Climbed a floor,
collected a token
at the lab;
edgy,
on the lip of a sofa,
when a nurse called:
'Zero number'.
Tapping a walking stick,
Zero number walked to an arm
chair,
flopped into it.
Nurse asked his age;
Zero number replied: 'maithi nahi'.
She thrust a needle into
a torniquet arm;
blood did not flow;
pricked a second time;
no blood.
Zero number
unpocketed a disabled sparrow
picked on the march;
Nurse needled the bird;
bloodless.
Nurse hailed nurse,
the lab called police;
Zero number
was put against a wall,
searched,
a beedi fell out;
'Terrorist' breathed inspector;
 Zero number
begged for matches
to light the fallen beedi;
denied.
'No clues;
No blood spills.
No kills.'
Noted the inspector
in a pocket book.
Zero number,
with sparrow
perched on head,
Dandi marched
home.   

A Song 115

Mumbai
lies blistered
on a freshly laid
wooden bench,
on Link Road,
in throbs of crowds,
an
abandoned
verse.

Cricket

Cricket today and yesterday swamps. Prefer watching Australia against Pakistan in Australia to England versus India in India. A Jawahar House versus Gandhi House cricket match was on at the Maidan in 50s Calcutta. Me was a kid, fun and a bald red, hard used cricket ball; three stumps at one end of an up and down stretch of grass in a corner of the Maidan; one stump at the opposite end, the bowler's mark; 22 steps separated the bowler from the batter with one heavy pad on the left leg preventing any singles, two worn gloves; me was the captain of Jawahar House; the pacers bowled, runs got scored and me thinks, after a long ago today, Gandhi House were 24 for no loss; a change in bowling, always from one end; off spinners; took four wickets and was to make my mark on the ICC list with a fifth wicket when a howl flew over the Maidan; Jasu Patel has helped India beat Australia at Kanpur; G. S. Ramchand was the India captain; Jawahar and Gandhi were forgotten; the fifth wicket did not come by to me; we celebrated without without details; like the high noon tides in river Hooghly taking over Strand Road. And the second match was at the green patch of St. Xavier's College, Park Street. Think it was B.A. Economics versus B.A. Political Science. Me was taken into B.A. Economics there being a shortage of players; we won the toss and the captain got me to open, face the bowling as others did not want to open; one pad, two gloves, scored 26 runs, and someone called me Hobbs. Did not know Hobbs and still do not know the gentleman as for me West Indian cricketers alone are cricketers. With probably an exception. Noob, Tiger, Nawab of Pataudi. Me wanted to be him. Did not, was not worth it. Then the little ambition to cover sports; as a Trainee Journalist in the Times of India was dumped into business reporting forever.... like all cricketers waited for the easy ball and a four.. it came when in Business Line, me got to report India Interior and wildlife... there is something of sports in wildlife ... there is colour, breed tells, power is never graceless, and compassion lurks....both offer chuckles if not laughs ... and sad to say both in 2016 are hurt by corporates ... corporate profits have reduced Test cricket to T20... badminton will be 11 points, five setters....; corporate profits want to mine forests, rivers, seas, skies ...everything is up for monetary digging. Mike Brearley writes: 'But I am now less inclined than I was twenty years ago to take a high moral-aesthetic line. Cricket embodies enough aspects of life, and captaincy many more. One who finds a career that fits in with some of his earliest dreams, and finds that career intensely fulfilling, is indeed fortunate.' Cricket and surely all sports came early; wildlife came late; Mr. Brearley me never thought or desired to be a journalist. Have no regrets. Cricket and wildlife, thanks for that.    

