A Song 82

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea.
Mused Kabir:
For every kurta stitch
a doha.
Gazed Tuka:
To ting of tampoora,
an abhang.
Mused Kabir:
From boatmen of Kashi
weaving Ganges
with paddles.
Gazed Tuka:
Hum of whizzing
potter's wheel
cupped in bony palms.
Lullabies
to Arabian Sea,
asleep,
wrapped in a warm sky. 

Mahabali with chips

In white khadi jibba, mundu and a chandana kuri, Mahabali Charavarthy is at home. He was delivered morning by a sprightly, Amazon courier; sent by Vidya from Chennai; 'better beat the Onam rush; Onam is on September 13; we promise prompt, advance delivery,' Amazon emailed a message to Vidya; Mahabali is home (perhaps, on a time our from board meets) and has with him air tight packets of roasted bananas, diamond cut bananas and mixture; we dipped down at his feet, Mahabali blessed us and we became foodies. 'Vidya ordered them from Calicut Banana, Products and Sweets, Chakkorathkulam, Calicut; a pole valuting claim: Traditional Banana Chips Maker of the Town, Golden Jubilee, 2015.'  There is a site called Flavours of the City; Vidya searched the site, railed to Calicut, first class; Mahabali was flown down by Amazon to Calicut; bought chips and chips with raw bananas costing Rs.100 a kg; today, Monday, they are in Borivili. Rama has unpacked; we are chewing; as Mahabali walked in without sufficient notice, Rama is cooking rice, onion sambhar, aloo curry, pappadoms to go with the snacks; plus a bit of palpayasam. Mahabali slipped into a sofa; 'flights, delayed flights are tiring; of course, Amazon looked after me well,' he said; got into a soft chew to go with filter coffee. 'Some change, better than pottikada wada and chai,' remarked Mahabali as he opened his ipad; whastsapped his Mumbai clients; promised visits; varum, varum, he assured before chatting in Malayalam with Rama; 'sukham ano (fine), asked Rama; 'aa, oru mobile sukham,' Mahabali returned; they went over his visits to Sreevatsam long ago when Mami cooked the best saddhi on wood fires for him; ' I will be delivered at Matunga before making it to Thiruvananthapuram on September 13,' said Mahabali, smiley as the month of Chingam, popping a self-twirled murukkan. Me stepped out for a double banana leaf to serve lunch for the Great Man, making life for all a long day of vada-payasam, a saddhi; and being taken out by Vishnu most unfairly. Yet, today Mahabali has no grudge as we shared a sparse meal on banana leaves with handfuls of Calicut chips. 'In three steps, Vishnu, measured out my empire; I did not protest the tricky ways of gods; am thankful to Kerala for the old flower beats of Chingam; this year it will be mobile caller tunes,' Mahabali said as the Amazon courier rang the door bell to deliver Mahabali at Matunga. On the way Mahabali Breaking News: 'Amazon has been contracted by Pinnarayi government for Onam. Hope you are on whatsapp for September 13 wishes.' Eyebrows slip-slopped.

A Song 81

Born 1946.
Brahmins, Dalits,
Hindus, Muslims,
Yapping Isms ......

.....

Old 2016.
Brahmins, Dalits,
Hindus, Muslims,
Yapping Isms....

.....

Wet hopes on a clothesline
drying under a wet sun

......
Earth not worth quitting,
not yet. 

