Tadoba Lake

November 15, 2015.

3 p.m. Moharli Gate opened and from the Maruti Gypsy ahead a soft invocation: Ganpathi bappa moriya...me also called up Titvala Ganesh, a favourite...unsaid was a favour ... a Tiger sighting...me confess to a scorn of Tigerwallas .... but every forest trip and a Tadoba entry makes me something of a Tigerwalla.... is it the media mentions...is it the Tiger...Yes, it is the Tiger.. something akin to getting a college degree or the first job or an abiding dream .....a Tiger holds me and many, many else....Every time me enters a forest tells the guide a lie: jungle dekhna hai, Tiger ke liye no bhagos; ..a call or a whispered mention...and blood pressure ups....and when the sighting is on...the BP is 80/120; me is still; no meditation can do it; me has no explanation...know little of Tiger science...cant stand up to any scrutiny ...but every Tadoba visit and there have been a few, a  Tiger alone matters...going by wikipedia, Taru a village chief, was killed by a tiger; there is a temple under a tree for God Taru near the Tadoba Lake, a space of lifey waters... Tadoba forests as an historical entity started in 1955; they were there before; they will be forever. Spotted deer, sambar, nil gai ... saw a deer alone on a mud track winding to the skies; a sambar lipping at a water hole in a meadow...a sambar gives the impression of a buddha wondering over forest ways ..But then wildlifers will taunt and they may not be wrong; animals do not know humans and humans do not know animals, is a contention, me does not prefer. Over four visits, saw green bee-eaters...there seems to be an explosion in their numbers...some mud-bathing...a few flying overhead, skimming a bald skull...they were here, there, all over. And a resting gaur on the forest borders...rising up nimbly and moving away...Mornings at Navegaon meadows (with tribals relocated outside Tadoba Andhari Tiger Reserve under fair resettlement terms.) On the electric wires, a black shouldered kite nibbling a breakfast at around 8 in the morning; it hit the high skies, fluttered at a spot before diving down for the kill; a white-eyed buzzard looked around....but green beaters booked the show...on the way Ganesh eyed a pigmy woodpecker, tapping a dead, tree upside down, for eats. There is the mandatory Tadoba Lake wait; with all that water, there may just be a few dry minutes, if ever, in blinding summers; open billed storks, black ibis, a giant heron ...a crocodile, eyes above water....each into each's business... and a male sambar , horned head above water .....the Maruti Gypsy halted...we watched ..... wondering the next glimpse .....For me it is Tadoba or Tarubaba.

Chital

Sambhar

Green Bee Eater

Green Bee Eater

Black shouldered Kite

Open billed stork

Black Ibis

Sambhar

Begum, Choti Tara, Maya

November 15, 2015.

9.10 a.m. Bright Tadoba morning; a stillness. Maruti Gypsy was rolling by the Japanese Accident Spot. A tigress strolled across, some 15 ft. away from us, moved forward, turned, smelled a teak leaf, legged towards our Gypsy before stepping into the wild; from behind a bamboo grove, a sambar deer protested the deed as the tigress had made a kill of its kid; guide Yogesh and Ganesh sited a hint of the act; we were alone with the tigress; we were quiet for long, Vidya, Ganesh, Rama and me; then the silent moments dripped away. None has yet named the strongly built three year old tigress, a few have spotted it, said Yogesh; me named it Begum. At the Tadoba gate there is a wall cartoon: An astrologer examining the palm of a visitor, predicting: Nobody can assure you a tiger and that is the fun of it. Yes, astrologer. Tadoba or Taru the adivasi god, namaskar. On the afternoon outing, at the Jamli meadows, driver Diwakar heard a deer bell, a langur cackle; switched off the engine; Gypsies rolled in; sighted collared Chhoti Tara striding the meadow, back and then forth, her territory; wish there was something more comfortable than a collar round her neck; sure, scientists have to know all about Chhoti Tara to form their theories, lasting at best a day; me believes an animal cannot be predicted; wonder, do we need all the know-how; she rolled on the forest floor, triumphing with her tail up; a crowd of deer started on a run as Chhoti Tara went across the meadow, Oooming, Oooming, Oooming ..... the lighted 3.30 p.m.afternoon; a nervy baby deer moved back and forth; Rama wept for the baby; some 30 vehicles shut down; camera shutters firmly lipped; Chhoti Tara impressed; she crossed the road; the Gypsies turned for her; but the Lady said no more; the two hour show was over. Ganesh was busy into tasting his shots. Friday morning the guide bent his ears to sambar and deer notes; the Hanuman langur pitched in from a high on a teak tree; at Pander Pauni 2, we waited with many others; from behind a Canter, Maya darshan came in, yet again at 9.10 a.m.; the head came first, then the Memsaheb,  Maya Memsaheb, in full view, about five feet from me; she walked past her awed admirers, for a moment Ganesh came off the lens to appreciate with bare eyes; went past to turn straight into a forest track; stepped into a meadow where her two cubs were waiting, presumed the guide. Guides were one on a single fact: Maya enjoys admirers. Maya, Maya hi hai. Tadoba .... Begum, Chhoti Tara, Maya...Khuda Hafeez.

