A Song 44

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
kept aside verse,
tending an old woman
from Marathwada
in a torn navvari
and a holed tummy,
with yesterday's bakri.
She gave up.
They gave up.
Ram,
Krishna,
Hari,
poetry. 

A Vishu Saddhi

Fun strode in on Vishu. Chinnu,Chiyu, Dakhi banged the door not the door-bell for Aji to exclaim from the kitchen, 'Kuttikal!.' Shreya snapped open the TV for Tarak Mehta ka Ulta Chashma and the quarrel with thugs (who always have to be Muslims); and when the serial got over, chatted Rohit Sharma, who the other day batted through an IPL innings and won against Kolkata Knight Riders in amaar Eden; Rohit Sharma, the TamBram of Borivili and the best batsman for Shreya; he sure is the most stylish Indian batsman. From Chiyu, learnt a bit about gymnastics: duck walk, frog jump, rope climbing. Everyday the school bus takes her to school for two hours of gymanstics and running. Ajoba and Aji call her Usha after India's best lady athlete, Pilavullakandi Thekkeparambil Usha. Ajoba and Chiyu went down to practice starts among fleets and fleets of cars in Dharma Nagar Co-op. Housing Society with Ajoba on the whistle in the absence of the starting gun. And then came Kai Neettams and Saddhi. Aji in a particularly buoyant Mubaikar mood of having snatched a window sea in the local, unloosed Rs.500 notes; Dakhi grabbed and stuffed the purse cricket-style as Shreya and Chiyu could be spoilt by cash. Saddhi: Rice, avial, potato bhaji, Madras Onion sambhar, Guruvayur pappadams, dal vada and Aam Ras. Aji took the centre seat, Ajoba out on the outsides, generally streaming supplies of pappadmas and wadais to Shreya. Chiyu opened up with games at her Sree Mandapeshwar Kripa Co-op. Housing Society. Mouth-fulls, talked of football, box cricket, athletics, scheduled by society members for summer vacation mornings and evenings. Cars will not intrude playing space. Unlike, the car godown at Dharma Nagar Co-op. Housing Society. (A confession, son Ganesh owns an apartment and a car, bought on fleecing bank loans). When me settled at Dharma Nagar in 1993 there was space and space for Ganesh, Kevin and all his friends to romp. Outside were open, green fields; it was a slice of bliss in Borivili. Today, in 2016, parents have usurped the playing spaces of their children to park not one but two and three cars; a badminton court has been cursed by Mahindra SUVs; two years ago a tree was cut down and when protested was shouted down; today, citizens cannot walk straight; they earthworm their way past cars; perhaps one of the many insensitive housing societies of Borivili. Today, girls and boys are warned by their parents for playing box cricket in between cars. Me would like to quit this society. Well, it is almost unlivable with drumbeats from Kutchi Society, Narayani Gardens, Padmavati Gardens and many more without a tree or flower. But cannot as there is no cash. Would like to shift to green Holy Cross Road.  On Vishu day, Shreya and Chiyu promised to buy me an apartment at Sree Mandapeshwar Kripa Co-op. Housing Society with the Rs.500 given by Aji. 'We can see you when we want. We are not coming here anymore. Your society is boring,' said Shreya. Am picking up Shreya offer. 

