In Amchi Mumbai ....

In Amchi Mumbai
there are no byes....
for aged hearts and
young hearts,
for Tuka and Kabira,
you and me.
They put down their
iPads and mobiles on table tops
for brun pavs, wada pavs,
kanta pohes and chais
served by compassionate bhaiyas,
with Siya Ramji kis, free.
When did Tuka meet Kabira
at the Drive?
And when Vithoba, Rakkumai?
When the seas and winds were high
leaving all with sighs?
Or, when sea and wind fell
leaving life for
Tuka and Kabira
to jive and joy,
put notes to songs
smiles to times .....
on the Drive.
Changes will be
time tables will not be;
comings yes, goings no.
In Amchi Mumbai
there are no byes.
Will be ever so
till time and space,
waves and winds
Tuka and Kabira
will not be...
and that for sure will not be.
In Amchi Mumbai
there are no byes.
And that is for sure,
say Tuka and Kabira
rolling dice on Marine Drive.
A promise Amchi Mumbai
lives by.
In Amchi Mumbai
there are no byes.  

Shikra again

Waiting at the dental clinic for a turn on the couch stared the banyan on Yogi Nagar, perhaps elder to Borivili. Arms spread out to pocket a skier, like some cricketer in deep mid on, the tree has style; hot February, 38.8 degrees say newsreports, company of a few crows and a couple of mynas; being a Saturday they came in cars, stood and prayed before offering the roots lotas of water; on Link Road they are downing all the trees for a metro; Yogi Nagar Road has been spared; laburnum, bel, banyans and peepals, spotted gliricidia, coral wood, cajuput, kadamba, karanji, jarul (Queen's flower).... live on this stretch courtsey a caring public; they do protest chopping. On Link Road, it is not so; on morning walks have chatted municipal workers hitting out trees, numbered for death; deaths on Link Road have been digistised; 'saab, hum log kya karen, pet ka mamla hai,' they plead and me walks away to pray to Lord Shiva and IC Church for consolation. A bhaiya stood by said: Gaon jaana padega, Mumbai mein pani nahin rahega'. Edward Hamilton Aitken (EHA) writes: ... From any point of view it is strange that Europeans in India know so little, see so little, care so little about all the intense life that surrounds them..' That goes for us all Indians in India 2017. While driving, biking, marathoning, do we look around; walking with ear plugs to shut out bird calls and speed meters on arms .. yes, no cawing of crows ... seems so unfair. At the Shiva temple in LIC Colony, a peepal and a banyan strapped together sheltering Shiva make for an interesting duo and koyals romp... striding ahead me turns into the walled mango groves of St. Francis Assisi school ... spotted a female shikra on a mango branch.... third sighting over a week ...is it a resident .... me am not sure; have spent minutes observing the Lady as it sits still mostly or turns its neck searching for breakfast .... have never seen a shikra in this area. Down Karuna Road and on to Sri Ayyappa Mandir Road to pink bouganvillea corner and Krishnan corner to be close up white-browed fantail flycatcher... it hopped around a tree and stopped close by for me to note its white brows with its fantail fanning out .... and the bird came up with a concert ... best to leave it Dr. Salim Ali: ' also a delightful song rendered as chee-chee-chewchee delivered as bird prances about'; this summer me has seen quite a few fantails. A shikra, a fantail, a kingfisher in shade, and then a few small birds me do not know .... for a morning walk or is it a stroll in LIC Colony. 'Do you walk or stand,' Rama asked as me turned in late for coffee, Marie biscuits, house sparrows, parakeets ......   