Begum

Choti Tara

Maya

Maya - Bye

November 11, 2015.

Planning a trip to Tadoba, Ganesh inquired me identity. 'At the forest gates, they will ask for Aadhaar and PAN,' he said. Few times have gone to Tadoba, seen tigers, me being the identity, no cards; seen tigers and other animals and they demanded nothing; perhaps, they are happy without us. Me has Nilekani Aadhaar and PAN; when me dies will carry Aadhaar and PAN for entry into wherever me is slotted to enter. If Americans have the their Security number, we should have Aadhaar, goes the logic. Ganesh and Vidya have passports; Rama and me have not. Never applied for a passport; have seen bits of India without passport. Have been brooding over this lack of passport; like never owning a car, nay a bike or a cycle; cannot ride a cycle; never a patriot, so that's ruled out; more keen on seeing India, yes; as a journalist reporting beat started at Kasturi Building, Churchgate, extended upto Mint Street via Oval Maidan, University Tower, Flora Fountain, Horniman Circle; that did not demand any identity; mostly rested at Oval Maidan watching the Clock Tower belling and un-belling time; reminds me of Father Time at the Lord's cricket ground; the second stop was Horniman Circle, where me lay down on the grass or on the benches, steamy afternoons; yes, once took No.81 BEST bus from Mantralay to Worli where the Passport offices were located; was given a many pages form after standing an hour in a line; the form asked too many details of me, which me did not know; grandfather's name; disgusted, binned the form; that, one could say, was me lone foreign trip. When son Ganesh was billetted in New Jersey for two years, he offered a trip; me and Rama declined; we had no passports; Rama as always keen on Alleppey and Sreevatsam. Today, on Diwali, have nothing to do, flipping  PAN and Aadhaar; for Aadhaar one stood in lines for hours over two days, courtsey Nilekani; the last Diwali cracker burst was in 1961; abandoned crackers when Jawaharlal Nehru pleaded for restraint after the 1962 scrum with China; those days Nehru was heard and listened; he was like that; started again on a heavily marked Orhan Pamuk, Other Colours: Essays and a Story. In about a 400 words write up:' Giving up smoking', Pamuk winds down: His call does not frighten me. Because, as you can see, writing - if you're happy with it - undoes all sorrows.' Smoking, me has not given up; writing, nothing near to Orhan Pamuk. No sorrows, thanks be Orhan Pamuk. Happy Diwali Pamuk. 

November 10, 2015.

