A SONG 123

On World Poetry Day, Tuka and Kabira posted A Song on FB. No likes, no comments, no shares. They downloaded their song, jointly written, in abhang-doha style, folded it, put it in a cover, Speed Posted it, without address. The post office did not charge them as there was no address. The cover lies today in the Lost corner of GPO. Heard snatches of it in the film Awakenings of Rober de Niro.

Love is a kind song.
Song mobile,
birdsong,
in many tangs,
a whisper in a gong.
Gods and all want it;
earth has it;
earth bells earth songs,
lost in muds and swamps.
Sea and wind bring it,
sea song,
wind song,
sun song,
moon song.
On the Drive,
Tuka song, an abhang,
Kabira song, a doha;
strung together,
a song with no honks.
Love is a kind song.

Saraca asoca

An Ashoka, Saraca asoca, on Karuna Road is booming. Me stood and watched the moustachioed,
yellowish orange flowers; chatted with it, a one-way affair, felt its oblong, slightly rough leaves; waited. The tree stands near the Mamta Nursing Home, birthing nearly half of Borivili's new generation; every youngster is born here; in Marathi it is called Jasundi. Perhaps, the lone Saraca asoca in the area. There is talk and write these days of bird watching; me am happy; me is now into tree watching, standing before trees, relishing the first spring, brown leaves of a peepal; red flowers of a coral tree; and then on Link Road spotted this tall, old man with a smile crinkling the Gandhian spectacles hanging on to his eyes. He stood before shallow pink flowers of a Spotted Gliricidia; softly pulled out a camera from his canvas bag and took down the tree. The tree has a number as all trees on Link Road. 'These days I click all the trees, match them against google pics and learn a bit about them to become their friends. And anyway, they wont be her for long; like condemned prisoners in jails, they wait with numbers on their trunks, for the earth machines to mow them,' the old man said with laughs intact. Yes, he is being factual. Me has read a Brihan Mumbai Municipal Corporation notice, signed, stuck to a peepal, detailing the number of trees to be hacked and the number to be replanted, which never happens. Borivili (W) is being dug, dug by all, you, me and the world. Electricity and telephone companies, Metro, road contractors have dug up Borivili (W); nothing is left undug; nothing is left to dig; a new money-making game with fresh currency notes. Morning walkers shuffle around speeding cars and bikers; they have no rights except that to be pushed around; have yet to see a car driver or bikers waiting for the old to cross Link Road. On a Sunday morning, Yogi Nagar Road branching off Link Road, is empty as all the car and bike owners are sleeping in or on their vehicles; on this stretch parents love their cars more than their kids. Of many peepals, the dear one stands opposite Dental Hub. This morning, it had golden orioles, coppersmiths, crows.... Rama and me stood, appreciated the gesture ... as birds may not be without trees. Labernums are into yellow flowering.... And then some quiet on a green, wooden bench. When friend Jonty, the labrador, rolled up, climbed on the bench, gave a Sunday licking, lay down .... in a Sunday happiness. 

Oru Muththassi Gada (Grandma's Mace)

Sipping Highland Park, Einar, 1798, single malt whiskey on rocks, Rama and me watched Oru Muththassi Gada (Grandma's Mace). Thought the film gave a better kick than whisky. If film is entertainment, which it surely is, Oru Muththassi Gad is a laugh, many laughs; belly versions; about a laugh list a boorish Muththassi puts down in a book for her friend and relative Soosamma to get done; Soosamma help is critical and high tech - Internet, Facebook, whatsapp and all that. The two hour film directed by Jude Anthany Joseph is based on a tale of Nivin Pauly. Muththassi donned by Aluva and Mumbai located 65 year old Rajini Chandy, a first timer in the industry, doing the part, enjoying the part, helping the audience to many, many parts. 'Oru first class change,' Rama said and we are planning to see it again. Chandy runs a ladies gym in Aluva, says wikipedia and is a Mumbai citizen. Top ladies refused to do the Muththassi role and the director gambled with Chandy. People have called the lady up and want her to be not in a saree but the Christian white dress Malayali women wear in Kerala for church. Me also wanted to call her, did not have her number. Will search for her in Aluva on me next visit. Bhagyalaxmi as Sussamma stands up well and reminds me of a dear, old aunt - Pavuakka. Suraj Venjaramudu is moving away from an unwholesome comedian to a fine actor; he does not yell or pour speeches; he is contained; Mohanlal and Mamutty can pick a few points. A huge relief after the crap - Kammatipadam - with Vinayakan needing a course in films. For me, Oru Muththassi Gada belongs to the genre of Snehaveedu, Ustad Hotel, Achan, Manasinakkare, Oru Cheru Punjiree... What is entertainment for me? Its a Kerala saddhi served on banana leaves, in the traditional style, no particular story line, laughs and odd pleasant twists, no violence, no brawling and yapping... In Oru Muththassi, Vineet Sreenivasan gets an award for a lifted story and is clipped by his girl friend. There is nothing intellectual about these films, they could be improved upon ... they make living and watching films a worthy, saintly act for me. On Tuesday planning a second look with Rama preparing Chitale gulab jamun and khamam dhokla. Now keen on Olapeepi. Again about grandmas.  

