A Song 157

Ajoba holding a bag of potatos
took rain drops on a shaved head;
Kabir hopped out from the school bus
with a backpack of books,
and a football;
Ajoba exchanged his bag
for the backpack
under a rain wet sky.
Played football,
a one to one affair:
Ajoba young,
Kabir old;
Kabir won 6-0,
to applause of rain drops.

A Song 156

With packed
tambooras, looms,
Tuka, Kabira
spotted,
catching a flight to
Beatlesville. 

Our mother, your mother

At school, Chiyu was told by her teacher to write 100 words on the school times of Aji and Ajoba. 'Talk to them and write,' the teacher said. Every home does not have Ajis and Ajobas, but that is beside the point. Chiyu called up Aji and Aji woke up from her afternoon deep snores to take the call. Chiyu cackled the query and an enthusiastic Aji replied on mobile video: I wrote my first Malayalam alphabet on a plate of raw rice and that surprised Chiyu.  Aji explained and Chiyu asked: 'What about English.' Aji replied: Ajoba studied in English, I in Malayalam.' Chiyu pulled off, did not ask Ajoba; probably, me dear, little lady knew Ajoba did nothing at school. Chiyu essay got 101 marks out of 100. Mother Dakhi was ecstatic, prepared aluvadi. And when Vidya, Dakhi and Ganesh were kids, mother Rama would wait at the door step with dosas, wadas, toast bread and jam and Amul butter, something or other for them, on evenings. They would rush home from St. Mary's English School in Dombivili in the evenings, jumping lorries screaming on the road. She would not ask what happened in school; keen her children had smiles on their faces after school hours; she fed them and she was happy while father missed it all trying to be a famed journalist and did not. Rama's oblong world was her kids. Today, Ganesh and Vidya look after Rama and me; Dakhi is on phone daily and there were times when she was a regular when Shreya and Chiyu were tots.  Rama, every day, 365 days of the year....Earlier, when me was at school, mother will not leave her home at Lake Temple Road, Calcutta in the evening; she waited with food, lovely, tasty food, especially adais and vadais. She never asked what me did at school; that was father territory. She did not object when me spent hours on the road playing gully cricket, trying to be a Nawab of Pataudi. Later, she had regrets me did not own a house, a car, a 3-piece suit, a status. Today, Dakhi after serving food, rather feeding Shreya and Chiyu, makes detailed dredging of the day at school. Shreya doles out in ladles; Chiyu, eats, takes her cycle and is off to play. Chiyu does not care for classes or schools; Shreya, the reverse. Me mother, Rama and Dakhi never talked careers; they were housewives and our feminists will protest. And today, when school buses rush on Link Road, breaking signals, me thought of the School Kid 2017. Under loads of books, they climb into buses as mothers rush to put ladders to their careers. And on Link Road, there are school vans packed with kids, like vegetables on a lorry; mothers and fathers do not protest; yes, they have offices to go on time, bosses to please, money to make. After all money defines a Mumbaikar, the best. Dakhi has a friend working at a bank, a top officer. She leaves for office at 7 comes back home at 8; her daughter is fed by a 24 hour cook; on week-ends she buys everything her daughter asks. Sometimes, Dakhi asks her kids whether they will look after her when she turns an Aji. Yes, is the answer today as Chiyu puts in a demand for vada pav. Isnt that something?   

A Song 155

A postman
pressed the door bell
took out a yellow post card
with a Gandhi stamp;
a Marathi flier:
'Sri Gajanan Prasann'.
An offer of Gajanan murtis
from Vinayak Kala Kendra;
address, mobiles neatly
black-inked.
Time: 10 a.m. to 10 p.m.
Break: 2 to 5.
Autoed to Kendra,
placed an order;
Vinayak Wadke
referred the panchang
before taking the order
for a red Ganesh,
at 10 per cent discount,
free delivery.

