Do not belittle nature.
Nor call its message a scrawl.
Though ills seem miniature-
the writing is on the wall.
Lucid signs of fate tell much-
takes not much to decipher.
A man reads yet fails to judge
the simple scrolls and cyphers.
When exhaust all excuses-
the rolling dice stand accused.
I was in Tarkarli village for two days. It’s a small sea-village so to roam around I hired a bike. The cook of the resort where I was staying lent it to me. His bike, my petrol. I was riding after a long time so I was a bit cautious and anxious. But I soon realised I didn’t have to be since early morning the roads were empty. And it was too early even by my standards. I rode at a leisurely pace- the pace of a village. The cool breeze against my face. The clucks of hens and roosters crossing the road or randomly taking a ramp-walk. Some halted and stared at me wondering who this weird person was who got up in the morning before us. I took their permission, waved and rode ahead. The village homes were built in a modern style - probably better since almost all houses had a balcony or a verandah, a rare thing for the city people. And a poultry farm. I guess the population of hens and roosters was double or triple than the people who lived there. I was right in taking their permission to ride. The road zigzagged through the village in a lazy manner. I passed some garages. The road turned and kinda abruptly halted near an open sand area. I paused my bike. There were boatmen waiting. They had their boats ready to take a customer for a sea- ride if they wished. Some recognised me since I had already ridden their boat for dolphin sighting. They smiled and greeted me. They offered me chai which they were drinking from a big flask. I thanked but declined. I rode further down and after a short ride the road ended where it met the sea. I got down from the bike and took in the view. This place was called sangam since here, a nearby river met the sea. There was an old tree trunk half buried in the sand. I got down from my bike and sat on it. I could see the colour of the sea changing and the sea taking a different shape. Hmmm. I sat there for a long time. Don’t know how long but long enough to wake up a dog who belonged to that area, or rather owned the area. The boss. He saw me, barked, sniffed and then sat next to me wagging his tails in approval. I was accepted. He sat with me giving me company and every now and then looked at me asking - how is my place, my sangam? - and I patted his head each time. He seemed to like it. Or rather vice versa. He fell asleep lolling. I fell asleep sitting, dozing. Some few minutes later I woke up and saw the boss was still dozing. But he sensed I was awake and squinted at me. Time to say goodbye. I patted his head one last time and started my bike to explore the other side of the village. The village was waking up…..
You cannot resist the lure of glamour-
glamour of beauty or glitter of gold.
How feeble is the armour of amour
against the society flashy but cold.
Their clothes match the uppity appearance.
The talks are warm but the smile is distant.
The act is put on by these royal ones.
The division of class is apparent.
In a mob where people live to compete-
this play of wealth is misled to believe.
Life seems inadequate and incomplete
to the common man who competes to live.
The glams pose to the pops of the flash bulb -
You wander in wonder and gaze and gulp.
Every Friday or Saturday we had dinner at her house. She would call me at 9 in the morning in my office a few days in advance - either on Tuesday or Wednesday - and ask what I would like to have for dinner. And then the preparation began, or rather excitement grew. I would pick up a bottle of whiskey and ice creams. We reached there at 6 in the evening. She waited in the balcony or kept the door open from 5 o’clock. The door opened wider the moment we arrived. All smiles. And then the fussing began - as if she hadn’t fussed over us long enough. I would open the bottle of whiskey and before I knew it, water in all forms materialised - cold , warm, Bisleri. She made some bhajiyas or batata vadas for starters and though I had said no to the main course - she made vagharelo bhaat. Was it spicy enough or I wanted more spice. Without tasting it I knew It was perfect.
After a couple of drinks ( she didn’t drink ) it was time for gossips. And they arrived in colourful forms, and in abundance. What with a few whiskeys down. She knew more about people and things than I. Way more. But she wanted more in case she had missed out on something new. I filled that so-called void with my own stories which were drab. But she enjoyed, laughed and fussed more. After a couple of hours we had our food which was always placed neatly on the table. Variety of spoons and forks. Different sizes and shapes. She wasn’t much of a cutlery queen but she provided all sorts. We should not miss out. Then it was time for ice creams. White, brown, almond, shrikhand. More gossips that continued well into the night. And finally it was time to go. I always hired a driver or took a rickshaw; she didn’t want me to drive after drinking. Not that I would have driven but I made her feel that it was her wise decision. She waited in the balcony and waved goodbye till we drove away. And probably waited even after that.
We followed this ritual for the next ten years.
