Old-Age Home

 

A white van arrived at the old-age home.

The clock chimed for the leisurely rituals. 

A wheelchair appeared to ramp down the slope. 

Time for visuals and shut off the virtual. 

First out of the home was an old lady. 

Gloved and muffled up in a pink jacket. 

Then an old man with a hat all ready. 

And two cronies set to make a racket. 

It was a process to get to the van.

The idle limbs did nothing but scrolling. 

Canes, wheels and shiny cream for the suntan.

They were eager to get the ball rolling. 

Call this not a drama for the comfort. 

When one derives  much pleasure in effort. 

A Boston Morning

 

It was a sunny morning in Boston. I made some Kapi and stood on Niyo’s balcony.  Sun filtered through the trees. From Niyo’s apartment I could see the road going either way. The house opposite was an old-age home. Every morning at 8, a van arrived to pick up the oldies for a drive. Maybe for half a day. I sipped my kapi. Soon they would get into the van all smiling and eager. I decided to go for a walk. The phone and the map switched on full alert mode knowing my sense of direction. I flipped a coin to decide which way to go first. The left side won. It was a bit windy but pleasant. A few walks down the road and I saw a sloping service road. A bit of a  climb but I needed that after the previous night’s drinking. Few carpenters were mending a house. The slope ended and met the main road again. On the main road I could see the Shivalik store just opening. Early. The owner was Sam from Nepal. I had chatted with him the previous day for one hour. About what? I had no idea. All I had done was buy some potatoes and swap stories from our homes. The main road met the highway where the office-hour traffic would soon start. There was a bench at the intersection. I wiped the dew off and sat.  One side was overlooking the garden which had a small fort kind of thing, the other side the city life. And of course one wine shop- universal temptation - closed yet close. The quiet, the pace or the folly- the choice was yours. I turned back and started walking towards Niyo’s apartment. Even from far I could see the big van approaching the old-age home. There would be shrieks of laughter. The picnic would soon begin. I took the street down away from the main road.  It was quiet. Most of the houses had beautiful balconies or porches. I walked further down admiring those houses.  Didn’t people come out and sit outside? I would, probably the whole day. The street turned a corner and joined another street. Wow! This street was lined with blooming trees. Yellow, orange, red, purple, brown. It was Fall.  I looked around and realised that all the streets were lined with these vibrant trees. Something  I had overlooked because I wasn’t looking or expecting. Some leaves had fallen from those trees making a colourful circle around the tree. - I hope nobody brooms it alway - I thought. 

I took a U turn and took another street. Some more gorgeous trees. I could sit there and stare at them the whole day. All the streets were so quiet- even when a car passed. A few more sloping streets and I came to a playground.  The ground was yellow till I realised those were yellow flowers that had covered the ground. I took two rounds of the ground and reached Shivalaya, the temple. It was probably the only temple in Niyo’s neighbourhood. It was on the second floor of a big building which occupied other offices. It was a temple where one found peace. Time for peace talks not that I had a disagreement with God but just in case He thought I didn’t visit Him often. How religious! I climbed up the stairs. Once inside I took two rounds around the deities, prayed for Niyo and sat. I sat there for a long time. The peace was powerful. When I opened my eyes I saw the Bhatji watching me.  We smiled. He gave Prasad. I thanked and was back walking the streets. 

This routine I would continue whenever I visited Boston. 

Signs

 

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. 

A Bike Ride

 

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….. 

Glamour

 

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. 

She Waited To Say Goodbye

 

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 Green Bench

 

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.