Raza's Hey Ram

Raza's Mahatma runs a Vandana Kalra piece in The Indian Express (Feb. 22, 2017) on Raza putting paint on Gandhi. A canvas Hey Ram held me in the morning. There is a brown border - his stick? Was Gandhi upset with Ram or loved Ram when the Godse bullet was doing its job. Was his Ram, the Ramayana Ram? Or Ram a street name for his inhuman, compassionate chase? Maybe me am going mad. But that's what Gandhi does me. Every one has her and his Gandhi; me quarrels, hates and loves him not by turns but spurts; but Gandhi me has not been able to put out of me. Started on him in Calcutta, a city, which never seeded him. In the family none liked him with devout Appa violently disliking him. And then in Bombay lugged him around with trips to Laburnum Road with its laburnum trees and bright yellow flowers. This morning, the Old Stick made sense after an edit piece by Pratap Bhanu Mehta: Our injustice system. 'Mohammad Fazli, Rafiq Shah. The list of proper names now victimised by possible bias in our criminal justice system, over and beyond its usual pathologies, is growing. The prime minister has converted UP into a contest for secularism......The context, intent and rhetoric are nothing of the sort..... When will we have a criminal justice system that is fair, just, impartial and efficient?' asks Mehta. Me does not know. Me only confesses to Gandhi hurting me afternoon naps and night sleeps; watching a 2016 film Loving, directed by Jeff Nichols. A white man marries a black woman. Illegal says every law. Case goes up to Supreme Court. Lawyers ask Lovings whether they want to attend the proceedings. They say no. Richard Loving tells the lawyers: Tell them I love my wife. The Supreme Court scraps state laws banning inter-racial marriage. A lovable film will little emotional muck. Ruth Negga as Mildred Loving understates her case like husband Richard Loving. At best he dialogues with a few Yeahs. No blow ups. In India it will not happen. Lets be honest. Can a Hindu marry a Muslim in peace?  Can a Brahmin marry a non-brahmin? In me extended family, there is an instance and the two have been loving each other. Morning lay upset. Set aside the paper after filing away Raza and Mehta. Watched sparrows on the windows beaking Britannia Marie and dipping into water in a glass vase holding a money plant. The upset eased.

A Song 122

A shy sun on a February morning
winked
a wingless, yellow butterfly
drop on the first spring leaf
of a badam
in the school garden;
the leaf cupped the butterfly,
hid it from a roaming golden oriole;
the wingless butterfly
slid down the badam;
picked up by a four year old
at the school;
rested on the palm of the child
as her friends made paper wings,
gummed it to the butterfly;
butterfly said bye
as she flew to the badam, sky-high.
Kids earned wings;
to wing when teachers
swarmed the school;
wing back when teachers went home.
That day the sun got wings,
downloaded by the butterfly....
 
Valentine lines from the Lady of
Borivili for her Old Man in Borivili.

Vendors

At 7 in the evening a bell called on Murali Krishnan Theruvu in Valasarvakkam. It rang for two days, a minute or more each day calling customers. The vendor did not voice; he pulled a bell atop a cycle cart with a coal fire warming a steel tava with sand and groundnut. With a ladle he tipped and topped the mix, waited as me walked out to pick up paper cones of two and more short wooden glasses of warm groundnut. His fingers dug into the pile with the glass, came up with a finger dressing the pile; he made a paper cone and packed the warmth. Rama and me sat in sofas popping a groundnut at a time and being with it. Warm groundnuts should be eaten easy, a timeless chew going with chats of similar times in Borivili and Dombivili, now lost. For two days the young fellow came and for two days me bought packs of groundut, small in size. And then he went away probably to sell groundnuts to TN politicians waiting for power in the city. Could not get his history. And on Chintamani Vinayakar Koil Street is an automated sugar juice stand; cut sugarcanes are stacked in air conditioned compartments; Thambi, the boy from Tiruchi, inserts the cane into a hole, ons switches and the liquid drips into plastic glasses; he adds spoons of mint to make the Rs. 20 a cup tasty. For two days, Rama and me had it; on the third day, the machine broke down and it was time for us to go. In yet another street, we tagged on puffs at Iyengar Bakery; to this day Iyengars go with Puliyodarai for me even as the vegetable puffs went down well. There is nothing better than junk food; jhal mudi, chicken tikkas in Calcutta, vada pavs and bhels in Mumbai bringing me to Orhan Pamuk in A Strangeness in my Mind: 'Before we go any further, and to make sure that our story is properly understood, perhaps I should explain for foreign readers who've never heard of it before, and for future generations of Turkish readers who will, I fear, forget all about it within the next twenty to thirty years, that boza is a traditional Asian beverage made of fermented wheat, with a thick consistency, a pleasant aroma, a dark yellowish colour, and a low alcohol content........ Mevlut, who walked the poor and neglected cobblestone streets on winter evenings crying 'Bozaaa', reminding us of centuries past, and the good old days that have come and gone.'  Cities are getting gated; no space for callers, some of them with a tonal lilt. Will they be around in these cities or wind down like the famed newspapers which these cities host: The Statesman in Calcutta is nearly gone; The Hindu and The Indian Express in Mumbai are around, how long me does not know. Maybe like the groundnut seller, will go away.  

