Purple Bauhinia, Bauhinia purpurea...

A dewy patch of grass of Mumbai Mahanagar Palika in Borivili (W), beside Gokhale College. Lokmanya Tilak its name; at the gates two neem and a rain tree welcome walkers; Ali Ahmed keeps the little spread clean. Bordered and centred with trees; most walk quietly, some meditate, others jabber. Yet a slice of morning Saridon. Rama walks the grass on bare feet, meditates, strikes half-way Yogic stands. Me walks, trying to imagine the first man and woman standing up, somewhere in Ethiopia, breaking into a stride. They would have been surprised; perhaps, held hands, waltzed. Walking, standing straight could have been the first power statement of a human; the measure to dominate. Walk surely should have come before a run. Maybe we will never know for sure...that history. ....A flower-pecker queaks at the near top of a Purple Bauhinia, Bauhinia purpurea....Indo-Malaysian origin ....there are about five or six flowering Purple Bauhinia fencing the patch; and they are in purple booms, colouring the morning air purple. 'The scientific name Bauhinia refers to the two lobes of the leaf. It was given by Carl Linnaeus to commemorate the two brothers John Bauhin and Gaspard Bauhin who were French botanists and had contributed to the study of herbs in the 16 th century. Purpurea refers to the purple petals of the flower,' write Marselin Almeida and Naresh Chaturvedi in The Trees of Mumbai. Jijamata Udyan, Sagar Upvan (Colaba), IIT Campus, Powai, Film City (Goregaon), Sanjay Gandhi National Park are Purple Bauhinia locations. Well, they can add Tilak park. Other trees which me have identified is the cajuput, Pagoda Tree, kadamba, cashew; there are more and me is trying to make sense of the silent crowd. Three or four Fragrant Pagoda Trees. 'A native of Mexico and Guatemala, the Pagoda tree is believed to have come to India through China, and is therefore known as 'Gul-e-chin' or 'Chini champa', according to The Trees of Mumbai. A small wish is to be buried under a Pagoda Tree in open greens. Me likes the Pagoda that much. There are also flower plants with sadaphule a sure denizen. An hour and more of being with them all....a happy Rama makes a second cup of coffee, eases into her arm chair, muses ....an ancient quote in the book: 'Trees never eat their fruits, rivers never drink their water, they are born for the benefit of others.'   

Woman and man

With minutes, hours, days, nights, months, months, years, her legs turn in, bowed; she taps alone the ups and downs of LIC Colony, her hair cannot turn any whiter. She is alone; name do not know; some say she lives somewhere in LIC Colony; she does not talk; the lady is a Good morning friend; we exchange good mornings; she taps along, me trudges along; an oldness, no specific age, share. She makes it to the Shiva temple ahead of others; none around to ring bells or yell the God's name; 'morning silences sooth', me over-heard her talking to her; or is it her whispered prayer to Lord Shiva, sitting on the stone seat. When the devoted crowds take the stone seats, she slips away; not always, sometimes; quite a few are aware, have given up as she does not talk. She wears her spectacles to gaze at Lord Shiva; pockets it on her walks. On Tuesdays, she walks into the open Shiva temple, offers dhruva grass to Lord Ganesh; she cant bend down. Every stray outside the temple is the fair lady's friend; the lady feeds them buiscuits, rotis, breads and some milk. They whiggle to her taps; she has names for them. Across the winding road wait a leper and his wife; every morning she chats them up, gets a chaiwala to serve tea and pav. Mostly in yellow or brown sarees; not a milligram of gold on her.Some claim to her being from an aristocratic family, whatever that means; yes the lady is elegant. A morning, she hinted at a smile after the good morning. 'Please can you give me Rs.10,' she asked; stoned, took a Rs 20 note out of the pant pocket, handed it to the Lady. She hobbled to the chaiwalla, ordered a tea. She is gone. Refuse to say she is no more. Do not know where. There was this middle-aged fellow in a torn shirt and pyjama, who made his home under the banyan tree beside the Karuna Hospital. Sometimes we chatted; he did not beg; did not accept any offering; mostly sat or slept on the raised roots of the banyan, smoking bidis; he collected old bottles and other scrap, for two rotis and dal; and then he scrapped scrap; was always seen with the banyan; mosoon got wet; sweated in May heat. Again had no friends or rather none came helloing. Was familiar with birds and trees in LIC Colony; he counted time observing bats hanging upside down from the banyan; in red fruit, there were other visitors. Been a while missing; two stories read and partly forgotten. That perhaps put some sense into walks, morning and evening or anytime walks. Walks have no starts, ends, medals. Basho writes: 'No matter where I fall/On the road/Fall will I to be buried/Among flowering bush-cloves.'