But one Friday I called up from my office because she hadn’t called a few days in advance for our elaborate meal session. And I doubted if she had forgotten. No chance. From her voice I felt she wasn’t feeling well. And she said since this Friday or Saturday it wouldn’t be possible for dinner so if I could come on Saturday afternoon to see her. So I went the next day in the morning and she was resting. This time she didn’t herself offer anything to eat or drink but directed me about its whereabouts. I didn’t want to eat, and surprisingly she offered me a beer which was probably lying in the fridge for very long. She knew I didn’t drink in the afternoons so I was surprised. I had a few sips of beer and spent some time with her. And said will come again to see her the next day. She didn’t get up to bid her customary goodbye. But she had waited to say goodbye one final time. She waved from her bed lying down, smiling. Little did I know that was her last goodbye.
Years have passed since then. Sometimes I stand in the balcony, look up at the sky, smile and say hi.
The sun has an orange band.
From here I can see the sea.
The mild waves caress the sand.
Time chimes for something fizzy.
Fishermen are coming home.
The sun dips, the moon rises.
The lonely vagabonds roam.
Beach with a glimpse of guises.
Dew settles on the green bench.
Twists of lemons my fires quench.
A little brat rat regularly ate my car wires which were connected to my car air-conditioner. I would get into the car, start the A/C but after a few minutes start sweating, and then start swearing profusely. I would get out, open the bonnet and there lied the proof. Wires had been eaten by the bloody rat. Then I would take the car to the mechanic who would be smilingly waiting for me. Without even checking what was wrong with the car, he would go inside his shop and get the necessary tools required to fix the wires. It had become a ritual- religiously started by this rat. Sometimes I think the rat ate the wires just to mock me. He would be thinking - today I have nothing to do, that buffoon has parked his red car in the same place again and will not move it for the next 5 days, let me go and eat some wires, it’s anyways bit cold, and I need some exercise for my teeth so - crunch, crunch, crunch.
Maybe it was his appetiser or his dessert. Or maybe he wasn’t hungry at all. He just seemed to love it.
I had enough of it. I had to catch this mocking rat. After some deep thinking - I devised a plan. I went and bought a packet or rather packets of naphthalene balls. These are small, white chemical balls which produce a terrible stench. I took a few of them, opened the car bonnet and placed them inside and shut it. And I waited for the next day. I woke up earlier than usual - eager to check the wires They were intact. Hooray! I took the car out for a small drive to celebrate.
I slept peacefully that night. But the next day when I started the car and then put on the A/C, I heard a hissing sound coming out from the duct. Once again I sweated and swore profusely. What had happened was that when I took the car for a drive the naphthalene balls had rolled off and the happy rat had a field day. Again the same mechanic repaired the car. He was once again pre-equipped with the tools. And that innocent smile. As if he wasn’t aware. Seriously? You and the rat were in cahoots. He charged me less this time for his services. Maybe he took pity on me. Maybe the rat ate less wires. Maybe whatever.
The next day - deeper thinking. I opened the bonnet, took few naphthalene balls, and put them in a small cloth. I opened the car bonnet and placed them near where the A/C wires protruded. I thought for a moment and realised the cloth might just roll off just like the naphthalene balls did. So I smiled - the mechanic’s smile or the rat’s smile, took a small thread and tied the cloth with the naphthalene balls and tied the ominous looking bundle to the small A/C duct in the car bonnet. I checked and rechecked the setting. Mission accomplished and satisfied. The stench will drive away the rat, or i guess even any human being. The rat didn’t come the next day or the day after. It probably went away in search of some other buffoon. The mechanic’s smile faded. And I took an oath - I will drive less or drive only when needed, or not drive at all, so that the package doesn’t fall. And keep the car as a trophy which I will keep staring at it stupidly which I had won against the mocking rat. Well! I didn’t catch him but….
The history teacher talked about a war
where for jewelled castles battled the kings.
A tale painted with a graphical lore
as myths were mixed with facts to make it bling.
The students were drawn into this old world
where knights donning shiny armours galloped.
To lure a queen - swords clashed and spears were hurled,
and anxious warriors with horses spurred.
To some students this tale felt surreal-
it seemed a peppered story with false spice.
No reel to prove real from unreal-
only from those history books to surmise.
The teacher engrossed in fantasy prose-
Students unsure - to believe or to doze.
We used to go for morning walks to the beach - sometimes we used to take the good old bus no. 253 which ran at about 20 minutes intervals. We were 15 years old and didn’t care for the world, and vice versa.