Irom: A pranam

When Irom lost in Manipur, realised India is not anymore Gandhi land. Shut down TV and switched on Facebook where some good Samaritan had posted ads of Brooke Bond Red Label Tea. Squeezed into youtube films, they pop up and mostly are better than films. A Muslim lady opens the door of her home, invites an aged couple, Hindu for sure, for tea. The offer is put down by the male in white dhoti and his sareed, tika, wife, tired after a day out. Muslim lady goes about her work, a tad upset and who wont be, like Irom perhaps. With no immediate relief, the couple accept the tea offer. The Muslim lady smiles, offer them cups of Red Label tea with the gentleman pleading for a second cup, on offer. Doubt if it will happen in India 2017 homes; like the way we have, decently and democratically, kept out Irom. A second ad talks of an Alzheimer lady sitting at a table, blank; a young, a neighbour, offers her a cup of Red Label; the lady accepts with a smile and mistakes the lad for her son, settled in US, for making the tea; the tagline pleads for caring our neigbour. Will we care for Irom, since she has lost and is a zero today. Maybe, we will forget Irom. She plans to go south; she knows better; but Manipur she should be in. Am nothing to advise Irom. A young kid helps his littler sister with a cup of Red Label tea, in the third ad. Some little Manipuri child will offer her tea or it could be some dabhawala on the Highway, a book written by Sudeep Chakravarti on Journeys Through a Fractured Land. Sudeep writes: ... As Singhajit politely listens to what he already knows of his youngest sister, the professor maps a sort of trajectory of the protester in the making. He talks of how Sharmila wrote poetry in school, how she would travel everywhere on a cycle listening to people talking about human rights. Sometimes, she would display a stubborn streak of independence. She was once failed in school because she insisted on writing her exams using green ink. The professor talks of how she used to be found in Sanamahi shrines, lost in thought..... Later as an intern with Human Rights Alert in Imphal, she was asked to go and meet a young tribal woman, a Kabui, who was raped by security forces in front of her father-in-law. It happened after a skirmish between insurgents and security forces near her village. When this girl related her experience to Sharmila, the professor says, it triggered an internal change in Sharmila. Then the Malom incident happened in early November 2000. And Sharmila the protest icon was born. ..'So the state has created a living martyr,' I say to Professor Lokendro. He nods vigorously, and bursts into his trademark cackle.' Today we have rejected the martyr. Did we not shoot down an Old Man. 'Do you want an honest answer? I don't consider myself an Indian, is a line in Highway. 

A Malayalam film....

Wednesday March afternoon stood still to watch a classy 2015 Malayalam film: Ozhuvidivasathe Kali (An Off-day game). Had heard about the film, read of it in The Indian Express, never got to see it as the film had a limited release same as no release. In recent times, Malayalam films are mostly crap care of Mohanlal, Mammootty and Sreenivasan. Ozhivudivasathe Kali by director Sanal Kumar Sasidharan based on a short story of the same name by R.Unni changes all that with rare cinematic craft. Yes it is TOPS. With crisp English subtitles, anyone can see it, if so inclined to serious films. Five men on election day go on a forest trip, drink and chat life: the democracy of sex; of one of them being a black skin (born black, live black, die black); a bare body, yellow dhoti chasing a female who cooks jackfruit curry to go with the drink and gets slapped out of sex; she demands payment for cooking and the drunk pay her;  a childhood game of robber, police, king, minister and judge; and the hiccup end. Yes, it is a Wow satire on today's politics where Aadhaar is a must for hungry children and women and living is dangerously anti-national. Questions are banned; answers given. There is force in sex, chats a fellow as his friend talks of sex democracy; then the issue of violating one's wife stands up and there is trouble. Best to keep in mind they are on drinks when men turn sober; they run short of kicking liquids and Namboodiri goes to town to get a bottle promising five votes to a political party: five votes for a bottle, the going rate. Every ism is knocked and living gets a drunken clarity. Crisply edited with the end hauntingly abrupt will make me see it a second and a third time. wikipedia says the film has only 70 shots with the second half of the film being just a single shot. Do not know what it means but the camera moves easily and the sounds of Kerala forests and rains stay with you; the film credit lines a group called Artifical rain makers and they sure have done the job delighting Rama who understands Kerala rains, Alleppey rains, in particular. A 100 minute film, no songs, no dishum, no sex .... just think of it a Kerala film and without Kerala. R. Unni short story should be worth reading and Rama promises to do so. There are no best actors, no best actresses, no comedians .... the film director Sasidharan is all, an entirely director work; a rarity. Yes, me repeats, Malayalam film art has flown far far away from Adoor. Congrats Sasidharan.   

