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. 

Navratri

 

Navratri had begun. Nine days of non-stop dancing and the tenth day cool down - Dussehra.  People wore exotic dresses. And even more electric were their dandiya sticks. The practice to dance in all manner and style, and on all songs, had begun a few months back. Some practised even harder to win prizes. Well - Navratri brought out  MJ and Elvis in all. 

But me and my friends were on a different kind of mission which  began a few months back - selecting a music band. 

My friends , one old uncle and I went in search of a band. The exploration took us to Dhobigadh where most of the bands took birth.  

The first band we auditioned had all the ingredients, and all the so-called instruments. Guitar, drums, organ and dhol. And one singer who kinda looked dazed. They started playing for us, and how hard and loud they played in anticipation of getting selected.  We watched, hands in our pockets, concentrating hard as if we knew all kinds of music, especially the one which was screeching out of this band. They watched us watching them. Sweating, giving  an occasional smile when the sweat was wiped off. And generally trying hard to impress us. But we were hard to impress and acted as such. What with our vast knowledge of music. In between this cacophony, our old uncle would shout, which to him was an encouragement but the band members kinda looked scared. 

The audition went on for about 20 minutes and finally and thankfully it ended. Uncle was impressed but again it needed very little to impress him with the music sense he possessed. 

The band looked at us hopefully but we showed no emotion. After all, we were the elite selectors. I looked at the band name. The name was printed on a long dhoti hanging somewhere on a tree under which they were playing. It said “Lucky Star “.  Well - good luck! We thanked them and left without committing or without any ceremony. First time we had an opportunity to show that we had the greatest musical sense to select a band or a musician. We further demonstrated that attitude by discussing something vague but making the band think we were discussing their performance. 

This complex selection process took us to a few more bands. Each band seemed to perform harder and louder if not better. I suspected a spy had been sent by these bands to the area where “Lucky Star “ or other bands performed. He would probably have quietly watched the proceedings and come back and reported about our high level selection process. And in turn, this band obliged by playing the way they were playing in order to get selected. 

It was midnight by the time we retired and regrouped to discuss the evening’s proceedings. We had auditioned 8 bands and we were exhausted. I wondered about the state of those bands. I thought about it and felt bad about selecting just one and rejecting others - but not that bad too since we had a limited budget to work with. This budget was funded by the people of the society where we lived. We went door to door, sometimes at odd times, to collect money. Some gave willingly,  some handed it to us as if they were expecting a Bruce Springsteen band. 

The long night of our discussion continued over a couple-of-five- drinks. Uncle didn’t drink so we had his quota. We needed deeper thinking. Finally we voted and selected a band called “ Blue Thunder “. Lucky Star wasn’t that lucky I guess. I kinda liked that the best among the others. 

Anyways - Blue Thunder got the maximum vote. Uncle seemed to be happy. Probably expecting a thunderous sound. The Blue Thunder was a band of three - Organ, singer and one big water drum which surprisingly sounded damn good. 

It was 4 o’clock in the morning when we finally wrapped up. In a few days Navratri will begin. We had done our bit.  Now it was up to the society people to assess and enjoy as best as they can.