Banyans

Sun had not got up. Morning asleep. There were no street lights; lorry, bike, car lamps. Walkers, men and women, ghosted Link Road on their ways to LIC Colony. Could not make out trees and birds. In a coat of pleasant chill, Ajoba stumbled along; hugged the rather bare silk cotton; paused long before clutches of pink bougainvillea fronting Chancellor housing society; recent days appreciates the shrub though for reasons, he does not know; he holds the flowers, pats them, let goes; and then the up and down of Karuna Road with nuns hurrying to and from prayers at IC Church. They are into gods not trees and flowers though the Missionaries of Ajmer has something of a garden; wonder who many high rises on Link Road have gardens; perhaps none as architects provide for ever insufficient car parking spaces. A halt at a call from the banyan outside Karuna Hospital: 'I am feeling alone; good that you have come along', said the banyan who should be Ajoba age, if not more; 'I have fruited', the banyan, named Karuna, said; and there were the red berries to prove the point; 'but no birds; I am a banyan without birds,' said Karuna and there was no karuna in the tone. At that moment, two or three koyals hurried out of the banyan calling chased by cawing crows; the fruit bats at the nearby rain trees were not keen on the red offerings or so it seemed. A municipal employee had cleared the base of the banyan of gods and saints; it looked neat as Ajoba familiarly patted Karuna. Ficus Bengalensis. The English gave it the name Banyan as traders or banias used to assemble under the tree for business and worship, write Marselin Almeida and Naresh Chaturvedi in The Trees of Mumbai. There are many in LIC Colony and Karuna looks somewhat ancient. 'Am here before Karuna Hospital got built; not sure how long I will be around,' wondered the banyan and then landed a left hook; 'at the Karuna Hospital oxygen is fed by pipes to patients even as the public cuts trees in the world outside,' remarked the banyan; Ajoba rushed for his heart; it was beating okay. 'Yes' you have a point, a major point, said Ajoba and the entire banyan nodded. 'If birds dont come, I will not fruit again; will wait and go away before they cut me to pieces; you wont see me again; others in LIC Colony have agreed on the idea,' explained the banyan. 'We cant live without company; you, Ajoba, run away in cars; birds are absent; why be around unwanted.' Ajoba clutched at a hanging root as he could not do anything better. After an upsetting morning, Ajoba slid into a reading of First Garden of The Republic: Nature in the President's Estate; Rashtrapati Bhavan, New Delhi. A history of India's famous garden glues Ajoba. It may be not the oldest garden but surely is the grandest piece of brick and stone set in green. And it has birds, animals, insects.  

A Song 114

Priest to Ajoba:
Pray,
prepare for the
pilgrimage.
Ajoba,
head down,
walked
away.

Reita Faria

About 20 and in Calcutta. Falling in and out of women. Notes of incorrectness applauded. There was no pride in being a bhakt. And one 1966, November morning, The Statesman, Calcutta, carried a news item: Reita Faria is Miss World. Reita was 23 and today 73. Jumped in joy; booms in the heart; fell in love with Reita Faria; wrote a short Letters to the Editor, The Statesman, clapping Miss World. The letter got published. Had then cuttings of the news item; lost them. Friends looked down on her; The Statesman carried her flag. And after some time Reita fell away as me realised she would not be my friend and partner. But she was there. Today The Sunday Express magazine carries a detailed write up on the Lady by Sunanda Mehta. She a star in the sky and me a dot of earth, not a kissing chance. A medical student from Grant Medical College, Bombay, she is a Goan. Only Goans among Indians lap life, dance life, laugh life like the sea off their homes. None else. Simply, none else. Born to Goan parents she lived in Matunga and then settled down in Dublin. Mehta quotes her: 'the glamour world could have never given me this grounded security. I wish the girls today would realise the fleeting nature of fame and looks. Running after these flashes of publicity, trying to hold onto what changes so rapidly and always looking out for variety, be it in ambitions or relations, is bound to cause distress. It's unusual for a celebrity to make for a happy family these days, but this is where real happiness lies -- in secure relationships,' she says. .....When David and I look back at our life - 49 years together, including four before marriage - we realise we have each other, good health, children and grandchildren, and still so many shared interests from golf to skiing. What more does one want? I have my whole world.'  A Tuka, a Kabir and a Shankaracharya of Bhaja Govindam will be proud of Reita, having found her metier of happiness. Sunanda Mehta writes a Faria life in a dear old happy way, bringing a Sunday happiness to me. Today the essay tasted better than coffee. Today, Faria, Firpos, Trincas, Park Street, the Maidan, Lakes became live. Do not know whether today Faria will be appreciated by activists and the rest; there will be howls of protest; Reita Faria does not chant femininism as that was not the fashion in those times; those times, men and women loved, Casablanca years, smoked, drank, sang out of tune....rolled along.. improper times or Reita Faria times come back again... we are too serious for all that... not sufficiently flowery, flippant.. Thanks Reita for a fun Sunday. 