Vishu Laburnums

On Yogi Nagar Road, the Laburnum (Cassia fistula), has signed the muster in flowers on time. Sufficient they be on the parent tree, not be plucked for Vishu, April 14. At six in the morning, stood under the tree, toting three lemon yellow bunches on air. For me Vishu is on. Rama is searching for elavan, chakka, chena, snake gourd, raw mangoes, Guruvayur pappadams, banana and jackfruit chips; she will arrange them at the altar to her Guruvayurappan, in front of a mirror with some gold ornaments and manjadi in a uruli. Early morning April 14 ahead of the sun and koyal calls, she will light diyas and pray to her Guruvayurappan; every year, every same day, every same time. Today, Rama is in trouble as she has no loose cash to offer Guruvayurappan in a silver plate. With every banker and every banking editor turning Wordsworthian on a revolutionary cashless economy, me read up pages and pages of columns and reports on what Dr. Raghuram Rajan styles a revolution. The Quick Edit at Mint reports Dr. Rajan mentioning revolution twice. Important observation. Me has heard and read of revolutions --- Lenin, Mao, Fidel Castro and me dear own Charu Mazumdar and Samar Sen of Frontier; but Dr. Rajan's revolution does not belong to that disgusting genre. Stepped into Corporation Bank to get loose change against a one hundred rupee note; being a public sector bank the clerk at the counter did not offer a seat nor a good morning; just a gruff, 'nahin hai; app kijiye aur cashless payment kijiye; change ka jarurat nahin hai.' Stepped out into a 10 a.m. April Mumbai sun, trudged to Raju, the coconut seller, pleading on bowed feet for change. The gentleman smiled.....'Vishu nallakki ...illiya.' and offered Rs 5 and Rs.10 coins against Rama's hundred rupee note. Grateful, ordered a nariyal pani, Rs.35 a coconut; some relief from cash, cashless economy and Rajan revolution. With clients scarce, got to talking the revolution of cashless economy with Raju and a bhaiya, who had paused his auto for a coconut water; they did not know what me was talking; well, nor did me know; to make it worse, me explained about the mobile for all buying and selling, no banks, no nothing; the new Brahmastra, Made in India at RBI Towers; just press a button and release a nuclear weapon. 'Saheb, mere ko kuch samajh mein nahin ata hai (Do not understand anything),' said the auto bhaiya and added, 'chutta nahin milta aur savari jhugda karte hain. (without loose change get into fights with passengers). He pulled out a pile of currency from his pocket, paid Raju, went his auto way; Raju added the cash to his pile in his dirty shirt pocket. Dr. Rajan revolution has not reached the streets; it will one day after the rich of Malabar Hill get used to it and misuse it. Maybe some revolutions bypass the commoner. They are that way. With the heavy coin pile, me walked home happy, holding cash is divine. Rama, in glee, usurped the monetary treasure, poured it at the feet of her Lord Guruvayurappan. On April 14, she will dip into the cash pile and offer them to her grand-daughters, Chinnu and Chiyu..... this day no counting, an unlimited offering; the vegetables will become sambhar and avial with paruppu wada, pappadpoms and Aam ras from Jain Dughdhalay....Revolutions will or will not be. Vishu will be forever. Happy Vishu. Happy Laburnums.

