October 11, 2015

Aji and Ajoba whirled into dreams with Chiyu entered for an inter-school mini marathon at Dahisar. It was their first live marathon; they are regulars at Olympic and World Championship marathons on TV channels; Aji dreamt of a gold medal imprinted on Chiyu by a pompous official. They were into walking, not marathons; for Ajoba marathons were inconsequent as body building; no brains in it, Ajoba argued while Aji disagreed; 'lets see you run for five minutes,' was her way of putting down Ajoba. At school, Aji had won a lemon-in-a-spoon race in Alleppey; Ajoba had come last in short runs of no particular distance at the Maidan. On Sunday, they were up at 5 against the usual 9; coffee, diyas to a pack of gods and still it was just 6. The runs, for various age groups, were to start at 7. Fiddling nothings, Aji and Ajoba sat in and out of their sofas. Then it was 6.30. Started out for Dahisar; were there by 6.45. Crowds were there on the road running beside Dahisar pool or river content with all the muck of Dahisar. Officials whistled around, bikers stood on the alert, ambulances quiet, police ready with batons for a quick lathi charge on children, parents were marathoning more than their wards. Aji and Ajoba sat on broken pavements near the Start. 7 turned 7.15 and then the first run of boy seniors..they stood on the start line...the bhagwa jhanda of Shiv Sena was waved, the runners started, the gun popped ..nobody really knew when it ended .. the 11 km run ..followed women seniors ....at about 8, the under 8 girls run was announced by a wailing announcer. 308 Chiyu..Aji and Ajoba were still..start said someone..and the girls ran ..half way Chiyu gave up on the one km marathon with stomach cramps...claps .. none knew the winner though officials were furiously scribbling pads...the starters of one run bumped into the finishers of a previous run...some stumbled and fell... a couple of cameramen and camerawomen were not clicking as there were no finishes to capture ....all have been promised certificates..good enough...graceful ... it was a Sunday celebratory chaos...maybe that's the way marathons should be...or at least the Indian way...or it may just be that we are better at a bouquet of bans ...of food, music....

October 10, 2015

Tuka, Kabir, Nammalwar, Meera stood in the dirt and sound on the Kurla railway platform, Mumbai, waiting for Gandhi to bring the tickets for Varanasi. Gandhi and Ba with tickets on hand bought with cash from Ba, stumbled and fell over a steel package. There were no lights at Kurla, as is the norm, and they could not make out the train. They huddled on the platform to share vada-pav, vada made by a Patil, pav by a Mohammed and green chutney by a bhaiya, as the bhaiya crowd bumped past them. Somehow, they crawled into an unlit, unreserved compartment of Varanasi Passenger; allowed floor space though none turned an eye on them. Gandhi had on him a copy of Songs of Kabir, Translated by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra, bought from the Sarvodaya Book Stall; as there were no lights, he couldnt read. By 10 in the night, late by an hour, the train started, stopped, started..they were going to a Ghulam Ali concert at the Sankat Mochan temple in Varanasi; seemingly, Ghulam Ali has promised a Kabir doha and a Tuka abhang for them. At Varanasi station, they were picked up by Manmohan Singh; he relishes ghazals and Ghulam Ali; he listens quietly, no wah-wahs every quarter second. Having hours of time, the group loitered Varanasi, took boat rides, couldnt get tickets for Masaan, settled down for a chat on the stone steps leading to Ganga. Manmohan Singh broke the quiet, asking Gandhi of India. 'What is that?,' Gandhi came back. 'Didnt you fight non-violently for Indian Independence; I know because I was the Pradhan Mantri of Independent India for 10 years,' said Manmohan. Gandhi memory was slipping; Kabir helped: 'Speech diminishes you, Bapu. There was no India in our times. We welcomed Parsis, British and hated Muslims; that hate is something of an Indian must for all times.Today, there is no India today.' Bapu pleaded for some bhakti sangeet; it soothes; Bhaktimarga blunted all search, writes Irawati Karve. After Meera bhajans sung by Meera, Gandhi told them a modern Indian fable: There lives my friend Manmohan Singh. They say he ruined the concept India in 10 years, the concept India he rescued in five years. He never says anything. Never could. Nehru, me and many others never said Sorry in our lives. I drove out Ba from my house, never said Sorry. The concept India had and has no Sorry. This friend, Manmohan Singh alone, says Sorry; said Sorry to Sikhs slaughtered in 1984. Critics said it is easy, Singh being a Sikh. Please, sorry, thank you..are most used by Parsis and British. I should know, having lived in England; JRD is my friend, funds me in need. Concept India never.' Time for Ghulam Ali concert. Siya Ram enjoys ghazals. Winning back a losing out.  

October 9, 2015.

