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.