An ordination

Today, April 7, 2016, ordained an assistant cook by wife Rama at 10 a.m. in the morning. It happened this way. Rama flew away to Bengaluru to be with Mythili, Mala and Hari leaving me to mind the house: drop smelly clothes in the LG washing machine, dry out the final products; turn into an untended kitchen with a notebook of cooking notings, Rama version; sambhar, mor kushambu, safed bhopla kuttu, bhaji with dry newspaper thin papads; me was liberal with the papads to keep down the tension of cooking a good story; rice in the cooker; cooked with precision and passion in the evenings for dinner with son Ganesh, usually 10 p.m. Started the proceedings, lighting the gas oven, every day with a Rama, Krishna, Hari of Kabir and Tuka; that gave me the good luck and concentration to stare at Rama jottings in the note book; arranged the cut vegetables, done by me, in the morning... bhendi, beans, safed bhopla, Madras onions and of course potatoes. Gunpowdered potato bhaji made for the common denominator with the rest forming the surroundings. On the first night it was mor kuzhambu, beans curry, rice, potatoes and Guruvayur papads. Son Ganesh spread the manufacture on his plate, dipped a finger in the mor kuzhambu, sucked it with a Wow...mobiled the dinner to all ... and put me on the way to ordination. When Rama landed home to rush into the kitchen, son Ganesh told her to wait and added a spicy: 'Did not miss your dinners'. Rama gulped as if she had lost forever, her kitchen power; it is not a dictatorship nor a democracy, something beyond. Ahead of boarding the Mumbai flight, she phoned up the menu for a elavan kuttu - 'I am eager to have it,' she said, me do not know how as phones show no faces. The order came at 10 a.m. and elavaan was not on sale in Yogi Nagar; took an auto to the Borivili market to land up on a 500g slice of elavan; that day elavan was absent as Vashi market was shut. Did not know elavan has a tough green skin; me had to battle with it, cut my finger, yet made it; slicing raw banana is easy; and then started on the elaborate job of shearing a tougher coconut. When Rama landed in the evening, offered her fresh filter kapi with creamy milk from Shree Jain Dughdhalay; that rested the Lady; she had started at 10.20 a.m. from her Bengaluru home, an IndiGo flight as usual late, was at home by 6 p.m. and they say air travel is time economical. The coffee revived her to dash the kitchen to taste the elavan kuttu. She beamed, she laughed, she blessed. Set aside a portion for Dakhi, Chinnu and Chiyu -- super she told Dakhi. And Dakhi slipped into it as she slips into everything. Son Ganesh had a party to attend. At 10 p.m. Rama and me sat and ate, well what all do during dinner. With roasted papads, life became a journalist scoop with a byeline. With the bio data getting impressive, me was ordained an Assistant Cook. Somewhere getting nearer to a dear old Thiruananthapuram uncle, a reputed cook, a chamayalkaran of Pazhavangadi. 

Mumbai, Mumbai baat chali hai....

At Marine Drive in Arabian Sea, Kabir and Tuka welcomed -- Ya, Ya, Ya - a family of house-sparrows - grandpa, grandma, grandkids - 'kuthe hai, kuthe'. Grandpa, being a patriarchal society, led with 'Kaay nahin saheb. Barra hai ka' as Kabir shared a papercone of chana with the sparrows. Pecking a chana, Grandpa brooded over a news item in the last page of Loksatta, mourning the going away of house sparrows from Mumbai. Meera made tea in plastic cups as they chatted of that and more of that. Grandpa took out from his coat pocket a sparrowed notebook: The City Book on the lines of The Jungle Book of Rudyard Kipling; two new-born house sparrows chirped: 'Jungle, jungle pata chala hai... (Gulzar and Vishal Bharadwaj); pestered Meera for tickets to the latest version of The Jungle Book. Old grand souls, Kabir and Tuka nodded bald heads, smiled toothless smiles...aware of an irrelevance; the morning sun in suit and boot was rushing to office; the sea had no waves; there was no air, only hot air of women and men speeding bikes and cars.  A Fiat, the first made by Premier Automobiles Ltd., at Kurla, parked near the footpath at the drive; the car had no horns, the Lady clapped as the Gentleman drove; out stepped a Parsi couple (who else) older than the First Creator; they had tickets for The Jungle Book at Metro for the sparrows, Kabir, Tuka and Meera; first show, first day. The generous Parsi Lady brought out paper bags of brun pav, mava cakes from Kayani for Meera to unpack and share; the Gentleman Parsi and Lady Parsi sipped tea with the Parsi gent smoking a Goldflake, Large size, costing Rs.13 per stick. The sparrows had lost winging; some say they have lost it, wings and habit; boarded the Fiat for Churchgate Baug where the Parsi couple lived; their address before the first post office openend at Churchgate; live on Mozart and Wagner and piano; there was talk of dropping grandma and grandpa houses sparrows at a Hospice; youngsters protested; the Parsi couple decided to keep them; theirs is a funny home with small holes and nooks in the walls (all the creation of the Parsi gent) for sparrows to nest, breed. That happened when for months, no sparrows came to share morning Marie biscuits and tea on the balcony with the Parsis in their very own and inherited 1,000 year old rosewood rocking chairs; the Parsi gent stared at his Lady in Parsi distress for gone beasts and trees; even their pet dogs Naman and Saman were upset; in trimming trees, our municipal bodies in delight, had chopped them; nests went; no birds in the air. This Sunday morning, the Parsi couple were on tea, brun pav and the The City Book with a forward by Kabir and Tuka; Kabir and Tuka had put in a note favouring international publication; the grandfather sparrow in a housecoat stitched by their daughter, walked in, unaware. Kabir and Tuka in their forward:

Mumbai, Mumbai baat chali hai
Ped, pani kahin nahi hai,
Jeena mushkil ho gaya hai,
Are, kya karun bhai, kya karun bhai...  


