November 1, 2015.

Jeeves reads Spinoza. Jeeves protests reluctantly, decently. Did Jeeves buy a copy of Marx and Lenin; were his famed disagreements with Bertram Wooster on dress codes come from Marx. And seemingly, Jeeves, the famed help, always won over master Bertram Wooster; earned everyone's cheer. Am starting again on A Pelican at Blandings bought in Bombay by Ramesh Anna on September 15, 1971. Was Pelham Grenville Wodehouse a Marxist; not the loud and grim Marxist with guns in pockets and red flags in fists; not the Sakhave of Malluland; but an English dry laugh, liberal version with 75 per cent of his soul for Jeeves and 25 per cent for the lazy Wooster and Lord Emsworth with Empress of Blandings; no writer elevates a pig to an Empress unless touched by Karl Marx. Me has not read all of Wodehouse; not even many of Wodehouse; but reasonably assert he delighted in nonsense ragas; an air of nonsense than sense. Me am not sure whether Dr. Raghuram Rajan, RBI governor, musician T.M. Krishna and corporate Narayana Murthy are Wodehousians; a market mix of laugh and protest; the threesome are humans, Emsworths? No RBI governor has ever told the press he goes by the name of Raghuram Rajan, doing a job. And me has watched from afar S.Venkitaramanan, Dr. C. Rangarajan, Dr. Bimal Jalan, Dr. Y.V. Reddy. They never spoke out of turn; they were the jawans of the government ever ready into an attention and a salute. Interest rates had to be correct for them like jawans their uniforms and shoes. Dr. Rajan became Jeeves; space for every view across a talking table for all. Dr. Rajan need not have said it as Jeeves need not remark on the suit of Wooster. At IIT-Delhi, me is not sure if Rajan chuckled, of course there cannot be belly laughs; perhaps, he would have gone home to watch All Blacks play All Yellow in World Cup Rugby. That sort of man. Also firmly declare no Carnatic or Hindustani musician has elaborated on the raga of dissent; T.M. Krishna is the one; he does not plead for a sabbash to his music; he only wants he to play his music. Narayana Murthy, did something unpleasant when he tried to get back into Infosys; well, he walked away;and me has made more mistakes than Murthy; cant blame corporates passion for cash; Murthy looks a broken brick crying over a broken nation. And a lady Kiran Mazumdar Shaw backs him. Jeeves, Rajan, Krishna, Murthy....liberals...Wodehousians in demur....Yet, Tavleen Singh in The Indian Express writes: The sad truth is that our public intellec tuals have always acted as a fifth column of the Congress Party for reasons of 'secularism', and that is now more obvious than it has ever been.' Sad, indeed. Amen.  

October 30, 2015.

A dip in the morning air. Rama switched off the fan. A Mumbaikar may hope for a few less hot months. Hes and shes may not wipe their wet brows. There may not be a cloudburst of smiles. Living could be about fractions of pleasure. Pens off Ved Mehta in Daddyji: 'In winter, the sky is blue and hospitable, the nights are frosty and starlit, the fields are left furrowed by the plow, and the air is filled with the call of partridges, the honking of wild geese overhead, and the languid creaking of Persian wheels as the bullocks turn them round and round to draw water from the wells...' Mumbaikar has no such luck; from me window watches parakeets, fresh as ATM currency notes, screaming their joys, landing on any perch...  before a bye till tomorrow. Ved Mehta is blind; became so when 'not quite five'; was put in a train at Lahore station for a blind school in Dadar, Mumbai, says the last page of the narrative, picked up a month ago at Strand Book Stall; a relative went along; the last words Daddyji said to Ved (and the first words I remember hearing) were:'You're a man now.' Became a man to write Daddyji, of times when the family started in a Punjab before 1947. Daddyji is about Amolak Ram Mehta written by the second son and fifth child of Daddyji and Mamaji --- Ved Mehta. Politics, partition, patriotism are mostly, perhaps, entirely excised; no blood, no Gandhi. At Port of Aden, Daddyji opens a letter from father Lalaji, which he destroyed in 1938; why, the reader is not told. Lalaji began by 'remarking that his great-grandfather, grandfather, and father had lived and died in the same village of Nawankote. His great-grandfather had gone on foot as far as the next important village, and that was all. His grandfather had been on a pilgrimage to Hardwar by bullock cart, and that has taken several months. His father had been a passenger on the first train between Lahore and Sahranpur, and that journey had taken only a couple of days. And he, Lalaji, had ridden in a motorcar, and his sons had crossed the ocean in steamships - something his own father could not have dreamed of.... But, as we say in our beloved Punjab,'Even the meeting of rivulets is a matter of kismet.' Me morning turns a bit warm. For a few minutes tried to act blind; fright, opened me eyes. Ved Mehta goes to be on the staff of New Yorker in USA and write. 