India is in protest. Rama is also in protest. After a tiring, sticky, October walk, one slid into me sofa (Rama has her own) and placed a request for a glass of water. 'I have also come in from a walk. Why cant you get it from the frig,' she said tersely like some Saskhi Maharaj. Offering a clutch of curry laves freely given  by Niranjan in Yogi Nagar, she took her sofa and that was that. Ice remained ice.
Me read out the Breaking Silence of Prime Minister Narendra Modi at Nawada, Bihar to win Muslim votes, in The Indian Express, Journalism of Courage. Tried out Marvin by Tom Armstrong. Ice did not liqueify. 'I am 60. When will I retire; get PF and gratuity," Rama said offering after much thought a sugarless, second coffee with Marie Dog Biscuit. Some facts: She has been cooking for me since 1976. Hard times. Never set aside PF and gratuity for her. Have transferred bank accounts to her name and the ATM cards. Now me depends on a daily dole of Rs.10; have asked for an increment of one rupee as a Gold Flake large costs Rs.11. But that, me concedes is not enough. If me can sit around doing nothing at 70, she deserves the same at 60. Me am the lone Indian not in protest. To avoid breakfast, me hopped out to pick up paruppu wada, idli, chutney and sambhar from Muthu Open Air Kitchen at Shanti Ashram. Rama dislikes Muthu and his fare;banned it; has always been a ban votary. 'Why dont you admit, my wadas are not as good as Muthu,' she said the other day. Maybe, yes, but am scared. Me has offered to cook; bought a notebook to note down the subtlties of making onion sambhar;went ahead with potato bhaji, rice and pappadoms. She decided to relax with Ravanaprabhu of Mohanlal for the tenth time on Asianet. 'You are on your own,' she said. Food was particularly bad; sambhar had little salt, potatoes were burnt, pappadoms scalded arms. Rama ordered lunch from Aura hotel.  Me suggested a cook as a part of the negotiations to sort out the protest, being a democrat. Rama is still insisting on being 60. Quitting the kitchen. Protest is on. 

Aakrosh of Govind Nihalani and Chidambaram of G. Aravindan look like each other but not quite so. In Aakrosh, Om Puri digs the screen with a grim silence through the film; poor adivasis observe, not speak; a lone yell of despair; against him is Naseeruddin Shah, his lawyer on the first case. A desperate poverty administering the right to breathe with conditions; adivasis and poor have a lone freedom: the right to die. Not with a protest but with an acceptance. G. Aravindan does the same but seems to be nowhere as hurting as Aakrosh. Vijay Tendulkar script embowels, every death is an accident; for the legal machinery nothing happens outside the law books. Ardha Satya and Tamas form the three-piece suit of Govind Nihalani with Om Puri everywhere; Sadgati of Ray with Om Puri lurks nearby. They make sense in today's violent India, posting Muslims, Christians, Dalits and the poor to graveyards. More so a day or two ahead of Bihar elections; Biharis have long dined on an emptiness; for far too long. Aakroshes happen most in Bihar and Orissa and are not going to go any quickly. Me started knowing edges of Bihar in Calcutta, an overnight train journey; the rickshawala, chaiwala, dhobi, milkman, newspaperwalla  - all were mostly from Bihar facilitating the Bengali Bhadralok with a dictionary term of contempt: Bihari. Never has sat in a rickshaw as me could not. In those years, Durga Puja celebrations for Bengalis meant good business for Biharis; am proud of my father for a single act of acceptance. He took our local jamadar, Shankar, to open a bank account in UCO bank and that set him on to marriage, family and school for his kids. And then there was me best friend Shailendra Nath from Bihar; we lost each other after quitting Calcutta. Never dropped in to Bihar. And today, Niranjan from Benares was talking of Bihar elections. 'Bihari chaku martha hai,' is the common comment of Niranjan; maybe UP and Bihar are as near as Kerala and Tamil Nadu. Me is uncertain. Me has been following Nitish Kumar and do accept him as the best option for Bihar. With Laloo, Nitish tastes of the orgy of power. Narendra Modi will salt it with Hindutva and me prefers Laloo and Nitish. Niranjan thinks Laloo will win - Jab thak rahega samosae mein aloo, thab thak Bihar mein Laloo. Shivdas selling fruit juices thinks otherwise: Modi jitega, he loudly exclaims in Yogi Nagar trying to get a Hindutva customer. Looked anyway, Bihar is in for Aakroshes. For Rama, ma impressed with Aakrosh, nothing is going to change. Chidambaram, Aakrosh, Paar...is pushing her to a Marxian identity. 

Oct.7, 2015.