Scrapbook 2

At Mumbai domestic airport, they dig into iphones and stay in their diggings. Having no phones, me watched and wondered for two hours; some got into the wrong plane; others walked away with not their luggage; a young woman was kissing her iphone as her three-year old daughter walked into a boarding line for some destination; no Breaking News on TV channels of unknown men arm in arm with unknown women, as yet; when me mentioned it to Rama, she pocketed her iphone and held me tight; remarked, 'Pagal'. A Birla-group Gandhi shop lay shut; Gandhi never took a flight though Ahimsa is one. Airports frighten me despite being an infrequent flyer; planes taking off or landing is impressive technology but not as fetching as landing of house sparrorws on the window sill; (by the way, the house sparrows on me window sill do not peck at Monaco or Arrowroot; they like Britannia Marie; disapprove of any change in diet; wish some birder could help me); all the checking and machine swipings make me suspect me self; maybe we are all terrorists in some sense; the Indigo flight to Chennai had time to go and me wandered into Crossword for a measure of comfort; picked up Namita Gokhale's Things to Leave Behind and A Strangeness in My Mind by Orhan Pamuk; Namita does not impress; her characters hop about doing nothing in particular. Am roaming Turkey with Orhan Pamuk and Mevlut Karata... Mevlut is a street vendor taking me to Calcutta times growing with vendors of gur, fruits, moodi ... calling their wares. On the return flight from Chennai to Mumbai, it was Indigo and flights were on time; thank you very much Indigo though it should not matter to a retired loafer having a large stake in living; again the iphones though this time every male forehead had sheets of sacred ash and kumkum; females looked like having stepped out of temples; but Chennai is a temple city and its templers are ever with their gods. Old, older, perhaps oldest dear Higginbothams is a must for me on every Chennai visit; me drove by Higginbothams on Mount Road (sorry, Anna Salai), in regret. But there it was in Chennai airport and one bought pages of delight in Swami and Friends and Sunny Days by Sunil Gavaskar (a bit boring); Rama flourished with books by Cho. Rama had packed food for chewing the waiting hours at airports as we did not have black money to buy stuff from the Food Courts; at Mumbai airport a sandwich costs Rs.300, the all inclusive cost, including depreciation, perhaps of the bread factory. In between two flights, me and Rama watched Kakka Muttai at Valasarvakkam. Enjoyed the well made film and not a Vijay or Rajni Tamil film. Not much noise, could have done with some editing, yet worth the two hours. 

Scrapbook 1.

At the office he was a
ready reckoner.
Retired, in an armchair
beside a window
in a 10-storey apartment,
inks notebooks with
Ramajayams.....

......

Friend, Old Man
slipped into an armchair
with his Prayer Book:
Jejuri by Arun Kolatkar
rhyming railway time tables
for khandoba....

.....