October 29, 2015.

Today at me spot in LIC Colony -- Krishnan point after me favourite wildlifer M.Krishnan- watched a lady koel and three parakeets in raucous conversation. 'Are you a Muslim,' asked a parakeet of the lady koel, who shot back, 'Are you a Hindu.' No fights, no police, just shouts across branches. Parakeets flew away, leaving the lady koel in a muse. Home, into coffee, watched two drongos shift from the rain tree in the garden to a window, not mine. Watched them. They called. Then the routine. They fly out to fly back to the spot they started from. Two crows, from a safe distance, asked them: Are you bhaiyas from UP? Are you Madrasis? Drongos have had quarrels with crows over food and nest, but never over identity; the earth has always been theirs. Not so today. No more. Jay Mazoomdaar in the front page of The Indian Express reports Rajasthan government will not share Great Indian Bustard eggs with Gujarat. Gujarat has yet to part with its Gir lions for relocation in Kuno wildlife sanctuary in Madhya Pradesh. Rajasthan, Gujarat and Madhya Pradesh are BJP ruled states though one is not sure if lions and Great Indian Bustards know it. They have decided to check it with the Boss. Great Indian Bustard is getting rare with some 200 birds in the wild, says the report. Bustard eggs go to Kutch to breed in safety and cut the fall in population; Maharashtra, Gujarat and Rajasthan are to take part in the rescue. But Vasundhara Raje of Rajasthan says no; experts are in a quarrel and thats unsurprising; like Indian politicians, modern-day padded--eyes Gandharis. Bikram Grewal of Rajasthan wildlife board questions the 'rationale' behind sending Rajasthani eggs to Kutch when the birds favour Rajasthan; birder, Dr. Asad Rahmani, sees 'no merit' in Grewal; Kutch has grasslands for bustards. Relocation of Gir lions is in the Supreme Court and maybe there till infinity. Kerala elephants cannot stroll into Karnataka. Me is into reading Jungle Folk, Indian Natural History Sketches by Douglas Dewar; written more than 100 years ago when earth and India belonged to birds and trees, fish and fowls; Dewar never thought of tapping a crow in Madras, warn it of flying to New Delhi. In Zoo in the Garden by EHA (E.H. Aitken), India is one piece; Krishnan, oddly and unfairly, was against foreign flora. Nobody has asked lions and bustards. Me India needs a new India; me, a new me.For today, bye India. 

October 28, 2015.