Happy Deepavali, Aji wished Ajoba oil massaging arthritic legs of Aji. Aji today is not into idli, sambhar, Mysore pak...in pain...nothing enthused her when her mobile acted: Happy Deepavali, cheeped Shreya; humlog aarahe hain (we are coming); Happy Deepavali chirped Chiyu; Aji, sambhar aur vada, haan. Bye. Aji danced her arthritic legs to Ajoba beats on a wooden table. Aji and Ajoba were tanked up, satisfied cars out of a petrol pump; Dakhi mobiled again demanding an avial to go with onion sambhar. Shreya, Chiyu and Dakhi in new clothes and home made farals; for Aji and Ajoba, a crowd most welcome. Ajoba took down purchase orders for vegetables, pappadams and coconuts from Raju, three packets of Peppy, sweet buns....funds deficit will not matter.... udhar... Aji, bathed and dressed, left for Vajeera Ganesh temple, being Tuesday and Deepawali...pleading the best for Shreya and Chiyu. Ajoba made home presentable with Madhavi going to her village...charged Aji's mobile for clicks.....Shreya and Chiyu have a routine...playing Concentration, at the swings in the housing society, youtube Salman Khan dances for Chiyu, making up stories for Shreya and long chats ...Shreya delights ...of her school, teachers, friends....Orhan Pamuk in Other Colours, Essays and a Story, has a two page essay To Be Happy. Orhan Pamuk pieces with daughter Ruya are Amul icecreams, never stopping with one stick or one lick or one read. For Ajoba, Shreya and Chiyu become Ruya; he is no Pamuk. Doing something again and again, Shreya and Chiyu at home, ..yes, when they become women, Ajoba may not be ...but today's moment  ..for Ajoba...Desires in Buddhist freeze/in no breeze/Life today in an/ Shreya, Chiyu unfreeze. Pamuk writes: ' When I go to the seaside with my four-year-old daughter, Ruya, I become the happiest man in the world. What does the happiest man in the world want most? He wants, of course, to carry on being the happiest man in the world. This is why he knows how important it is to do the same things every time .....On the way back, while I'm pulling Ruya's wagon, we're both tired and happy. We're thinking about life, and about the sea behind us, and we don't say a word.' Door bell Deepavali crackles; in pop Shreya and Chiyu into Aji hugs... 

November 9, 2015.



85-year old, cancered friend Srinivasan stepped into a Meru for Santa Cruz Airport. Flying to an Old Man's Home in Coimbatore. Yogi Nagar will not see anything of him, a slip away, said Rama watching Malayalam film Achchan, with Tilakan, the Perunthachchan of  Malayalam films. In the intro shots, Achchan in bed, in a crouch, bum up, head hidden in pillow; caretaker, Rahitan walks in; film of an old and a young. Like Major Maman (Major Madhavan Menon), Srinivasan, bubbled living; a chartered accountant, did not make it to the company's board, made it to the door of the board room; kept aside phone calls for wife and two daughters; 'ennoda ushir (my life)' he said his friends in Tamil denying himself parties and a few rums; today earns a pension of Rs.25,000. Twenty years ago, his wife Kavita became a black and white pix in the wallet; one daughter went to US, a second looked after him in Yogi Nagar. Achchan Tilkan, sent his wife to a son in US to oversee birth of a grandchild; wife a framed, garlanded pix on the wall; second son in Bengaluru; Tilakan and keeper Rahitan aka Gopalakrishnan (Sasi Eranjikkal). Srinivasan, always a front-bencher strung with every university gold medal worth competing and claiming; a chartered accountant and a mechanical engineer, mentioned in company annual reports; with a pix interviewed in the front page of Economic Times; Srinivasan every one chanted or he thought so. On the youtube, film, Achcan rolled as Rama went on with her telling of Srinivasan; Rahitan gets a job as Block Development Officer; US son books a room for Tilakan in an Orphans Home; Tilakan drives Rahitan to be a BDO; stays at home; shuts the door, alone. Srinivasan is Achchan, remarked Rama; two same stories; one on youtube; another in Yogi Nagar. None checked whether Srinivasan became an orphan at Orphan's Home; his daughter called on Sunday and on Sunday no calls are taken; Srinivasan is without a mobile; left it with daughter; has none to call; Achchan never calls. Achchan does not talk the film. Rahitan offers a drink, spoons kanji to Tilakan; thinks of killing the old man; has not a heart; Achchan becomes Rahitan's father. Will anyone feed Srinivasan: yes, he has money, funds in banks; no fun alone being with cancer, says Rama. None knows. Srinivasan is a back-bencher with gold medals in custody with second daughter at Yogi Nagar;  some time left for trees, birds, suns and moons; but, Srinivasan will be strapped to pain killers, not an address to his name; for a future mention. Film ends...Rama is crying......for Achchan and Srinivasan.... 

November 7, 2015.