Passer domesticus

Nodded, noting house sparrows on Sunday morning; taps of beaks on stainless steel plate; woke up. A kiss, a hum or a Bang? At Marine Drive, Brahma was scratching a mosquito-run face. A creator regretting a creation. Sometimes an Arabian Sea wind displaced them, but never forever. Playing with the last clod of earth and grass, Brahma and wife were thinking of the last roll, throw. Somethig nobody will bother about. That's how the House Sparrow came. The quintessential back-bencher; no aspiration to be a middle or front bencher; a non-competitor; made of meat none relished, animal or human; a queak of a call; a birth comfy in ancient pattanams (cities), content with holes in walls, car honks, human loudness; Brahma and wife at simple best. Passer domesticus has a corner on the window platform, near two bottles of money plants. By about 6.30 a.m. they make the first squeaks, hop on steel grills of the window, wait impatiently; for a steel plate of broken Marie buiscuits and bits of fresh rotis baked by Rama; seem to have no objection to grey necks sharing their breakfast; me is not sure of crows; they disappear to come back by 4 in the evening and then a night rest. A week now of house sparrow watching. House sparrow populations are thinning; not to be seen in cities; they can be easily spotted in Borivili though that may not suffice wild lifers; and what is a healthy number me does not know; on a morning me has counted five first visitors; then am confused as one house sparrow is like the other; the male has a dark spot on its neck; the female has none (me guess). Funny, God being a male chauvinist when it is animals: colouring males in wild life and discolouring females; a feminist when it is humans; women being better than males. Vidya has not seen house sparrows in Valsarvakkam, Chennai; there are few experts on this fellow. Who cares for back benchers with failed report cards? Salim Ali in The Book of Indian Birds is quite liberal with Passer domesticus. Dubs him and her, ' a confirmed hanger-on of man, in hills and plains alike, whether in a bustling noisy city or outlying hamlet.' In Zoo in the Garden, Edward Hamilton Aitken (EHA) disappoints. 'Sparrow is a cosmopolitan ...It is a vulgar little body, which tries to be a gentleman and attains to being a gent. In dress it affects smartness and in manners gentility.In the company of ladies it becomes a masher. Nevertheless, I like the little Sparrow out of doors.' Me likes me house sparrows on the window.  

Khans and Manto

November 27, 2015.

In high school and college, Dakhi collected pix of Shah Rukh Khan; still owns the collection; SRK is still her hero; has not missed SRK films. Ganesh manages first show, first day of every Amir Khan film. Both drool over Salman Khan with Rama tagging along; Rama's friend has seen Bhajrangi Bhaijan of Salman thrice; Rishikesh Hari delights in A.R. Rehman music. They do not dislike Muslims. Recently, tripping Leh and Ladakh, Ganesh threw an unkind remark at an old Muslim gentleman at a dargah; felt bad; after walking the dargah, he went back to the old man and apologised. 'Hum log itne kharab nahin hain, beta (We are not that bad, son),' said he offering a packet of Kashmir apples. Hindustani music is large parts Muslim ustads. At most Hindu marriages, Ustad Bismillah Khan shenais with none caring to appreciate. There is a darga on Eksar Road to which many Hindus offer chadars. Yet we dislike Muslims; unwant each other. Not been able to understand. It was there much before Independence and haunts us so in 2015. Me born in unquiet times of 1946; continue to be in unhappy times of 2015. Tired. Breathed first air of Hindu-Muslim hatred in 1963 at St. Xavier's College, Calcutta; walked into college one morning; bumped into hefty crowds of Malabar Special Police, billetted inside the College, brought in to stub riots. Since then, there has been no let up. Perhaps, never will be....Faiz Ahmed Faiz writes: 'This mottled dawn/This night-bitten morning/No, this is not the morning/We had set out in search of.' Possibly, times to read Mottled Dawn and Selected Stories by Saadat Hasan Manto. An in brief item: Mishtake: 'Ripping the belly cleanly, the knife moved in a straight line down the midriff, in the process slashing the cord which held the man's pyjamas in place. The man with the knife took one look and exclaimed regretfully,'Oh no!...Mishtake.'  Khalid Hasan in an Introduction to Saadat Hasan Manto; Selected Stories, writes: 'Eventually, it was Bombay where his heart was set and where he settled down. His love affair with Bombay was to last throughout his life, though he left the city twice, once only briefly in 1941 but for good the second time, after Partition in 1947.' Manto is quiet on why he left Bombay....his wife Safia is reported to have told Brij Premi, a Manto biographer,' He was always treated unjustly by everyone. The truth is that he had no intention of leaving India, but a few months before Partition, Filmistan handed him a notice of termination and that, believe me, broke his heart.' Manto, M.F. Husain, Salman Rushdie....will there be more...will India be a loaf of torn bread ...India not anymore India. Just cannot be as India owns the largest number of Muslims. Kerala never has had a riot...hope there still is.      

