Black List

 

Our college principal periodically or rather randomly produced a list of students with low attendance. This list was then pasted on the college notice board for all to see. Low attendance in this case was below 75 percent! This list was type-written with dark black alphabets- some of them not properly inked so kinda used to spread on the sheet. Probably that’s how the term spreadsheet was coined. 

Anyways - this was the black list, and one fine day my name appeared on it. It was my friend who first saw it and informed me. By the time I reached the notice board, a few guys were already giving me a weird look. 

I saw my name written with bold letters. I panicked. What was I going to tell my parents? Will I be rusticated? I was an obedient student, just a bit lazy, who bunked occasionally just to impress other students and show off  - Who goes to college to study? - 

Well, now it looked like I won’t be going to college at all. 

The black listed students would be asked to call their parents to the college.  Parents would be scolded for a change. Did they know their son or daughter did not attend college? 

I returned home completely drained. Luckily both my parents worked so I would have some time to myself doing nothing. 

I was doing nothing when the doorbell rang. My house-help Vasanti. She came to do her little chores - washing vessels and making the bed. I nodded. She looked at me and immediately realised something was off. She was sharp. Not that much sharpness is needed to dissect me. 

• You look dull - she said
• Nah! Just bored -
• Something happened? -

I could not hold back and blurted out that my attendance was low. I didn’t mention black list thinking she would not know such terms. 

• Oh! Your name is on the black list?-

I was taken aback. How did she know about these things? 

• Don’t worry. We will sort it out - she said and continued washing the vessels. 

Really? You will sort out? I didn’t pay much attention and continued doing nothing. 

She finished her chores and smiled. 

• My husband works for your college. He is an office staff and does chores for the teachers -She continued smiling. 

Did I understand? No! 

• I will tell my husband to take your name off the black list. It is his job to type that list after taking instructions from the teachers and the principal, and put it up on the notice board - 

What? What the hell just happened? The next day my name was  not on the list. I offered hundred rupees to Vasanti and told her to give it to her husband. She smiled, refused and said next time she would take double if my name appeared on the black list. 

I swore I would never bunk college again….

The Scar

 

I was 5 years old. Those days electricity in our homes went off randomly. No scheduled cuts. We had a small balcony in our house which is unheard of nowadays. It was summer. Hot even at night. On one such day electricity was deprived for a very long time. It was night time and I was sleeping, or rather trying to sleep, on a narrow cot which was kept in the balcony - waiting for God to intervene and give us some light. It was almost 2 o’clock  in the night when suddenly lights came on. God took His time but he had heard me alright. I was excited and tried to jump from the cot. But I slipped and tripped on the pillow which was kept on the cot, and fell. And how I fell! Nosedived straight onto the ledge of the balcony which separated the hall. It was a thick, solid ledge and looked even more solid to this 5 year old boy. I cut badly on the forehead and started bleeding profusely. My parents who had earlier heard my shrill of excitement realised that It sounded more like a scream now. 

They rushed and saw me bleeding, and immediately took me to our family doctor who lived the closest. Not trusting the hospitals and having complete faith in our doctor. The doctor lived in the same building where he had his clinic. Upon arrival we realised our family doctor was on vacation and his assistant was going to treat me. I started bleeding more. The assistant in charge did not look like a doctor from any angle. Our vacationing doctor had put all his faith and hopefully his skills in this guy’s hands. I was more scared now. But the assistant seemed to take no notice of it. He seemed unperturbed- as if he had seen this kind of case hundreds of times. I saw no equipment to treat me. Now, I was damn sure I would be his first case. My dad was holding me all this while. The assistant opened the tap of a sink which looked like the only medical instrument around. Cold water started flowing. Without hesitation or rather thinking, the assistant took me from dad’s able hands. He lifted me upside down and put my whole face under the sink.  I didn’t know what was happening. What kind of first-aid was this?  I screeamed but immediately closed my mouth fearing this guy would be whack me on my bum for being a bad patient. Not even in school I had feared that. I was getting over-flushed. The gush of water kept hitting my forehead. Blood kept oozing out. The assistant kept smiling. And my dad didn’t know where to look or do. 