Born unfree

Man is born free. Woman is born unfree. In India (do not know of other countries). Can women get freedom from men? Did Sita get it from Rama or Draupadi of her five husbands? Why should women plead? Will she get freedom from her father, brother, husband, son, grandson ever? Will she be left alone? Why is marriage dumped on her? Rama, me wife, addresses me, Neenga, Vanga; me addresses her: Ni, Va; she does not call me name; me calls her Rama. My mother was scared of my father. Everyone at home avoided father. Yes, the denial starts at home, me home, not our home. Rama used to address me parents, Amma, Appa when they were not biological; me never did that to her parents. When Dakhi got married into a Marathi family, her name was changed; she had to accept it; her husband did not object; but somehow her old name, Dakhi, still remains. Everyone calls her Dakhi. With prayers to Lord Ganesh, Dakhi sends Shreya and Chiyu to school. Vaidehi in an essay in The Sunday Indian Express, styled Alice in predator land, writes of an Indian mother: Listen to how a mother readies her daughter for school:

Keep it in your satchel
This blade so small
With your pen, paper, books and all
Dont forget the packet of chilli powder!
And to your bangles a safety pin
"Maa...they'll make fun"
Two hoots to them
You may need all of these.
When the time comes my dear,
By God's grace, may you remember
To use at least one of these!
Get ready, it's getting late...
Down the steps and off to school
May you come back soon and safe
And all the best, my child.

'Father Time has always been a Man,' edicts Vaidehi and none can object. She ends: 'A legal system for women, created by women, is a deeply felt need of this age and times.' Yes, me agrees but me will not grant it, Vaidehi. Power is never given away, it has to be snatched. Gods have not, men will not. Me took a dowry when me married Rama in the traditional way; tied a thali, the dog collar, for identity of a married woman; me was and am still free of any such. Over the last three years, Rama has got rid of her thali, not because of me but to avoid chain snatchers. Todays and tomorrows, females should be females and they wont get any help. As me will not help. Take to arms, grandmas, mas, wives, girls....

Death in the Gunj

Hey, Rama and me enjoyed the 109 minutes of Death in the Gunj by Konkana Sensharma on amazon. In remote McCluskiegunj, Jharkhand (earlier Bihar), a group comes to rest, relax, refresh. Heard and read about McCluskiegunge in the essay, Somewhere to Call Their Own by Ian Jack in his collection Mofussil Junction, Indian Encounters 1997-2012. The word ganj or gunge means a storehouse or market in Hindi. Anglo Indians settled here, died and more or less no more, me presumes; or mixed up with tribals. Which is perfectly okay. 'About 1,500 feet up in the Chota Nagpur hills, in eastern India, there lies a sprawling monument to racial fears and fancies, and to an idea of nationhood that shimmered temptingly in the years between the two world wars and then vanished leaving this as its only trace,' writes Ian Jack. And for Konkana Sensharma it is to play a ghost game. Playing it, sitting around a table, Shutu (Vikrant Massey), is put down for attention; and Vikrant does it well, with minimum chatter; every man and woman in the party is traced, fine mud paths rib forests and Konkana starts cameraing. Please, it is not a ghost or horror film. The film has the pace of a middle-distance runner; being with the crowd and then Shutu breaking away... he and a little girl Tani, become friends; bury a dead insect with prayers; he does not and desires a woman, who else but Kalki; he is a failure, broke and plans to go back to Bardhaman, near Calcutta; including Tani, everyone gives up on him. Om Puri does a mad, rummy role with ease; a scene is enough for the Master; the music of forest dwellers has a zing. We liked it a lot and perhaps breeding backs Konkana. As the camera beams into a moth preserved in a book by Shutu, or the stray puppy wading into the party, and the high tempo when the little girl Tani is lost in the forest and we thought the film is climaxing. No thats left to Om Puri and Vikrant Massey. The telling has grace and some style; there is a sharp drop mid-way; yet, the film kept us in our arm chairs. When is your next film, Konkana. A request: Do one with your mother, Aparna Sen. Thanks for Gunj.  

A Song 154

A chalk scribble
on the black, notice board
at the temple:
MISSING:
Since Ashad Ekadashi,
Tuka, Kabir.
M: 0000000000.
Pink, white sadaphules
in silent bloom.