Addas and all that

November 26, 2015.

For some time have been trying to get friend Abhijit Basu for a mobileadda; mobile rings, no addas; maybe Basu has no time, living in time. That does not make Basu less likeable. In Business Line, we had addas, not the Kolkata brand, yet addas; sometimes over drinks at bars till bars shut down in and around Horniman Circle; he preferred to miss Press Club and journalists; those years he was a bachelor particularly good at stocks and shares; with marriage, no addas; then he left BL and that was that. Paul inquires about Basu as we were a threesome for a phase. When a friend is off mobile, that's it. We addaed in Bengali and English though he was not a Calcuttan and me a Calcutta, poor at Bengali; Basu relished addas, rosogolla syrupped with gossip; can humans live without gossip, me cannot. Adda sets apart Kolkata (Calcutta is preferable) from Mumbai (Bombay comes easy). Most times, an ability for creative lying plus a rock in a para (stone platform in a locality) are musts; you may not have seen a football or cricket game; never ever stepped into a bookshop; pitch perfect conditions for a jomegalo adda (a well set adda); tonally, vary from loud to whispers; cigarettes must; as all Bengalis try for the first day, first show of a film, cinematic know-how a qualification; Bengalis should be in a majority; no lovely boudis (sisters) at addas, which is unfair; maybe, in 2015, boudis are at addas with dadas; winter and summer timings. When me took the Bombay Mail (via Nagpur) to Bombay in a steam loco in 1969, lost addas forever. In the 60s, me had a good friend in Aniruddha Majumdar, a stylish batsman who feigned injuries, fielding; fielding and bowling, he exclaimed, were for the bourgeoisie, being a Marxist; batting for the aristocrats. A servant carried his bat to the pada cricket matches. And then me had A.V. Jayaraj, S. Nilakanthan and of course, M.Padmanabhan for Sunday addas; but they were real not imagainary affairs. Working as a journalist, me had some standout rum-adda sessions with Narayana Karunakara Kurup and Paul Noronha. And now, me addas with me, imagining a Bengali, sitting on a bench at Murari Dairy Farm; the other morning, me was talking to me about Kolkata heading the league table of the Super League Tournament; like Bengalis me watch on TV, kicking of the ball in between shots of Nita Ambani, Abhishek Bachchan, M.S. Dhoni, Sourav Ganguly and Sachin Tendulkar; Super League teams seem to have more foreigners than Indians; me thinks they are poverty versions of the English and Spanish leagues; me the Bengali held out over the Maidan greats from the past: Chuni Goswami, Samajpati, Jarnail Singh, Rehmatullah, P.K. Banerjee, K. Balaram, Ahmed; me, the Bengali, was sure of the Maidan greats being better than all the foreigners in Super League. Murari bhai tapped me; me-to-me adda session ended. Before parting, me bet on Goa to win the Cup; the Bengali me, Atletico Kolkata. Addas keep me live. 

Sai Krupa Stores

November 25, 2015.

