A Song 76

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
Jasmine and Jehangir,
in an 1800 Dodge,
in August rains,
searching frogs,
frog songs.
shuffle of snails.
Absent.
Petitioned a police station.
'We trap humans,
dead and live,'
droned a paunchy policeman.
'Humans net frogs,
choke frog songs,
trip snails,'
chorused the Four.
'Kashala thras detho,'
intoned the policeman,
telling off the Four.

  

Rio 2016

'Ajoba, Dipa Karmakar kab hai,' Shreya called. Dipa is buzz.  Days and nights on TV; Star Sports 1,2, 3, 4, HD and ordinary, could be more kind to Indian viewers. Maybe its a huge ask. On August 14, Sunday night, quite a bit of India or at least Tripura, surely me, will watch Dipa vault, the Produnova. A night ago, saw the Lady vault; foreign media vaulting on Dipa; an Indian praised; searched google to know a bit of the exercise; pulled out the Shivani Naik essay on Dipa Karmakar: 'Degree in Difficulty; Many grumble Dipa Karmakar's choice of vault - the difficult Produnova. The fretful fear its too risky, the purists believe it is used by lesser gymnasts for short-term gains.' When did it happen last .... the wait for a performing Lady, cant remember; perhaps, in 2012 London, sat up for Saina Nehwal.  And on August 15, Dipa will take Gold; share with us her Gold. Wont mind, proved wrong, that's the price of hope. Dipa, our hockey men and women, archers, rowers, wrestlers, shooters, boxers ... are unknowns of an unknown India in Rio 2016....  an India of Mahasweta Devi, a village called India sabashing in Rio ... an India of Indian languages ... dangalling...creating their fate, medal plating their fate, fate not a given. Sports is being free of a million years of poor and poorness; village India is doing it ... sports will give them jobs and lives .. apparently, they can climb out of caste, religion and every other put aside as Brahmins are not into sports; we sure dare not ask Dipa her caste; a Muslim, a Dalit, an Adivasi, a Christian ... needs to run and jump well without fear of bullets and lynching....It  could take time before bone and muscle build at village homes with dals and rotis, before turning up regulars at gold. Sirring and Purring to powers will ever be; a mindless IAS-IPS-IFS brigade will be there for sure as the ruling class will insist on a say for village India ... after all the ruling class needs to fly free to Rio and Tokyo to make home buys ... that may also go... Bindra has done it ... Today, how many of us know Chinglesana ... a hockey Olympian who scored a goal for India against Argentina the other day; an Abhinav Bindra is a bit known... his discipline is not made in India Interior ... but there is a stir ... economic growth is seeping at a slow pace, trickle effect say economists, pace decided by New Delhi elite. Village India has only one Way to go ...make it in Rio 2016, Tokyo 2020 ... maybe India will become a sporting nation and the poor will do you, India and me proud. For themselves. Hindi sound bites, hugs and an 'Apna Rani'  for Dipa Karmakar. Maybe, Amul will improve upon its ad: C'mon India! Olympick yourselves up!... Amul There for you!

Bansuri notes

Bansuri notes in the morning air on Link Road. Has not happened before. Cars, buses, bikes, autos, crows ..for sure, common. A character out of film Masaan with a pile of wooden bansuris on his shoulder was airing a bansuri to get customers; do not know anything about music; yet went in search of the notes; found the bansuri player, bansuris and notes at the Jayaraj Nagar- Link Road corner. Looking around, he breathed into the bansuri; bought snake gourd and bhendi from the regular bhayya at Rs.30 per kg; made way on Link Road with bansuri swaras and ragas chasing; paused, as the gentleman caught up; in a pant dropping to the ankles, a torn blue shirt, a face with dried stains of hope, his beady eyes pleaded for a buy. 'Bauni nahin hua, saheb,' he said; well who will buy bansuris early morning from a TR Mahalingam or Chaurasia look alike; Irfan lives near Nallasopara; works as a watchman, spare time hawks bansuris; 'jeena padtha hai,' he explains. His village is near Aodhya and his bansuris are made in Benares. He has a variety of bansuris stacked on his right shoulder with some cased in plastic; prices range from Rs.100 to Rs.20; me having no relationships with bansuris, went for a Rs.20 piece; 'saab, ek sau ka ligiye, assi mein,' discounted Irfan like a e-commerce site. 'Mere ko bajana nahin aata,' me explained; offered a Rs.50 note, Irfan had no change, it being the first morning deal; we walked to the vegetable bhayya for change; fellow readily gave me five Rs.10 coins when he had denied it to Irfan. A lady approached us, examined a few bansuris, said, 'Ye aapke saat bajtha hai, mere pass nahin. Mere bachche ke liye.' Irfan tut-tutted the allegation. 'Aap baja ke dekho,' he replied. The lady blew a blast and traffic on Link Road braked. She paid Rs.20. A few friends on stone seats fixed to the pavements, whimpered our deals; wanted to say bye to the bansuri; found no kids; with Rs.40 at 7 in the morning, Irfan strolled to Murari Dairy Farm for a cup of tea; offered me one; declined; it would have been unfair. Me set for home; Irfan, bansuri and music freighted by raindrops and winds on Link Road; doubt whether he is Aadharred for inclusive banking; and what will he put in an inclusive bank; can he afford a dal-rice with dal at Rs.200 per kg; a middle class me will never know a poor Irfan, a watchman-cum-bansuri player without a music. At home, Rama snatched the bansuri; is into blowing the wooden instrument; coffee is delayed. Says she: 'This is for me, not grand-daughters.' Two humans happy. Not a bad score.