One fine day as we were walking on the road, and still some distance from the beach, a blue ambassador car stopped and offered us a ride to the beach. It was our good old Mr. Kataria. He lived in the same society as us. A lift to speed up our morning walk? But we took it as we were happy to be travelling in a private car. A rare thing for us vagabonds. We said our hellos and got in. As he was about to close the doors, a homeless tramp with a fractured leg hobbled towards the car. Mr. Kataria saw this and immediately offered him a lift. We thought - wow what a nice gesture. He got in and as he was injured we gave him more space. Mr. Kataria told him to put his feet up. What a great man Mr. Kataria was. The homeless man sat royally. A few distance from the beach we told Mr. Kataria to stop the car and told him we would walk the remaining distance- after all we were all out for a morning walk. We got out but the homeless man still with his feet up on the front seat hanging and relaxing told Mr. Kataria to drop him off a few miles farther. It was then Mr. Kataria realised he was not part of our group. We walked away thinking what great deed Mr. Kataria had done. True humanitarian. But Mr. Kataria was screaming his head off telling the homeless man to get out. He was scared. We heard none of it since we were already some distance away. We were in awe of Mr. Kataria.
When we got back from our walk we heard a car screeching in our society. It was the great humanitarian. He stopped the car and started yelling at us saying he thought the guy was one of us and so he was helping him. We didn’t know where to look or what to say.
After he finished his lecture, he went off speeding his car even more. We just couldn’t control it and burst out laughing. There goes our good old man.
One day he arrived with his bodyguards.
All smiles and without a care in the world.
An inner voice warned me to be on guard-
sweet bully he was, not to be revered.
I set up dinner, he said he was full.
I offered him a drink but he declined.
He said - relax cousin, release the pull,
I just want to chat if you are inclined-
So passed the eve with long, colourful tales.
And his sweet talks sounding even sweeter.
He talked, I listened - his journeys and sails.
A master at work to ease the bitter.
But I was cautious of his subtle charm-
The wanted guest with his wide open arms.
The long narrow bridge takes you to the railway station. It is a long walk but it’s early cold morning so people don’t mind walking a bit -unless they are late. Some run, some walk, some stroll, some laugh, some sombre, some in a trance, some listen to music. They reach the station and wait for the train to come. A fast train whizzes past the platform where they are waiting. A blur of people can been seen standing or sitting. Obviously not their train. So they wait. A shoe polish fellow has just opened his shop -chooses his area which is almost always the same- next to a big steel pillar- spreads a big cloth to sit on, lays down a small wooden stool, a brush, variety of polish creams, old cloth, shoe laces, leans back on the pillar, and he is set. Bangs his wooden brush on his wooden stool to call out to his customers. He spots them, looks at them, and then starts looking at their shoes disapprovingly - not too good. I can give a good shine, buddy - A juice vendor has started his juice machine and is making quite a bit of whir. Orange, lemon, chikoo, banana. People wait. A chai stall is set up by someone. Some drink. A samosa stall is open now and the vendor expects people to buy from him. Seriously? How hungry does one have to be to eat one of those samosas? In fact it is a perfect diet plan - you look at it and you lose your appetite. The train arrives and people hustle and bustle to get in even when the train could be empty. It is just a habit formed over a period of years. Lots of seats available but many people stand, as if suddenly realising that the seat is important only when it is scarce and then they would fight to grab one. No fun when easily available. Life. People switch on their mobiles and start browsing. All heads down aa if in a prayer. No newspapers are read nowadays. Noise level goes up when people don’t use handsfree , or they are too bored to take them out and stick into their ears. Or just plain pleasure in seeing others getting annoyed. Ceiling fans are off in this so-called cold season and anyone wanting to put the switch on is looked upon as someone from outer space. Can’t he see that others are wearing those fluffy colourful sweaters so lovingly hand-stitched by their grandmas some hundred years back? So what if they are out of fashion and loose threads are sticking out? They are for cold season. Some talk loudly and debate heatedly as if the outcome of world politics and business depends on their discussion here. Some are immune to everything and doze off. But get up just when their stops come. Intuition. The final station approaches. People get down and rush to their offices. Some walk, some run, some take a taxi or bus. The working day is about to start. Though it has already started few hours back.
The chalk squeaks on the blackboard-
wakes me up from my slumber.
Letters appear tired and bored.
And distant seem those numbers.
I hear an ancient language.
It is the teacher speaking.
The teachings are hard to gauge.
Maybe it is me sleeping.
Still dazed under a weird spell-
I wait for my saviour bell.
I was blessed with a torn ten rupee note. It came into my worldly possession after a long booze session when one saw poorly. So, as we say here - I wanted to chalav it - literal translation - wanted to walk it - but meaning - pass onto someone and get rid of it.