Female Paradise flycatcher

March. Pink bougainvillea in plenty at churches and housing societies. After ensuring sunlight for the day, the sun is in a deep snooze in bunches of bougainvillea, taking a day off. Sun, moon and stars cannot be at work every day, they do have a human rhythm. 'Dont believe your yarns,' said the Lady to her friend, Old Man. 'Have verified the report,' said the Old Man. 'How can sun, moon and stars take a day or night off. You are as usual wrong,' hit back the Lady. Flying fox were snoring upside down from rain trees and that's when they spotted a female Paradise Fly Catcher, glistening in shards of sun on a badam in the housing society. That does not happen everyday in Borivili (W), a Paradise flycatcher, conforming to Dr. Salim Ali description. Female chestnut above, a crest on a black head. 'Where's her partner,' asked Old Man and Lady thought of flying around to spot the male with its long, white tail. Otherwise, it was an ordinary day with crows, squirrels, house sparrows and an occasional extended musical cheep of a magpie robin; Old Man has found them atop water tanks or bare trees. 'More should be coming,' hoped Lady walking to the Primary School, on a holiday, for SSC examinations; her friends were all at home playing or in bed for at least a week, the time it takes SSC examinations to end. But this sun and moon taking a break rumbled in the heads of Old Man and Lady. 'Right I will tell you my source. The flying around female Paradise flycatcher. Its not some eclipse. Its a day off,' detailed Old Man. Lady could not trust as everything else was fine; school buses, cars, bikes, chanting walkers, silent walkers, runners, mobilers were all there as usual. They were all in the ritual Mumbai rush to schools and offices, to be on time reporting to bosses. 'All right, I go with you. But the sun and moon cannot be sleeping the whole day and night. What will they do when they wake up,' inquired Lady. That thumped Old Man as the female Paradise flycatcher had flown away to her mate. Nests had to be built, eggs laid, a new generation put on show. Everything else can wait. 'There's not a tree in LIC Colony having nests; the exception being the dirty stick homes of crows. He is no architect, has no taste; more like the monotonous cement poles of high rises, all the same,' said the Lady. 'You know why sun, moon and stars have taken casual leave? I have an answer,' said Old Man to add: 'There's nothing interesting on the earth. For eons they have played with mud, trees, birds, kids. Now they are not; or in short supply; its like staring into an absent mirror. Humans are boring.' NO, said the Lady softly. For me you are ever interesting, Old Man. And they held hands, palm in palm, walked away.  

Viola Davis

Films, films, films over the last few days. Hacksaw Ridge, Manchester by the Sea, Fences, Moonlight, Loving, Salaam Bombay, Private Life of Ryan, Help, Lion, Florence Foster Jenkins, Doubt ... son Ganesh has a problem feeding films. Sitting alone in the evenings glued to art of films as Rama goes for her walk. Insist on English sub-titles as me not good at American and British lingo. Viola Davis blows me away. Nothing of that sort has happened to me. Have seen three of her films and every time she cries, me cries; she laughs, me laugh; she silent, me silent. In Fences there is the shot of the Lady near the clothesline murmuring Jesus and then that line by Denzel Washington: Fences keep in and out. Reminded me of Frost lines: There is something against a wall... Me muse: Do we need fences? And then the silence of Viola when Denzel confesses to an affair.... Me thought Meryl Streep top class; today me changes; it is Viola Davis. She does not need words, no dialogues nor splintering action. She stands and sits in Help and alters me. Yes, every art is personal; every appreciation is personal. In many ways her eyes and body shuffles remind me of Smita Patil. Sure me am going to be laughed at. She deserved the Best Actress award in Fences with the Best Actor going to Denzel; the Best Film, Moonlight. But thats okay. Lion and Salaam Bombay could be said to be about kids, street kids; Shafiq Said as Chaipau in Salaam Bombay and Sunny Pawar as Sheroo in Lion... anyone can spot on Mumbai streets; they dance to Bollywood numbers, stare and dream of being Shah Rukh Khan in Raees... they are leftovers of society. Yet, when it comes to children me places Durga in Ray's Pather Panchali at the top. Do not know why; maybe, everyone in the art piece likes Apu and none Durga including Ray. Pather Panchali is Apu and not Durga story. Acting is perhaps just a way of being, mostly in quietness; films, painting and sculpture do not need verbiage; they need paints, stones, camera and lights with little or nothing being said. And a top class film urges the viewer to make up tales; viewers become directors and script writers, like it happened to me watching Viola Davis in Help. Am thinking of a film on bais working at Mumbai homes with Madhavi, our housemaid, being played by Viola Davis; the script will not have more than 20 words. After all it does not need words to dream. And dreams are free like mangos and jackfruits at LIC Colony. Literature is unwieldy with its alphabets and music bores with notes and noise, even quality noise. Anyway camera storytelling does not need words; in his Triology Ray dwells silently and then gives up with his last few films like Agantuk crammed with chatter. A film director is a creator, a better one than God. At least, me admits to a change. Every time son Ganesh walks in, me waits for a pendrive full of films. Films excite me; books and sports can wait; anyway, nothing waits for a 70 year old.