Junking friend to Ram and Ravans, Old Man timed out to Karuna Road over which was a February moon, fresh from a face wash at the beauty parlour. Putting strides to an evening, Old Man paused at the walled woods of St. Francis Assisi School, spotting a female shikra; reasonably sure; rather lost himself as shikras are not regulars. Checked with Dr. Salim Ali and the Book of Indian Birds; and then the bats (Flying fox), took him for an evening fly over Borivili (West) with its bikes, cars and people; at a park without trees, Old Man requested a landing to have paper cones of theekha bhelpuri from Ramdev, the bhaiya from UP, stuck on the road not voting; 'saab, pet ka mamla hai', said he smiling tambakooed teeth. A dozen bhel puris, each Rs.20, were ordered by Old Man for nine bats and self, to spread tones of delight. And then Old Man set out to track the shikra and the ghosts flying with owls of nights, a belief grandma had seeded in Old Man; he did not see shikra, owls and ghosts; nothing looked haunted, too many men and women and children; yet, he was unsure; none searched Old Man; they were used to Old Man missing; the morning found him under a spotted gliricidia covered with its pink flowers. Spring 2017 is on. From his pocket took out the Prayer Book; read the prayers; thanked Jejuri for being alive; went home.

A Song 121

A shop headline
in italics:
Valasarvakkam Sore
(some say 't' was never there;
some, it walked away);
customers wait in irregular
curves
for the owner,
in a trance
over a wooden, money box.
Walkers wait
for cars and bikes
to offer ways.
Not on.
A bent-back old lady
waits
for the sun to streetlight her street;
as the first ray pencils her;
she nudges
a holed, tin roller
with white rangoli,
tacked to a long stick,
her walking stick,
doling a rangoli
A wait
for powdered dots and lines
to make sense of
a graffiti.

Protests

In the relaxing absence of selfies and mobiles, Rama and me watched the waves of Bay of Bengal and sands of Marina Beach take to each other; a let go follows a let in, as it was, is and will be. Like the many dissents pebbling the Marina; protests more than the sands and salts of Marina; none minded the bits of waste, of this and that. Dissents were over; ashes of violence remained in all; the sea did not give up on the shore. As none knows (all appreciate) much about the jugalbandhi of waves-sands, none till date has touched on a single factor tuning the protest orchestra: jallikattu, Mao, Naxal, Kashmir, drought, pride in a civilisation, distrust of all institutions, dislike of power, a free for all freedom ....they were all there .... except that the jallikattu bulls had no say; or rather, might have had a quiet say. Mahatma Gandhi, sculpted by D.P. Roychoudhri, and in place since 1954, nodded at the many protests festival, with no clenched fists; and when the fisticuffs and beat ups started, stood upset as he always has; will this day be important for calendars. Two crows were resting on his shaved head the noon we were there praying for Gandhi going live. A fine gentleman, a citizen of Singara Chennai, admitted to having no clues to the happenings; Singara Chennai lost its Singara the afternoon when the police and power took over, said a lady to us; 'protests there have to be like it always has been from Tuka and Kabira and Gandhi times; Marina scored; am surprised there are none in modern India in the last few years when youth strings kites to exuberance and the old watch in dismay. Never been much for bans; a civilisation cannot be built on hurt animals and nature, is something to be felt and realised. They were all in black; men and women; why in black, asked Rama; me had no answer. Prefer protests in white. Think old man Gandhi was always in khadi whites; Tuka and Kabir might have been in whites. In me times, perhaps the JP movement and students action in Gujarat did switch on talk of alterations and changes which never happened; new days were not born. And the Lokpal movement in New Delhi. A grossly unequal society needs protests; that's the basic democratic minimum. In Singara Chennai, for Rama and me, Marina, Gandhi and New Woodlands at Dr. Radhakrishnan Salai are a must. We have never missed them. At Woodlands, were ushered in by Nepalis and served by Nepalis, idlis, masala dosas, puri-aloo bhajis; did they cook it?; talked to a Nepali who has been in Singara Chennai for four years, far from the Himalayas, picking up a little Tamil; wondered why customers never spoke in Hindi when me asked him: Kaise ho bhai. At Valasarvakkam, young Bengalis from Burdwan at housing sites; laughed as me spoke in Bengali. Isnt it time they protested. In Amchi Mumbai and Singara Chennai digging open spaces for housing sites is a constitutional obligation on builders; laws do not restrain them; in another 20 years, they will build malls at Marina and Marine Drive to push vikas. Isnt it time, for protests against lawful lawlessness?