Sai Krupa Stores on Yogi Nagar Road is a pie constant. Most children, mothers and fathers, make daily trips to buy Garden Farsan, Brittania and Modern bread, Amul Butter-Tasty Butter, other eats and over the last two days Maggie. In the packaged food category, me guess Maggie has pushed Amul to second place; just a guess; no statistics on me retired hand. For years, a Mangalore family kept the show with the lady obliging every client; no better sales woman has me seen; to every demand, she had the same rapture, ' Milega, milega, sab milega, do minites'; rarely upturned; for her tardy husband, she had no time; with Yogi Nagar having no time for living, 'time nahin hai', he counted and recounted change, sometimes losing clients; with the lady, clients came back. Yogi Nagar was hers. She was indispensable, mornings, with her fresh tephlas and idlis. Her old husband, an edgy type, unlocked the shop at 6.30 a.m. to shut down at about 10 in the night. It was a family show. The show shut one day. Lady told clients: 'Mumbai chhod rahe hain (Leaving Bangalore); Mangaluru ja rahen hain (going to Mangalore).' Sai Krupa Stores got leased to a Gujjubhai; zing is gone; clients dont rush the shop. Nothing to do with the Gujjubahi; is a pleasant fellow; tries to please but there is no 'milega, milega, sab milega' in him; stocks not the latest eats ads on TV channels, in particular kids channels. Perhaps, the first Gujjubhai refusing risks. 'How was Deepavali?,' me asked. With a twisted face he mourned of people not having funds while eat prices upped along. 'Salary hikes do not match price rises,', Gujjubhai said and for me Gujjubhais are the best economists; they know cash flow; they know daily sales should be higher than stock purchases; any slack, they grit their teeth. 'Dhanda nahin hai,' concluded Gujjubhai like an edit writer signing off day's edit in a newspaper office. Walk down Chandavarkar Lane in Borivili (W); Rama, Dakhi and me walked for dresses. Chiyu, last week, protested over me shabbiness of a three-quarter bottoms plus a jibba. 'Ajoba, ye jara purana hai (Ajoba, they look old), she complained. Me decided to buy readymade pants; never has that happened as there was always a tailor on Yogi Nagar Road; he shut shop as van Heusen, Peter England, Allen Solly trimmed styles. Chandavarkar Lane, houses brand names; Indian Terrain to Bata to ICICI. Dakhi insisted on pure cottons or cotton-linens; me went for two pants costing Rs.5,000; me was the lone shopper; the day's bakra; 'dhanda nahin hai, saheb,' moaned the young attendant; shops stewed empty. Length alterations had to be made as the pants could fit Ishant Sharma. The attender promised deliveries by evening as van Heusen was open 365 days of the year; no holidays. At Bata, a lady attender is temporary after massaging feet, selling footwear for four years (her version). ICICI Bank has crowds to pull out cash and is open from 9 a.m. to something around 8 in the evening. Perhaps, there are no labour laws to be violated. When Dakhi steps out shopping, she insists on buying dresses or a dress;she shines; the family in November heat trekked to Hakoba, with season-end discounts; there again no crowds, only crows on the rain trees. If retail shops are not vending, economy is still. Yes, no foot taps on Chandavarkar Street. Streets are sooth-sayers.

Babu and Behenji

November 24, 2015.

'Sarkar joli (government job)', say grandmas, yesterdays, todays and tomorrows, squaring horoscopes of boys with that of their grand-daughters. Sarkar joli is Brahman brand, beyond sin; Babu and Bahenji premium products., Patti, Aji, Dadi brand names. Grandmas best. Met Sethumadhavan after a Kerala trip. 'How is nadu,' me asked. 'Sukham, ellarude kaiil kashu; Dubai okke poyi; ippo New Zealand, Australia; pinne Sarkari joli top (Fine, money in all hands, Dubai is passe, New Zealand and Australia in; Government jobs top), Sethumadhavan replies. 'Sarkar joli' rings temple bells; meant and means having breakfast and lunch at home or with contractors, going to office after office hours to sign the muster, nights, sipping Blue Label free; collecting sure salaries month-end; and the power paste of a clerk; Mrs and Mr. Fix It; he and she could, did and do pack humans in files, their fundamental right; they never go; sun and moon may not be; babu and bahenji will ever be. No protests, no fasts. Sure of a blast with a Pay Commission rite upping benefits, unconditionally, forever and forever; babus and bahenjis play games, style it governance by indecision. From Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru, every Prime Minister, has failed to babus and bahenjis; scared of fate, babus and baehnjis gave into limited unfiledom in 1992; in 1993 closed in like stirred waters and remain so. Socialism, no; Capitalism, nay; reforms, nahin; babus and behenjis, yes, armed with files; they never act against each other; they wail together; they work from tables taped in Mahatma Gandhi currency notes; an unpleasant footnote. Babus and behenjis did not much approve the Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee Act; briefed privately Holy Economists; stinked it; put the scheme in a file marked Top Secret. Daily wage rates under the Scheme: Rs. 69 in 2006-07 to differential state rates in 2015-2016 with Haryana highest at Rs.251. Holy economists howl of leaks and subsidies when Mint says 32 per cent of tax rupees, or almost one-third, will go towards pays and pensions. One way to yardstick the rich and another the poor. As a Mumbai journalist, never seen North and South Blocs; never desired; RBI and banks in Mumbai sufficed. A Grandma Law writs filedom; Grandma in her avatar as mother-in-law. When the RBI Governor calls the Deputy Governor, RBI Towers shiver in fever; the RBI Governor does not call anyone except his wife; personal attendants put official calls; bank chairmen go under when RBI Towers mobiles. RBI Towers stands to attention when RBI Governor steps in and out; the habit spills over with clerks ordering sepoys at the gates and sepoys booting wives at home.  But in New Delhi, RBI reports to the Finance Ministry; bank chairmen namaskar officials in the banking ministry in New Delhi; in a few months, there will be no RBI; the Finance Secretary will be all; babu-behnji win. They own the Indian day and night. They own India. Always.