Finally, the assistant was satisfied. He smiled again as if he had half-performed the surgery.  I was in and out of consciousness.  Didn’t matter so long as this surgeon was happy. 

He took me out of the sink and handed me back to my dad. He told my dad to make me sit on a chair - which was his operating table.  He got a thread and a needle after rummaging through the drawers - Was he a surgeon or a tailor? - Closed his one eye, put the thread through the needle in one shot - Bulls eye!- and started stitching my forehead up without any further ceremony. Midway he realised he had to inject me for infection or such a thing. So he paused, told my dad to hold me straight, injected k me with an even more weird looking thing, and restarted his sculpture. He was humming. Maybe I was a good model. The whole process took less than five minutes.  He turned my face here and there and inspected my forehead admiring his art.  Satisfied. 

Then he remembered to ask me how I was feeling. Blood had stopped, replaced by tears. I mumbled something vague.  He seemed happy.  My dad asked about the fees. At first he refused. Then remembered it was not his clinic so asked to be paid when the real doctor came. Not sure how much his artwork would cost, we thanked him and said our goodbyes. 

My head was hurting but to be honest, it was hurting less. Not sure how much time, money and energy would have been spent had we gone to a hospital.  With all his shenanigans, if truth be told, this guy was  godsent. Little rough but effective.  Not sure where we would have gone with little money, in the middle of the night, and half the city sleeping. Later on, I got to know that this guy was a military doctor, hence the speed, no emotion, no drama. 

This surgery or procedure left a scar on my forehead. Over time it has faded, and kinda makes me look intelligent now. As if I am in some deep thinking mode….

Hampi

 

Mountains of rocks spill across the landscape. 

Big and small boulders balance graciously. 

The granites glaze in every form and shape

as mysterious stones stand ceaselessly. 

This city of unattended temples

needs no further human interference. 

The divine deities are felt in your pulse

where the royal art and science ruled once. 

Pillars of the temples with no bells toll. 

And the walls adorn with scriptures and quotes. 

The stone chariot which was designed to roll-

now holds the place on the Indian banknote.  

Equally sacred to monks and monkeys. 

City of ruins- epitome of peace. 

Light Of Irla

 

I smoked my first cigarette when I was 18 years old - Wills Navy Cut. I chose that since my dad used to smoke that brand. As if hereditary loyalty meant it would kill me less. I puffed rather than smoked. And huffed more than puffed. It started as a show-off like most things do start at that tender age.  And I smoked as if I had been smoking since I was born. Looking back, I now wonder what was so tender about smoking a cigarette. 

Our secret rendezvous to smoke was to a restaurant called Light of Irla - Irla being the area where we lived. Not sure what light meant. It was mostly dim but suited our purpose. Each of us would leave our house pretending we had an errand to run. Some were more than willing to do some household chores. That always surprised the moms. That was a bit of a stretch. Anyways - four  of us would find our way to the Light of Irla.  Each coming from a different direction.  We would select a table at the far corner where we could look outside and spot if any of our elders came. Hide and smoke.  Two cups of chai were ordered between the four of us.  One guy was our senior in smoking. He had been doing it for a couple of years. He smirked when we coughed. But soon we got used to it - to smoking, not his smirking. It didn’t take long to not cough.  But he had an ace up his sleeve. He made smoke rings. So he continued smirking for some more time till we could do it. This way we could die trying to do everything possible while smoking. 

We carried some mints to ward off the smell. And we chewed or sucked on it till our breath was all mint. This way no one would know we smoked. How easy it was to fool everyone, right? Wrong. 

We didn’t change our rendezvous because we felt safe.  But we stopped going there when we thought we were adult enough to smoke in public. No more hide and smoke. Not that people were thrilled to see us smoke.  

