A Song 170

of mms and inches,
mumbaikar is unsure.
of rain waters sure.  
zany raindrops
half-toned,
half-torn mumbaikar,
an august day.
mobiles shut, denied selfies.
craned necks for delayed locals;
trudged absent roads
on vada pav smiles;
advised to stay at watery homes,
after flooding leaky offices,
exited to high tides on Marine Drive.
mumbaikar, in lower caps,
is a no views citizen
of
Maximum City,
Smart City,
Finance Capital;
reduced to anonymity,
is a low key votary
of a fourth seat in locals.

A Song 169

Modak times.
Tuka, Kabira
lined up at the lab
for blood
and BP tests;
a nurse syringed blood
from forearms;
reports would be late
as staff were on Ganesh offs.
In air conditioned labs with sofas
played chor, police
to pass time.
No coins to toss as the last fiver
went to kachrawali Krishna;
pulled out debit cards
when they are not tossed at IPLs.
Tuka won the toss,
opted chor,
Kabir police.
Game got real.
Kabir's unlicensed loom,
Tuka's tamboora
hauled by roving municipal vans.
Normal, said reports.
Traipsed to Ganesh pandals
for Modak bites;
Ganesh with Modak belly,
offered Modak sites.
Humans in
Modak times.  

Lipstick Under My Burkha

Jeans ka hak. Jeene ka hak. That could or should be the freedom cry for every Indian woman: girls, sisters, mothers, wives, grandmothers. And men: boys, brothers, fathers, grandfathers, should at least put a ear to. The slogan is easy and crisp. Lipstick Under My Burkha, directed by Alankrita Shrivatsava, scores with this one liner. Caps the film. Four women, used by their men, want to live their lipstick dreams, a lipstick Rehana Abidi ( Plabita Borthakar), steals from a mall, to go with her jeans under a burkha. Situated in Bhopal, they have their dreams, city dreams...and today cities in India offer inches more space to women than their villages... they could well argue cities and villages are same with men never leaving them alone. Beti ghar ke andar raho. Dont we do to our women what Konkana Sen Sharma and Ratna Pathak Shah face? Me thinks we do it on a daily basis (including me). If a woman wants to work she needs an okay; if she wants to smoke, it is unwomanly; men can, women cannot. Perhaps, Ratna Pathak Shah, wife of Nasee Babu comes away brilliantly. Wonder whether Nasee Babu has seen the film. And did he like it. Yes, Jeans ka hak. Jeene ka hak. No needless morals and dialogues. Lots of quiet. Well told. Rama,watching the film on amazon said it was a  tough film to see in a theatre. Sex scenes, particularly, she said. Could be, me added in times when every political leader and Hindutva want women in kitchens cooking for many, many kids; blessed if boys, cursed if girls. Intrigues me, how they shoot such scenes. The many variants of Rosy, put down by routine, protests felled by their men who sexed never kissed; Konkana is a tad forlorn, asked of kisses. Saw the two hour film twice with Rama. Worth it. Isnt it time for husbands to review their fix with wives? Boys with girls. Just sit across a table and talk. Me is no different and have said many Sorries; but thats not enough as it should not have taken in the first place. Now am planning to buy a Lipstick, US made, for Rama. Never bought her one.      

A Song 168

Narayanathu Prandhan
is fact-fiction.
Has no shadow.
At cremation grounds,
fiery and weepy,
one may spot Prandhan
or Pagal,
resting under a banyan
head to a stone.
Cooks rice over burning pyres,
if rice there is.
A night when deaths were not burnt,
a goddess sidled to Pagal,
woke him from thought,
promising favours.
'Ask, and you will get it,' she sweet talked.
Maybe, she loved him.
Asked Pagal:
Can you shift my
elephantiasis
from right to left leg?
'No,' said she.
Can you shift my death?
'No', said she.
A miffed Prandhan
lay down on bare earth.
Goddess nudged:
'Quit praying,' she suggested.
Tired of beggars, prayers,
Prandhan had quit,
long ago,
goddess did not know.  


(From Narayanathu Prandhan in Aithyhyamala, a collection of stories in Malayalam)    

A Song 167

Raindrops
scribble
skies.


.......

Picked up a wood,
walking stick
from Giri Stores, Matunga,
to stick up
old man.  

A Song 166

A Kabira for every scholar.
None denies Kaibra.
Thanks be.


.....

 3.30 a.m.
Borivili local
honks good mornings
to snoozy Mumbaikars;
hop, step and jump
for window seats;
in sleep, step out at Churchgate.
A day is over.


.....

Kabira
lolling at Marine Drive,
at the far end,
dipping into the Arabian Sea.
Mumbaikar is Maya,
intones Tuka;
what is Ram, asks Kabira.

A Song 165

70, a regret.
No sisters.
No rakhis.

A Song 164

Raksha Bandhan.
Tuka, Kabira
staple Marine Drive
with rakhis,
Ram Krishna Haris,
zaniness.

A Song 163

In 40 years
from low rise to
high rise;
windows shut out
scurrilous winds,
rains;
on-ing TV for non breaking news,
air conditioner for 24 degree zens,
sit at breakfast table,
chewing lives in low rise:
'of being poor,
lucky,
and at peace.' 

A Song 162

Pushed by kids
Rama invested in a
original long book
to ball pen a cookery almanac,
for future reference.
Setting on fire TamBram
foody desires.
Tuesday her Holy day,
uploading Ganesh and gods
in her kitchen,
an OM,
for an auspicious start.
Recipes for sambhars, avials, olans,
thorans, vadas, payasams
ladled by mother at Sreevatsam.
When 10
Rama fate cooked.
At 62, cooking and Rama are.
When 10,
it was smoking wood fires,
grinding stones,
kitchen appliances.
At 62, Rama dwells in
mixies, ovens, Madam's spices.
Tacked to every dish,
notes on life,
living.