5 in the morning, circle of a moon dropped by me, in bed. Moon looked, me looked; in the quiet of 5; a deep blue sky broomed of stars; a white whole; scientists term it Supermoon; Calmanac marks it as Kojagiri Poornima; me am not a songster to song the moon; reading Gajanan Madhav Muktibodh in New Poetry in Hindi, an anthology, by Lucy Rosenstein; 'Chand ka muh teda hai (Moon's face is crooked), writes Muktibodh; maybe he wrote a half-moon night; 'In the middle of town/midnight-on the walls of pitch black rock....Across the factory enclosure/the minarets of black-faced chimneys--Exclamation marks!/Between the minarets the moon's crooked face,/suspended,/in my heart, apprehension--/now a scream, now wretchedness.....'  A short essay on the poet mentions a work of some 46 poems in a Muktibodh lifetime. Perhaps, haiku poets singing the moon, will just walk away. Me in the morning went over and over Chand ka muh teda hai. Leafed over to Raghuvir Sahay with: 'Hum tho sara ka sara lenge jeevan/'kam se kam' wali baath na hum se kahiye' ('I will have the whole life/dont give me this 'at least' talk). And in Phoot (Rift): Between a Hindu and a Sikh/A Bengali and as Assamese/A backward and a forward:/Rift deeper than these-/between a victim/and a survivor. Muktibodh and Sahay were Marxists but not contained by Marxism. Critic Shamser asserts: 'Muktibodh crossed the romantic limitations of Chayavad, upheld Marxist philosophy, armed himself with the weapons of Experimentalism and advanced Nirala's pure humanism, as a free poet, above all parties and ideologies. Sahay walks by Marxism to add: But Marxism should not be put on top of poetry like a cover. Vidya and me bought the book at Oxford Book Stall on December 5, 2002. There sure is something teda, crooked about the Supermoon over India 2015. By 6, the moon slid away, leaving me with an upset sun. 

December 27, 2015.

For years the lane lay without a name. A mud-tar patch, five feet wide, bound by jackfruit, jamun, mangos, rain trees and others me know not, housing societies inside, twirls along in quiet .. from the home of Mission Sisters of Ajmer to Shanti Ashram. Me has walked this wavy line of land in LIC Colony for years ...at least more than 15 years... Today it has a name: Sri Ayyappa Mandir Marg. Lord Ayappa first took residence in a garage of a housing society; when it went for redevelopment, he shifted residence to a tin shed edging the track .... that was when we became friends...no fear nor peace of prayers, just a Hai... Lord Ayyappa and me....with the redevelopment over, Lord Ayyappa sits in a ground floor apartment, owned by prides of threaded and unthreaded Malayalis...there are more associations than Malayalis in Borivili, more gods than in Kerala... me am out. They say America has more temples than all of Tamil Nadu. But does any have a lane with a bouginvillea at the Sisters end and a bird spot towards the Ashram end? Me doubts; pink and white bougainvillea always, blue morning glory and morning glory in October, wild ladies' fingers, red star glory and others me know not. Me breaks walk every day to gaze at the plenty. At the bird spot, one is sure of enjoying a warbler or a crow; over the last three days, has been with two female koels on a dry tree ...me stands under the tree and waits; they breakfast on some insects; sit and watch morning walkers pass by loudly talking Sensex and Modi; today me stood for more than five minutes; she was above me, white barred and brown, some 10 ft. away; a second lady flew in; talked of the weather and crows' nests; flew away.. walking resumed...with the namkaran development will visit the lane, me fears... into Link Road and the Dogs Spot with aparajitas in blues and whites: strays, an Alastian, a pomeranian, a Labrador with their owners. Yes, dogs are the best humans. Patting me back for the day ... one beamed at Rama, surprising the Lady. 

October 26, 2015.