This morning, Madhavi was brisk. Pulled out the steel ladder from its corner, placed it against the loft, swept down dated lots of The Indian Express, Mint and Mathrubhoomi; squatted on the floor, arranged neatly yesterdays words of news for the raddi. Looking up at Rama, made a face; the waste did not have much weight when Shankar, the raddiwalla scaled it; at Rs.9 per kg, the pile up weighed 11 kg. She kept me out of the process; in her view me was sympathetic to the raddiwalla than her; what she was quiet about was uncle, me, could be tricked by Shankar; got Rama to oversee the weighing and pricing; "Bahut kam hai," she moaned to Rama and added 'Uncle o mota paper nahin leta hai; Uncle ko kya ho gaya,' Perhaps, she was referring to Times of India plus Mumbai Mirror, with raddi value AAA+ rated by Madhavis and Shankars; Madhavi reads Kannada while Shankar reads nothing; me had dropped Times for Mint with Keynesian compassion for the rich (John Maynard Keynes is the favoured economist of Dr. Raghuram Govind Rajan). Rama has placed Madhavi in charge of raddi and the funds realised on sales; financial fates were linked to raddi sales; this morning Madhavi had dreamed of at least Rs.200, an ex gratia to go with a month's Deepavali bonus; she will be on Deepavali offs with her mother and children in a village near Kolhapur. Patil, the newspaper man was also upset when me shifted loyalties to Mint; 'saab, ye kya', he moans still and is trying to get me back to Times of India, where me started as a trainee journalist in 1970; possibly, Patil gets a higher commission; brokering smiles in Madhavi and Patil, me is into Sunday Times; the first moves of a smile and not an entire smile; Sunday Times if also off the menu; preparing the home and mornings for ushering in The Hindu expected any time now from Mumbai, going by a Facebook blog. The Hindu could be the last newspaper from Mumbai. Guts in the timing, when everyone, including journalists, is talking of the demise of print. Rama and me have to strike a Pareto optimum; Rama wants to do away with newspapers; The Hindu does not excite Ganesh; Madhavi, Patil and Shankar prefer spot trading in The Times of India to futures and options in The Hindu. Worked seven years in Times; some two years in The Hindu and 13 years in Hindu Business Line. Attired in middle class loyalties, prefer Times and The Hindu; help Madhavi and Patil; Rama reminds me of slack funding; 'Why all this? Is Arnab not enough for you,' she asks. Remind her: 'Arnab has no raddi value.'

November 6, 2015.

No walking this morning. Me in me arm chair, window, rain trees, sky with parakeets swimming and screeching morning air, pigeons....and thinking the day's blog ... Ruskin Bond writes,'I came here when I was nearing fifty. Now I'm seventy, and instead of drying up, as some writers do in their later years, I find myself writing with as much ease and assurance as when I was twenty....And I enjoy writing...Its not a burdensome task.' Bond is a writer, me a journalist; a typist of press notes is a journalist; a writer is minus press notes; a Bond is read; me am not; a blog, a blogger and a like; 2015 Chekov literature. Rama serves off the tawa, Akki rotis with gunpowder ... a Facebook menu made of Madams rice powder ...it goes well with filter coffee. Two house sparrows land up; me shares Akki rotis; they fly off. And Rama dips into her arm chair with Akki rotis and we talked of Dombivili times when Deepavali meant an anxious wait for the bonus to land in empty pockets; Rama would count the notes twice over when me brought them from office; no cheques; cash; and that evening bypassed Press Club and drinks; every newspaper group me worked, did give a bonus; ahead of Deepavali in Bombay there would be bonus strikes with the textile strike being a sure Deepavali rite...till the last day Millowners' Association, Bombay will say no, trade unions will reject offers, political calls made and then a 8.33 per cent Deepavali bonus; every year the same copy typed on the same typewriter; sometimes typed the story for the next year. Rama would wait for the bonus to touch home before planning the itinerary. Deepavali sweets: mixture, ribbon pakoda, mysorepak, thattai and farals learnt from friend Vasanthi; Rama will note down the raw materials to be bought from the Marwari; with schools shut, Vidya, Dakhi and Ganesh had no time to wait; those were times when the entire family sat together on the floor for lunch and dinner with Rama taking the centre; and to Dombivili East for clothes and crackers; Vidya, Dakhi and Ganesh busy in putting up mud killas (forts) with their friends; dressing and ponding the killas; a week and more of funning; home was laughs, shouts and chewing. And today, there is no bonus; IT companies give performance bonuses, not Deepavali bonus; with most IT companies linked to foreign clients, no Deepavali for most; they enjoy Christmas; no buying textile jigs in crowded shops; Ganesh and Vidya order the world online; Dakhi, Shreya and Chiyu are planning an InOrbit trip for clothes and crackers; Joshi Bandhoo in Borivili for faral. Rama and me sit and wait; the Akki rotis are over. Keep the doors open for Shreya, Chiyu and Grandmother Dairies of Kartik Iyer...