A Song 113

Ajoba primary,
Ajoba secondary,
scorned
a December sun
bedding Link Road;
'Javu ya,'
eagerly suggested
Ajoba primary;
walked to
Borivili station,
bought platform tickets,
stood on broken benches
there being no standing space;
watched
Maggi noodles
of
men,
women,
children,
siggle
in and out
of figgled locals
clad with Maggi ads.
Ajis had warned
of noodling
noodled locals.
After
many watches,
swapped vada pavs
for chats ---
vendor being
Ajoba tertiary.
Walking back,
stepped into
Dupe Laundry
with diddled
memories
for wash.
At Yogi Stores
bought a double pack
Maggi zoodles
for dear, muddled Ajis
in fuddles.

A Song 112

On Link Road,
a cool, December morning
hunches unsure
over a wood fire,
as
Ajoba airing
Hanuman Chalisa,
bathes his Maruti Zen,
towels his Maruti Zen,
hugs his Maruti Zen;
dresses his Maruti Zen in zendu
flowers,
lights Cycle brand agarabattis,
being Maruti Zen's naming
event;  
Aji tinkles a bell,
invokes the Elephant God,
names Maruti Zen: Meenu.
That's what the astrologer said.
Airing
Rama, Krishna, Hari,
Ajoba takes the wheel
Aji beside,
drive into a jam session
on Link Road,
dissolve in
cars on skies,
cars on roads,
cars on pavements,
Maruti Zen moments. 

Fantails

Its about fantail flycatchers. White-browed or whitespotted? Have been shunting between LIC Colony and Dr. Salim Ali's The Book of Indian Birds. Over the week has been sighting fantails on Ayappa Mandir Marg, a part of LIC Colony; certain they are fantails as their tails open and shut like Japanese handheld fans. But are they white-browed or white spotted? Today, on the walk back, saw a pair on copper pods nearer home. Sighting them, watching them in morning quiets, more warming than prayers; a delightful ritual; the two hopped around above me head, ruling out a sure dekho and called; best moment to make a Dr. Ali entry: 'A harsh chuk-chuk is commonly uttered; also has a delightful song rendered as chee-chee-cheweechee delivered as the bird prances about': white-browed fantail flycatcher; whitespotted fantail flycatcher: 'A harsh chuk-chuk. Also a delightful clear whistling song of several tinkling notes constantly warbled as the bird prances about.' Did not come across the harsh chuk-chuk; whistling notes, yes. Am still not sure though bets are it is whitebrowed. How me wishes dear old Varad Giri was around. The identification would have come in a jiffy and he will add: 'but I am a cecilian not a birder'. Standing on the road, the two flew away leaving me with the peace of pleasure; birding is that. Starting out in the morning heard a soft cheep from a bush; being dark, waited, watched; yes, it was dear friend magpie robin. They have started showing up with December on and will be around till March and then do not know where they go.Winter noons when a snooze runs away, sit down with of Birds and Birdsong: foreword by Zafar Futehally : M. Krishnan: edited by Shanthi and Ashish Chandola. With M. Krishnan it is a going back and forth. In the foreword Zafar writes: While admiring the exquisite morphology of the Hoopoe so designed as to make it easy for it to to probe for worms, grubs and insects underground, Krishnan was able to note that the flicking of its crown feathers open and shut 'express the entire emotional range of the mood of the bird'; during one minute he spent observing the bird, 'it played with its crest six times.' That's observation. If me had that would have today identified the fantail. Maybe, one morning me will. For the moment, house sparrows on the window sill fighting and pecking Marie biscuits, suffice.  

Vanyam (Wild)