Paulie (Paul Noronha) met Rita at Mittal Bedi and then 'you know what happened', chuckles Paulie on 24 years of husbanding Rita. Met Paulie in 1994 when Business Line started; bumped into him working in Financial Express but we were just hullos. In BL he had a dark room, where his camera clicks went live when he gave them a chemical bath.  It ate hours, tensed Paulie; after landing his artwork on the desk of News Editor, Ashok Reddy, in Chennai, Paulie would wink a rum and we went to where but Press Club. Tote up time and Paulie has been with a camera for a near 30 years; first 5 years were 'chhota, mota' in Paulie tongue. With dad, a cameraman, he rang in with  'spotting of pics' and 'tinting the negatives'; stints at Kanthi & Co. and Mittal Bedi; one morning he strode into The Indian Express at Express Towers, Nariman Point; joining up with Vivek Bendre, worked under Mukesh Parpiani. One night at Tadoba Andhari Tiger Reserve, Paulie chatted of photos, photography and newspapers; 'for me, Mukesh Parpiani is the best,' he told me and today Mukesh is a Boss at National Centre of Performing Arts (NCPA). Vivek and Paulie go together; Paulie joined BL, Vivek followed to The Hindu, still are. Adjectives and abuses dont go with a Goan and surely not me Paulie; loves his rums and chats and sometimes goes fast forward, me with him. Fennied late nights at his Goan adda near Madgaon; Paulie is a laughing, kind, rummer; clicks to music; politics and business, pains; leaves self and others alone. In BL in 1994 we shared a kiosk; before me became a cabin boy. If he is in the mood (that's a big ask), the clicking moment turns a touch divine; for me one of the best pix of Paulie: two tiger cubs with mother a fraction behind on a late evening at the Ranthambhor Tiger Reserve; me son Ganesh is for him. In BL, when K. Venugopal was the Editor, whose name never made the imprint line, pics were welcome; today its a no-no; a sin. Raghavendra Rao, put up exhibitions of a team of about seven photographers in various cities to pump up Pauls. Nothing of that happens today. Me and Paulie went to forests and villages (a joke with wife Rita) in western India; through the day he was trying to catch a shot.... in Bastar, a cirrus, blue evening sky ... man that was a catch and click ..neat and sharp.... Paul beaming when BL put it up for public notice; evening would come the drinks....another day, another trip. Today, in the morning, me called ...the familiar laugh....going to a Maruti function, he said...we should meet up for a chhota... Paulie: me am lucky to have you around.... 

October 25, 2015.

Paul Salopek will be walking now or lying on his back. In times without names Paul Salopek will be striding from Ethiopia to the tip of South America. Let's walk, he writes in National Geographic; wonder why Salopek ideas never pop in me; that's why me am me; a Sunday morning walk. Perhaps. an Ethiopian lady could have been the first walker in the world with her man and kids piled on her shoulders; they could have taken turns as they could have loved each other; they could have had no religion; sun, moon, many stars, earth; sufficient unto their lives and their living; lone walks not marathons; thinking came with the walking. Paul Salopek thinks and writes. In India, Buddha could have been the first walker; Way is Buddha. 'On the writing table,/ woodcuts of Buddha, women;/ Buddha, a haha buy by Ganesh from Ladakh;/ women, Bastar buys/ art of Chokin, gold and silver plated, framed Japanese miniature from Tokyo;/ a camel, Bikaneri miniature;/in their Ways/ never jumping traffic lights', me scribble of some times ago. They are all in a lone, sensible option: a Salopek walk and thought. Paul Salopek has electronic gadgets unlike the first Ethiopian; he could be rescued in trouble; the first Ethiopian had no policeman. In a death rite in Brahmin families, the priest offers a diya, a dhoti, a walking stick to the soul on its after-death walk to where the priest and gods do not know; a ploy of the priest to pocket a fresh dhoti; yet, me will not deny the poetry in the gesture. Soul is on a walk, alone or in company, not a triathon or any thons.. Surprising. Paul Salopek does not talk of runs. Previewing the end in South America, he writes of an 84-year old woman, Cristina Caderon: 'She sat at her window, knotting her fingers, peering out at the inkey chop, enunciating objects, and animals in a dying language that sounded more like lapping waters than something human -- words that are sinuous and supple and sheer. She was trying to remember.' Me poking memory, of the Big Bang and 600 million years after when the first stars got spotted in the skies recently by Hubble and an Ethiopian looking up at them alone in the first walk... Paul Salopek is in search of time... when me spotted two lady koels on a dry tree in the LIC Colony... they could have also belonged to the first Ethiopian...maybe me grandma and grandpa raised to infinity.