These mornings Rama and me start with smiles widening into loud laughs. With filter coffees we turn to Page 20 of Indian Express for cartoon strip Marvin by Tom Armstrong; grandma cartoons; the two-frame cartoon today: You know you're a grandmother..you think it's cute when your grandkids do things that you punished your kids for doing. Rama choked on her coffee; she enjoys it while one cuts the strip for filing and future smiling. Wish Mathrubhumi shared the habit, she said sweeping into times with new born Chiyu and three-year old Shreya. For years, she took an auto to Dahisar at 9.30 in the morning and be back by 8 in the evening; Aji did everything; when the two went to school crying, Aji cried, brought them back home; Dakhi disliked bunking; couldn't afford to protest; afternoons Malayalam lullabies for sleep; Ramayanas and Mahabharatas; today, after many years, Shreya retunes them; Chiyu twinkle toes; evenings, arranged games for some 20 kids in the blind alley till Dakhi came striding at 8 in the evening; mangoes and ice creams in summer; Gems for all seasons; Ludo, Snake and Ladder, carroms...marbles... Aji does not like to admit it; she rejects any such suggestion; she loves Chiyu over Shreya by an arm's-length; son Ganesh has a complaint:You beat us when we were kids; you love them more. Aji nods assent with a hand-wave. Thinks of her parents ( Mama and Mami) growing up Ravi and Rishi in Sreevatsam, Alleppey; they were indulgence; perhaps Tom Armstrong knows them and Aji. Today at 9 in the morning, Chiyu calls crying; she wants Aji home immediately; Shreya is beating her, Dakhi is hollering. Dismissing a crisp dosa on the tawa to me, Rama rushes an auto; when Chiyu calls, it is that way. On the way, buys two Amul ice cream cones and Cadbury Silk. Chiyu is using Shreya's ink-pen without her permission; Shreya is into strong arms. Aji tries truce. Fails. Chiyu, Shreya and Aji step out to buy two ink-pens. Slightly late for school. Aji calls Ajoba with details. School is off. Chiyu and Shreya are coming home. Yes, Ajis are made that way; popcorns of compassion. 

October.6, 2015

Uma, Subbi and Rama caught the Titvala local from Dombivili a 1976 afternoon. For no particular reason; they went at the urging of aunt Radhai. She lived on a firm belief: Ganesha knows best. In 1976, the Lord stayed in a spread of greenness and turning mud roads; in a quiet; they walked having promised to walk to the Lord; a few about to die tongas with not yet dead horses stood at Titvala East station absently. Usually a 40 minute walk; the Lord then had few devotees, a minor politician yet to major into a New Delhi minister. One Tuesday, Sankarshta chaturthi, Rama and me stood at the tailend of a line starting from the local train at Titvala station; after hours, made it; Rama lost her chappals; Dadi Ganesh makes it on the first of every month; son Ganesh has business deals with the Lord: promises a visit before a trip to Leh or a promotion at the office; mostly late to keep his part of the deal. 14 years ago me made a trip; last week did it in the Maruti Wagon R of Ganesh, wading through mud, having gone astray; saral (straight), javal (near), they said, the milkman and the farmer on the way; we thought we lost it; then sighted the temple top of the Lord; about four devotees were around; me prayed, for sure, did not demand anything; at 70 one cannot ask for favours; also one was down; Mohammed Aflaq was bugging; on the way, started praying for Aflaq, sure Lord Ganesh will help; thought the Lord was upset; and then, me had doubts; does the kingdom of Lord Ganesh extend to Aflaq; is Heaven one or many palatial ghettos; yet, prayed to Lord Ganesh; then got strung into the brilliant Tilakan in Malayalam film Ustad Hotel musing over Kismet; Kismet, he tells his grandson sipping a milkless tea on a beach. Is the killing of Aflaq, Kismet? If so, what Kismet is it? There was a way out of  Kismet. We could have let be Aflaq and his family. On the drive back aparajitas and blue morning glories peeped at me. Today, wept over the sense of Gopal Krishna Gandhi pleading for sanity with Rajdeep Sardesai. Gandhi had and does take rubbish; he never did kill nor kills; do not think me has any courage beyond saying SORRY to Aflaq and his family. That surely is not enough.

Marathi film Fandry by Nagraj Manjule and Baluta autobiography of Daya Pawar are uncomfortable. They whirl in me. In Fandry, a Dalit family of Kachre Mane (Kishor Kadam) is told to trap a pig with payment promised made by the village sabha. With reluctant son Jabya (Jambuwant Kachre Mane), wife and daughters, Kachre Mane heads the chase with high castes urging with sneers...one is not sure if the pig is chasing the Manes or otherwise... furious ..reminds one of Paar when Naseruddin Shan and Shabna Azmi get some 30 pigs across a deep flowing river...again they are low caste. From Vedic times, the chase has been ..the upper castes fencing out the low castes, poor and unwanted except for pig trapping ....today's gating out of the poor...Also the calls of a drongo and lapwings hum the air. From Baluta of Daya Pawar to Fandry there is no script change.. from words to cameras...Jerry Pinto, the translator writes: This is one of the finest autobiographies I have ever read, and I count it an honour that I was given the opportunity to translate it. Me agrees.  "Its been a while since we've had a good cut of  meat in the Maharwada," many an aged person would be heard saying." Daya moves on: Carrying a dead cow is killing. Its dead weight is enormous but only two men would carry it. All four of its hooves would be tied and a bamboo would be inserted between them, a huge needle threadled through the gap between its legs. It looked as if a palanquin were being carried. When it was a cow, the sight of those pathetic eyes turned sightlessly towards the sky would chill me. Those eyes haunt me still. My mother's eyes and a cow's eyes showed remarkable similarities, it seemed to me. When it was our family's turn to carry the carcass, my mother would have to do it. I could not bear to see her struggle for breath. I wished I were a little older, so I might be able to lesser her burden." Fandry ends with Jabya hurling a protesting stone. Daya Pawar would have assented. India 2015 is Vedic.