Next morning with a clear head I thought of a bakra / popat ( someone I can dump this torn ten rupee note on ). Rickshaw wallah. Perfect poor guy who can be bullied, not always though. I had some errands to run so, after a careful selection of what looked like a poor rickshaw wallah and also who seemed could be bullied, I hired him and rode with him. I hid the torn ten rupee note among the good notes. I chatted with him about everything and nothing but all the while thinking about how to present the torn note to him so as not to arouse any suspicion. So I folded it, re folded it, made it into a tiny paper, then again unrolled it, pressed it and finally prayed that it would go unnoticed. Wow! What drama just to get rid of one ten rupee note. But then, someone had fooled me in my inebriated state and I wanted to fool someone else. Ego issue. Ergo - rickshaw wallah.
I restarted my conversation with him - politics, cricket, whatever he liked hoping for a diversion, and then his diluted attention span.
Midway to my destination I started feeling bad. My conscience at last woke up. What was I doing? So I thought of giving him the torn note only after telling him that it was torn. What honesty! Then I thought what the heck! Will give him a charity / tip whatever you call it. If it worked - fine - else it was not a financial loss to him. I stopped the rickshaw just a few meters from my destination. I handed him the torn note and told him it was torn and it was not part of the fare. It was just extra. And if he could “chalav” - it was his else he was not losing anything. He just smiled and said - let it be part of the fare. It’s fine. I will somehow manage the torn note. Need not pay me extra-
I was dumbstruck. And before I could say anything he said - I have noticed that you still need to go a few meters farther up. Hop on and I will drive you there. No need to pay me since I’m already heading there.
Well! I thought myself. If he has noticed this then he has obviously noticed my shuffling and reshuffling of the torn ten rupee note.
I didn’t know what to say, what to do. Since no words could come out, out flashed my silly smile which said thanks. I would walk the remaining distance. Before I could tell him or rather acknowledge him further, he smiled and bid me good day.
All day along she sits by the window
watching people go about their business.
Some smile, some wave, some nod to say hello-
she finds these greetings a bit meaningless.
Sometimes someone drops by for a quick chat
which lifts her spirits just a little bit.
Sometimes someone brings flowers, pats her back-
finds nothing to offer but some lame wit.
She longs to talk but hears the clock ticking
so her words jumble, tumble and overlap.
The past overflows memories leaking,
and those tears or joys seem a bizarre yap.
She sits by the window, asks for our time,
long talks- and a clock with no hands, no chime.
Stuffed with my identities
a red checkered wallet lies.
Old photos and old cities-
knots of memories it unties.
I stare at it quite often
but I rarely carry it.
It helps my nerves to soften
as my past nears bit by bit.
When it gets worn out and blurred-
It will lie in my cupboard.
I never liked cauliflower - still don’t. My hate for this vegetable goes back to my college days. Once I drank half a bottle of rum and ate cauliflower like crazy - those days it didn’t matter what you ate after drinking. And so - after drinking, what felt like, gallons of rum I puked - and the floor became a cauliflower garden. So I gave up - not drinking - but cauliflower.
My mom had a belief that one should eat all the vegetables and since I didn’t like cauliflower ( not aware of the reason ) she was hell bent on feeding me. So she devised a plan.
She cut this bloody cauliflower into small pieces and shoved it into pav bhaji. She camouflaged it like a true detective that she was -some secret mission. She served me pav with this bhaji, and sat back. Generally there was always a smile on her face when she served food but this time there was no smile and so I suspected something fishy. And then I spotted just a tiny bit of my nemesis sticking out of the well disguised bhaji. To not disappoint her I ate the bhaji with extra pav so as to reduce the know-ability of cauliflower. She smiled and asked me - How is the bhaji?-
I said - It is terrific -
She smiled even broader and said - There was a bit of cauliflower in it -
I gave a silly-overacting-astonished look and said - I don’t believe it-
She busted out laughing and said - See, you like my cauliflower.
I nodded vigorously - overacting in full force.
I hated to spoil her secret tactics. And went along with it. But told her laughingly not to do that again else I would fear eating pav bhaji next time.
She said ok. But she did that again many times. And I acted even more stupidly every time. We played along with this game for quite some time.
After many years of this, she eventually stopped making cauliflower pav bhaji.
One day we talked about it and I told her that she quite fooled me with that dish. She was getting old but more alert. She rested her legs on the table, reclined her head and said
- Oh! of course you knew there was cauliflower in it. You just played along to please me -
she smiled and then added
- hope your acting has improved since then-
She passed away a few days later.
I wish to have that cauliflower bhaji again.
