A Song 197

Tuka full of Vittala.

Ram fills up Kabira.

Tad unfair?

Yehuda Amichai

Last morning walk on Link Road of 2017. Hugged a Mumbai chill sitting on a green, wooden bench under a banyan. A Sunday quiet. Newspaper vendor was selling news to an absent audience. Read and mused over Yehuda Amichai, the Israeli poet. Am aware of Moses. Trying to be familiar with Yehuda Amichai in poem, The place where we are right.

From the place where
we are right
Flowers will never grow
in the spring.
The place where we are
right
Is hard and trampled
like a yard.
But doubts and loves
dig up the world
Like a mole, a plow.
And a whisper will be
heard in the place
where the ruined
house once stood.

Wondered whether me will even spot a whisper, beloved country. Am into Amichai. For a Sunday, there was no work at the metro. Machinery and workers lay exhausted, asleep, at work spots. Everything looks same. At the Vazira temple, Rama prayed, me did not. At Jayaraj Nagar, the Saphale women of vegetables, were absent. Yes, the morning had an absence. Came home, fed sparrows, sank into me sofa, read Yehuda again. Was not sure whether me walked the morning; unsure what me was doing. Scribbled a notebook: 

2018,
looks, reads,
1820, 8120, 0182;
got to check me eyes.
Peeling potatos
will remain the same. 

A Song 196

At Marine Drive
on Arabian Sea,
Tuka, Kabira pray for
sun at Melbourne;
Tuka is Barmy Army,
Kabira is Aussie Winnies.
Tending sea gulls
at Chowpatty,
relaxing with seas gulls
at Melbourne,
turn commentators, ask:
Kuthe hai Laxman? 

A Song 195

At Marine Drive
on Arabian Sea,
Tuka, Kabira
skip prayers,
for Ashes cheers.  

Ghalib

Today is the 220 birthday of poet Mirza Asadullah Beg Khan, born in Agra. Google is celebrating.  Stumbled on a mobile video of NaseeBabu, licking a mango slice, chatting Mirza Ghalib's love for mangos and the poet. Till the age of 5, Naseebabu spoke Urdu;lost it at school which did not allow for Hindi and Urdu. The moment came when Gulzar chose Naseebabu for the 12 part TV serial (one hour part) on Ghalib. Have seen it even as the classical Urdu bounced. The 11 minute video, dwells on Naseebabu being enticed forever by Ghalib. And at over 70, me has no tongue or root. Sure, have dwelt on it, but the guilt is not going off. Did not even try like Naseebabu. Being born in Kottarakara village did not give me roots as never studied Malayalam, never spoke it, never wrote it, never lived there for even two moths together. At home in Calcutta, spoke Brahminised Tamil of Kerala - a mix of Tamil and Malayalam- but never went near the languages. We spoke in Tamil, as mother did not know English and father did not approve; but he pushed me into English at school and today me has only English. Have read Marathi and Hindi poets and writers in English which is not quite the same; Perumal Murugan me reads in English, losing the Tamil flavour. Come to think of it, after watching Naseebabu video, me knows India in translation. In Mumbai, familiar with broken Marathi, a bit, which is in no way appetising. Can one be an Indian without an Indian tongue and roots. Suspect, Jawaharlal Nehru knew India mostly in English. Maybe, me am wrong. But this DNA defect, at least, lames me. Take Ghalib, today, read him a bit in English.  Or for that matter, Bahadur Shah Zafar, the last Mughal emperor; a Mughal dynasty which has given us its own music, architecture, gardens, poetry and enriched me country. In the morning, for the first time, read the famous and moving, Malayalam lullaby by Irrayin Thambi ...  Omana thingal kidao ... on google with English meanings. Rama lullabied her children and two grandchildren with Omana .. Thats how me fell for it. Sorry, is India me country? Do me belongs? Perhaps, it is mot juste that me became an English journalist, typing press notes, clerically. Today, me understands: English made me a clerk. Me have to own up, is a clerk. And Naseenbabu hero. An insufficient living.  

A Song 194

Shawled in psalms
nuns croon Silent Night;
Lady, Old Man
bow in benediction,
brushing hurting mosquitos,
at the Cradle of Compassion,
under Karuna banyan
in bells and candles;
winds tickle bells,
stars lights candles,
moonlight the manger,
Cadbury Gems drop in nests,
Cadbury Silks on street kids.
Cross is far away,
Merry,
Lady, Old Man,
pray, 
to mobile tunes
of church bells
on Karuna Way.    

A Song 193

Christmas holidays.
Two sets of kids,
in greens and yellows,
bats and balls,
prayed to Ganoba
for wins in finals of 
Gully Cup International,
a 7 over per side game.
Priests wished them luck.
Ganoba said PLAY.