Three films on women. In Birds of Paradise, a nut of a father birthday presents a duck egg to his daughter. Egg hatches. A yellow duck. Two girls (one physically disabled) and a duck lose and find each other. Fun, happy film. 2 Penkuttikal, a Malayalam film directed by Joe Baby is about two school girls, a mall and being females. They suspect and understand having no space in an Indian society. They will ever have to squat on the floor; none will offer them chairs at the dining table. Do no know whether the world will be fair to Shreya, Chiyu, their friends in the wide world.  Achu and Anagha plead their parents to take them to a mall; parents are busy, push aside a small desire; maybe, if the girls were boys, parents would have taken them to malls without pleas. Perhaps director Joe Baby could have worked harder at the idea, cutting out policemen, loudness and all that. Yet the concept is worth working on a second time. Then followed Malayalam film Vanyam, a recent release, me had not heard of; Malayalam TV channels have not talked of Vanyam (Wild) as they never get time to go beyond the dishum-dishum of Mohanlal, Mammootty and Sreenivasan (fast turning a xerox of Mohanlal); well, Malayalam TV channels have not a programme to be proud of; it is endless repeat of Mohanal, Mamootty and Sreenivasan; it is not as if Malayalis are not aware; simply, they do not want a output shift at TV stations; they enjoy current offerings. Vanyam is not that; it belongs to the genre Malayalis took pride in years ago;director Sohan Seenulal films rape of a nun by three youngsters; nun is dumped out of church; she knows the three; refrains, restrains herself; there are no consolations for a violated woman; even the Good Lord does not come to the aid; and director Sohan retails the tale without tears; no emotional slush; no policemen, no absurd stunts; no 10 minutes at a stretch verbosity; nothing which a popular Malayalam film does; a hurt Aparna Nair as the nun, hurting me. Anoop Ramesh scores over the modern generation of Niveen Pauly and Fahad and Asif Ali and Dulqar. Athirapally waterfalls does the roaring in the film. Will Indian women be allowed to be humans? Why is it that for most of us the first child has to be a son; why shastras dump women outside school gates? How is it no God likes a woman; Trimurthi has no woman; why have women to be packed up for marriage; is a marriage must. Possibly Sohan Seenulal attempts a reply, has one: It will always be so. Women will be hurt. Alone or wed. Afternoon, after Vanyam, me recalled rough instances with Rama. Felt ashamed. Yes, men are not worth it.

Thambis

High rises catch
the morning sun,
make trees, flowers
and birds,
second class citizens,
keep away from humans.
A darkness
streams ...
as Rama and me sat the winter morning on stone benches outside the Shiva temple on LIC Colony. A hugging combo - peepal and banyan - knit a leafy roof above the open house temple without doors and priests. Walkers pause, wish their wishes, pray their prayers... some step in with water wash the Linga ... walk round the combo from which a bell hangs...ring the bell. We sank in the quiet darkness lit up with diyas; noted a squirrel chase on a distant banyan.... love Shiva, not a macho god, loves his wife, relishes a drink, smokes preferring the burning ghat for a living ... always go back to Pandalam Shiva on Achchankovil river near Pathanamtheeta, a short drive from Kurup's Kurumpala. Every god has a presence at the LIC Shiva temple, a buffet, offering a wide choice to citizens. The first Shiva me got familiar was the one at Lake Temple Road, beside the Lakes in south Calcutta; with friends played chor-police hiding behind the Linga; those were warm, incorrect times. Not the cold, correct times of today. At 70 have lost my laughs; afraid to laugh. When two strays came over to rest on the stone bench; we gave them space; how is it that most temples have a strong citizenry of dogs; mostly harmless having no barks and bites to start with. Rama was in a particularly good mood having tanked up with idlis, vadas and dosas from Thampi ahead of setting out for the LIC Colony. Smiling Thambi, in fresh, blue half-pants, white half-shirts with a dash of ash lighting up the forehead, is serene Tamil cut out; his fun-face.... enna saar.... serves food made in Matunga; the food cannot be warm as Matunga is far off; but the autorickshaws, paunchy women and men wait to eat on a broken pavement near Shanti Ashram. This day me had paruppu wadas, dosas with liberal spoons of juicy coconut chutneys while Rama opted for idlis and wadas. Yogi Nagar has a different Thampi; perhaps Thambis share the markets equitably. A three to four hour business. Sipping Bisleri, we started off....

..And
the morning sun
roamed the road,
bare of walkers....

A Song 111

Trim parishioners
double past
a pink striped
bougainvillea,
for prayers on pews.
Mass over,
scurry past
a bougainvillea in facials,
step into cars
for homes.
Church is for prayers,
not for bougainvillea. 

A Song 110

Morning sandwich.
Koyals, skies above.
Haiku below.

A Song 109

From back benches
in Class 6,
Kabir and me
bunked classes
for puchkas
jhaal mudis
in Calcutta Maidan;
Kabir picking bills.
Met Tuka
and abhangs
on roof tops
of locals
in Mumbai;
bumped
into Chekov, Camus
in airy, dusty
second hand shops
on curved
pavements
of Flora Fountain.
Roamed
the gullied city
in smoke
and spirit;
Camus, Chekov
preferred vada pavs;
Kabir, Tuka
opted for brun maskas
at Yezdani.
Straying into
Marine Drive
met up Kolatkar
scratching poetry on stone
benches.
Squatted on sea walls
taking salute
from regiments
of words
marching by,
floating by.