Arjun and Soni Sori

A poor man shoulders his dead wife for miles with daughter beside. If this man picks up a gun is it so unfair? Should he not? Will it help petitioning an IAS officer till death? Accused of being a Maoist, Arjun, aged 19, was killed by Chattisgarh police in a controversial encounter, reports Malini Subramaniam for scroll.in. A Soni Sori, leads a Forest Walk protesting a strong monsoon of bullets on adivasis and tribals in Chattisgarh and Jharkhand. Many, many years ago a Gandhi walked to Dandi and history. Gandhi is praised; a Soni Sori gets no mention. In India 2016, how should the poor dissent? Or should they not dissent? They are alone, the organised Communist parties have lost links with them .... they lost it long ago when the Siddartha Shankar Ray of the Congress, the CPI (M) and CPI ganged up to brutalise the Naxals. India, economic reforms, modern banking and ...yet, the Naxals have not gone; Left kept away from the Mumbai Textile Strike of Dr. Datta Samant; Left was absent from the Narmada Bachao Andolan of Medha Patkar; they do not back Soni Sori; they are not in Jharkhand and Chattisgarh. Teams of tough activists are helping the poor in their protests to the dislike of the rich and middle class. In a recent chat writer Perumal Murugan says: '... It is high time Marxists and leftists gave up such lazy ideas ... I dont know, these times demand more sensible and effective protest methods...'; what should Soni Sori do? Yes, Naxals and government kill as the poor still leave large stains in India. Sure Perumal Murugan adds: '....Before we talk about Independence and freedom (of the underprivileged, women, Dalits, minorities, students, writers), the question should be whether we have the freedom to discuss all these.' Aside of scroll.in and wire.in, there is a media quiet.... development will cure the poor ... but will the poor be around after development takes away their lands and forests? .... poverty is not debatable; poverty and poor will go away together. In Naxalbari times (Amar bari, thomar bari, sabar bari Naxalbari ... my house, your house, every house is Naxalbari), Samar Sen in Frontier wrote of young poxed with bullets. Reading the end of Arjun is akin to the killing of Brati Chatterjee in Mother of 1084 by Mahasweta Devi. Do not know if modern India will buy the book with its tale of Brati and his thinking mother Sujata; will the 20s and 30s read? or is to Pokemon Go? Today Calcutta 70 is happening in tribal areas. Brati's friend Nandini tells Sujata: 'I've told you I dont know. I still feel disturbed and confused about so many things. Everything seems so strange, so unreal. I cant identify with anything. My experiences over the last few years have made me unfit for this so-called normalcy. All that you people find normal, I find abnormal. Can you tell me what I should do? I cant. Almost none of my friends are alive. All the things I want to say, the people I want to talk about, all that my mind is full of, I cant speak of to anyone. There is no one I can talk to.' Yes, the poor have none to talk. But they know. Karl Marx is hearing. Happens them. Come on its all so boring .... we have heard it for long ...this lament. 

A Song 80

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
loll on the sea wall,
spray dyed,
long lost;
in and out of
horizons,
chewing tambakoo,
counting winds, waves. 

Of snuff....

August rains meant no trains at Dombivili station. No office and no typing press notes. With Krishnamurthy and a few train regulars squatted on platform 1 for rounds of  'cheettu, umbaththi-aaru, villichchukali (cards, 56 is a variant of bridge).' Krishnamurthy tapped a tiny tin box on his left palm, draining out a strong smelling, brown powder; mookku podi; took a pinch between his fingers on the right hand, held his nose with the left hand and inhaled the powder; dusted the nose with a cloth turned dark brown with nose dusting; bid 56 spades, won. 'Podi da,' he told me like Rajanikanth tapping out Neruppuda. Before the next bid started, Krishnamurthy offered a drag of snuff; the brown powder hit the roof of the head, tears in the eyes, and me turned a snuffer. Krishnamurthy had enormous style, me was crude; he never hurried the intake. 'Oru sukham (A happiness)', he snuff-smiled. For K (as he is known), a drag plonked him at his village in Palghat and the portico where afternoons he and his friends honed bidding 56 and finer aspects of arattifying (gossiping). If me reading is not wrong, Oliver Goldsmith and Samuel Johnson in London enjoyed snuff; and they were fine writers; and talkers; in me near family none went for snuff; they went for nothing; Krishnamurthy, like us, was a second-class rail pass holder, had a tin box, thumb size; would fill it up every second day at a Malayali murukkan kada in Dombivili East; me tapped snuff supplies at a Kannada pottikada on PM Road, Fort, on the way to some contact or other for a stupid story and a stupider byeline; a silly ego walk; four annas it cost; there were two varieties, Madras and Andhra with Madras being a kicker; the kerchief turned a snuff brown; Rama disliked it intensely as me smelt snuff always; but for me it saved cash as cigarettes and drinks dropped off the menu; every time, when typing press notes on a broken Godrej typrewriter stalled, a pull of snuff and some dusting, helped. Krishnamurthy was happy earning a convert; lost out on Press Club friends; K is in Pune without podi, giving it up for gods and prayers; me did not stay a convert; after some days, a cigarette, a smoke a day, got added to snuff; and then an occasional drink: the three together drink, cigarette, snuff; and snuff went, cutting costs. Today at Borivili misses snuff.  

A Song 79

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
pick moons from the Sea
on full moon nights;
release them
on no moon nights;
in between,
Jasmine and Jehangir
chat them,
whiling day times.