We chain-smoked, but then one day, years later, we gave up. No more tender. Some of us shifted to a different place. One fine day I met an old lady who used to live in our society. Though I had hardly seen her when I lived there. But because of our old neighbours’ attachment we started talking. We talked about all the stuff of our old society. Our growing up and all. And just a matter of factly she said - I used to see you guys having chai at Light of Irla - 

My lights went off……

To Be Heard

 

Newspapers scream to be heard. 

Radios blare unwanted songs. 

TVs bombard us with words

blurring the right and the wrong. 

Facts are embellished with tales-

a different language they speak. 

The decor fails to regale. 

It only hides what we seek. 

Loud is the act when in doubt. 

The quiet truth needs no shout. 

Bufo

 

A yellow sunflower hung on a cupboard. The wind made it swing like a pendulum. Ticktock. ticktock. Yellow. Brown. Yellow. Brown. The mountain beyond the river was melting like an ice cream - but  upside down. The cream dripping towards the unseen cone then meeting the river. The eyes watered. Ebbed and flowed. Seeking the sun then the moon. Eucalyptus oil fills up the room. Wine is drooping from the grape loosely hanging on a tree. Heaven.  A girl with long hair is sitting on a swing. Smiling. Swinging. The ropes of the swing go way up and disappear. There is a knock on the door. Time has come to intervene. But the pause is strong and long. Time will not be part of this for the time being. The blue footprints sound melodious. They hop like a knight on a chessboard.  One stride, two strides , half stride. Let the game sink in. The blues ooze out of a gramophone. Garland of notes bounce around the queen. King , bishop, rook and the pawns dance to the music - soft, never heard but beautiful. All moves are rhythmic. Wind is chilly. Change is coming. Change of season. Reason camouflaged. A peacock is loitering around. Looks kinda lost. Monkeys chirp and give him directions - where to go, where not to go.  Somewhere in the maze of haze there is white clad woman walking.  Maybe floating. She smiles, turns and walks away in the mist. A puppy goes after her wagging his tail. Thoughts once felt important dissolve into a glass jar.  Nothingness. Toad croaks in the sleep.  Tongue hanging, extending waiting for food.  Sleep is coming.  A yellow sunflower hung on a cupboard. The wind made it swing like a pendulum. Ticktock. ticktock. Yellow. Brown. Yellow. Brown. The mountain beyond the river was melting like an ice cream - but  upside down. The cream dripping towards the unseen cone then meeting the river. The eyes watered. Ebbed and flowed. Seeking the sun then the moon. Eucalyptus oil fills up the room. Wine is drooping from the grape loosely hanging on a tree. Heaven.  A girl with long hair is sitting on a swing. Smiling. Swinging. The ropes of the swing go way up and disappear. There is a knock on the door. Time has come to intervene. But the pause is strong and long. Time will not be part of this for the time being. The blue footprints sound melodious. They hop like a knight on a chessboard.  One stride, two strides , half stride. Let the game sink in. The blues ooze out of a gramophone. Garland of notes bounce around the queen. King , bishop, rook and the pawns dance to the music - soft, never heard but beautiful. All moves are rhythmic. Wind is chilly. Change is coming. Change of season. Reason camouflaged. A peacock is loitering around. Looks kinda lost. Monkeys chirp and give him directions - where to go, where not to go.  Somewhere in the maze of haze there is white clad woman walking.  Maybe floating. She smiles, turns and walks away in the mist. A puppy goes after her wagging his tail. Thoughts once felt important dissolve into a glass jar.  Nothingness. Toad croaks in the sleep.  Tongue hanging, extending waiting for food.  Sleep is coming. Or am I asleep? 

Bar

 

Quiet is the crowded bar. 

Long leather chairs to sink in. 

Whiskey to drift me afar. 

The ice cubes swirl, old tales spin. 

A few sips make me dipsy.  

I see a shimmering beach.

I am happy though at sea. 

The present beyond my reach. 

And the bar lights turn warm-white.

The past is all that I sight.