Being influential, the Parsi couple have arranged sale of the first few copies of  The City Book on the release day of The Jungle Book, Friday, April 8, 2016, Gudipadwa. Venue: Taj Intercontinental, Gateway of India.

A Song 43

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
after Eden 6666,
flat on mats,
arms pillowing heads,
in a woozy snoozy of
bats, balls, grass,
scrabbling koyal-speech,
slap of seas,
swish of skies.
Edened souls.  

Chinnu-Chiyu

A blog to me is self-talk. With bread toast (surprisingly unburnt), Amul butter and filter kapi, settled in front of the window and the blog-chat began. Opened the computer for a blog which has a few good habits; sometimes it is read, liked, mostly by Kartik Iyer; mostly, unread; but blogging is a morning prayer, a Hanuman Chalisa on this Saturday morning. Rama is jamming the Sreevatsam family crowd in Bengaluru: Mythily, Hari, Rama and Mala. She could not ask for more from her Lord Ganesh; alone on Friday am getting used to do nothing but stand and stare; did not Milton (hope me is right) say: 'Those who stand and stare, also serve'; the mobile squeals and Dakhi, as usual invites, for  Friday lunch at her 8th floor look out at Mandapeshware Kripa Co-op. Housing Society; at the gates, a mango and jackfruit are overflowing with fruits, mangos and jackfruits; me stood and stared; a green pleasure chadored me; by 11 with Chiyu hugging and Shreya koyalling 'Ajoba'; life is on; the final exams are on, Dakhi is tense, not Shreya and Chiyu; they were packing their tiffin; Shreya stuffed cut water-melon into her lunch box; for Chiyu it is her favourite chopped raw mango and gunpowder; they settled down to Aam ras from Jain Dughdhalay ordered by Chiyu. By 12.20 they were in their school bus; Dakhi served dal-kichdi, beet root bhaji, raita and papad for lunch; with that sattvic food, me was sure will hit a century even if Virat Kholi did not. A powerful air-conditioner, froze me; am comfortable with fans; at 4, they were back from their exams and into Aam ras when Shreya debated India-West Indies T20; for the Lady, Indian cricket is about two Mumbaikars: Rohit Sharma and Ajinkya Rahane; more perhaps, Rohit Sharma of Borivili descent; 'Kya Ajoba, kya hua, ye two no-balls kaise ho saktha hai,' the Lady remarked as Chiyu nudged me for bhel puri and sev puri; had no answers for Shreya; well, not even all  our patriotic Indian cricket writers and commentators have; they bawled about a wet ball as if both the teams and all of them experts did not know of dew in the night, ahead of the game. India did not deserve to win but that me kept away from Shreya who had panned the match with 10 of her friends at home, according to Dakhi. With Dakhi okay, Chiyu and me autoed to IC colony to pick up three packets of behl puri and one sev puri; and we downed it all with chilled Coke. It was the moment for Dakhi to ask them, how the exams went; the door bell squealed and three little girls - Utsavi, Jhnavi, Prithvi - walked in; the Dakhi query fell off the balcony. The gang of Five, talked this and that and many, me did not know. Some five years ago, Shreya and Chiyu got me to play with them. Son Ganesh had named Shreya, Chinnu. Today, they have gone down to play in the open spaces of their housing society. Time to say, Bye to Chinnu-Chiyu and me Byed. Dharma Nagar to a bare home.