A Song 179

Evenings,
sun crawls down backs
of high rises;
sips a chilled coke.
on the way,
moon, in an escalator,
on duty.
Mornings,
moon slides down
mobile towers,
at ease with steamy, chais;
Sun, fresh, takes an ontime
flight,
describing 24 hours in
Eternity.


    

A Song 178

Old Man
palmed a still butterfly,
breezing on the window sill,
a morning;
buried the flyer
under a mango tree,
with prayers;
returning favours.    

Remembering Kurdi

Sans roots
zero memories
absent stories...

Gangubhai Kurdikar walks a mud track in Kurdi, perhaps to her Shiva temple; with daughter Kishori Amonkar sings a bhajan with a Kurdi crowd; some identify a few names in the crowd. Kurdi town in South Goa is no more. Her home is no more. Gangubhai Kurdikar is no more. Kishori Amonkar is no more. Salaulim Dam, some three decades ago, displaced more than five hundred families; they protested; they were resettled; in summers when waters dip, the unsettled flock to Kurdi to nest in memories. As one generation births another, there may be no memories. A gentleman settled in Mumbai talks of Kurdi to which his daughter is no relation; she was born after the dam, cannot imagine Kurdi. Director Saumyananda Sahi rolls the cameras over Kurdi under and above dam waters; Muslims, Christians and Hindus have little to quarrel about as all of theirs is below vast stretches of water, brought in by rains. men and women stand on shores trying to pin down  their homes; yes, that was my house; here was mine; a ration shop, a chukki, abandoned along with gods; cruelty of a marred love is mentioned and the camera hurries. A Films Division of India film; Sahi shoots facts; does not much trade in opinions; curated by Tatasky. The one hour film left me a bit frozen; at least some 500 families got settled; at Tehri and Narmada, humans have been plucked from their homes, dumped on contractors and agents. Yes, the Salaulim Dam has helped some get water; we agree, says a displaced resident; but ....  Perhaps, Development or Vikas with broken tails and tales of cruelty, may be necessary; is there no humane alternative. How long can we live without stories? Bhils in Madhya Pradesh still seem to have stories. A drought; villagers go to the soothsayer for relief; he is drunk and driven; they paint their homes with trees; thats what they know; rains come. Hum Chitr Banate Hain is a short animation film by Prof. Nina Sabnani with Sher Singh Bhil, an artist. Painting stories on walls is a wall art; it needs villages, homes, stories; when Smart Cities come, India will turn dry. A country is known by stories. India has lots. Will it be so 50 years away?  

A Song 177

'Hi, what are you doing?',
asked the house sparrow,
pecking Marie
at the window sill.
'Watching you,' he said.
House sparrow:
 'Old Man and Lady are missing,
leaving us guessing,'
He: 'Are you sure?'
Sparrow: 'Many times over.'
Karuna banyan, temple peepal,
mangos, copper pods,
flying fox
flew the news around.
Deva, the donkey, rolled brays
on Karuna Road.
Marched to the police station
with protests of compassion.
Police offered chairs, tea,
asked for photos, Aadhaars....
Missing need a sure guessing.
With nothing working,
waited at Karuna banyan,
when came a bicycle
with Lady and Old Man
on its back.
A Magic Cycle,
had its own mind,
out of time,
had wheeled
Lady and Old Man
over minefields of cars, roads,
metros, mobiles;
a vacation.
Ordained by Magic Cycle, 
Lady and Old Man
turned parts and portions
of Karuna banyan;
A spectacle not for opticians;
A waking not of Zen;
A compassion,
not for TV stations;
out of  internet equivocations; 
sparrows
light diyas in devotion.



A note to the reader if any:

A poor, incomplete affair. Anyone can add or delete parts of the poem. Make a new poem. Take a byline for the effort.  

Amma & Appa

Rama and me liked Amma & Appa on Tatasky. Perhaps many middle class families discuss marriage, caste, community, religion the Amma and Appa way and the film shoots the moments. Tone of the debates is low, we could be with Amma when she says she cannot change, not with a thud but a mumble. Amma and Appa live without make ups. Their son, brought up in Cuddalore, marries a German girl; the German family comes home to Cuddalore, tries to grasp a Cuddalore living, where Amma loved none till she got married to Appa to love, tries to appreciate and fly out home, Germany. Amma & Appa are disappointed, they do not show it as they go about tending their garden; buffalos on the road, temple chariots... reminds me of Perumal Murugan. We have these discussions at home and know what it means... when me daughter Dakhi decided to marry Rajesh Patil, there was talk; but me mother came off best accepting the wedding entirely. There is some substance to Amma saying she wished for a Cuddalore daughter-in-law for her son from Cuddalore ... but not Tamil Nadu, not India but.... Germany, she takes off her steel specs, wipes her eyes. What does one say of this woman, slot her ....Yes, parents in India do find it hard to bless weddings of their daughters and sons, outside caste, community, nation. Amma and Appa are honest enough. There are no filmy turns and twists, the boy flies out to Germany with his German lady and her parents; no wails, disappointments stated ordinarily; Amma & Appa together at Cuddalore. No needless music ... something of a non-mantra  documentary done well by directors, Franziska Schoenberger and Jayalakshmi Subramanian. Wish there were English sub titles. Thanks for spotting a troublesome itch .....

Of decencies

In the 60s, NCC was a must in schools and colleges with influentials managing exemptions. NCC parades at the Maidan in December and January mornings bested lectures in economics at the St. Xavier's College. Fogs washing the greens and the Maidan was then green, please believe me; dew bulbs on thin strands of wet grass; and none really paraded, at least me did not; never saw sense marching...Left, Right ...Dayen mud...how does it help. After two hours of needless unpleasantness, squatted in front of the Bihari bhaiya under a tree, boiling adrak ka chai; 'Siya Ram ji...', he softly intoned... sometimes trail off with a Siya... and me would nod a 'Siya Ram ji'.....and then the sipping of the tea from hadi (mud cups) with an occasional beedi free from the gentleman .... they are gentlemen despite the Bengali contempt for them ....me took my time and lay down on the grass for a laugh..... It was so till 2014 when a greeting switched to a hollering, command: Jay Shri Ram with Sita left out. Ram is an Army order today not soft-toned by Sita, last heard when me marched on the Maidan with Armymen commanding the morning quiet. And it was in the Eden Gardens me admired Nawab or the Noob net practicing... the thuck of the bat meeting the ball ......no needless shouts.... Noob served the game quietly... rather silently; till date no Indian cricketer has the Rolls Royce of Noob, and then came Ganguly celebrating half naked ....and today Kohli tearing the pitch, the players, the umpires.... showing off his distorted face .... the Modi of Indian cricket ....A decline in decencies. Akin to the drop in quality of city air breathed. A good friend wonders: Have you ever seen a car stop to let a child or old cross the road in Borivili 2017? There is an inordinate pride in being a Bhakt,  Modi is trending....Touching of feet or better falling at feet ....Maybe one day .... waiting for India women and men 2017 to bow to namastes in old, soft dhotis and kurtas, jeans, sarees ... pure cottons.  

A Song 176

Betwixt evening and night,
stars and skies,
at Saro Lake County
in Kumarakom,
sun at the showers,
moon in deos,
Old Man hummocked
in the styles of
Vembanadu kayal.