To where, the children asked

A week is no time for a tree. Till last week, me knew the gulmohur, middle aged, strong, light brown; leaved; sometimes hugged it half way when none was around, kissed it; eyes rested on a heart carved on its trunk by some lovers in love; with a lady around, me has done the same to trees with inkpens; today morning, the gulmohur is not; not news; no TV channels for bites; the cut gulmohur lay a few feet away from Karuna Hospital; you dont take trees to a hospital or put them in emergency wards with ventilators; a multi-chopped version crowds the pavement beside the walls of Missionaries of Ajmer; primary school boys and girls took the road; in class rooms they will be taught the lives of trees; their use, as if everything has to have utility to be on earth; the old Lady on a stick came along, stood by and asked no one: Is this not unfair, axing a tree? She knew the birth-time and day of the gulmohur: when people went on cycles and stray cars; there was no primary school; 'all that came after me and the gulmohur,' she said and wept; the lone mourner; felt the wood; recalled summers of gulmohurs and sometimes rosy pastors on branches. No road is to be expanded as the road flowing by the Missionaries of Ajmer is wide enough to take school kids, morning walkers, school buses and cars; what more has a road to do? the Lady asked; the gulmohur shaded a slice of the road. And then she confessed: My husband had cut a heart on the trunk when we got married at the IC Church long ago; still lives the Sunday morning quiet, not the day or year, the Lady said; none protested; 'in fact, my husband took the okay of the gulmohur and that came readily; he is not any more; he sure would have felt bad,' she told me and looked up the chops for the carved heart; the man or woman who felled the tree had sliced the heart; or maybe taken it away; lost now, certainly; nothing of it was there. Some school girls, four year olds, formed a circle round the Lady and the happening rains; opened their tiny umbrellas to keep the Lady and the cuts dry. The children did not know the Lady was in wet. A truck came, carried away the gulmohur. To where, the children asked? 

A Song 75

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
Jasmine, Jehangir,
turned city criers.
1700.
To be
decent,
To be fair,
in some measure,
unsure.
2016.
To be a Muslim
anywhere;
To be a non-white,
somewhere;
To be a gay,
everywhere;
To be a woman,
wherever;
To be a Dalit poor,
forever;
To be
a child,
a tree,
an animal,
is
not to be
by any measure.

A Song 74

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
built no empires
for passovers;
Jasmine, Jamshed,
into charities, ever;
from prayers
and cares,
no retires.

A Song 73

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
in bed,
smelling of Vicks and aches;
Jasmine and Jehangir,
in fevered Coldarins;
raining clouds for curtains;
a diya in a hole,
lighted by a crow,
for shine;
sparrows, crows, mynas
hop to the kitchen,
put up a breakfast
of sabudana kichdi, tea, pavs;
spoon-fed by Deva the donkey.
On invites to bless their homes,
Kabir and Tuka,
Jasmine and Jehangir,
air-lifted to nests;
ordained pregnant, holy eggs,
wet twiggy beds;
wheezed leaky moons.
Dropped at Peace,
their home,
crowds kept vigil
on window sills,
when news came in of chicks;
out popped
Kabir and Tuka,
Jasmine and Jehangir,
from sick-beds,
fit;
assembled,
round sofas and tables,
uncorked wines,
wisdoms.
Need not be so,
became so.