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. 

Red Hat Man

 

He seemed at peace all day long. 

A vibrant red hat he donned. 

Radio on with his old songs-

humming along though withdrawn. 

But if he heard you nearby

he would wake up from his spell. 

And before you could say hi-

he would ask if all was well. 

Now I greet him from down here. 

But I know he smiles and hears. 

Teapot

 

Today I broke a teapot. 

And I thought it had nine lives. 

My restless hands failed to spot

the pot right before my eyes. 

I stared at it with long sighs.

Both of us in fragile state. 

Almost tempted to tell lies 

for I could not bear the weight. 

But I gave in to my guilt. 

That is how courage is built. 

My Teacher

 

She teaches me with her eyes -

makes them see what I do not.  

My rigid thoughts she unties,

and jittery nerves unknots. 

She shows me how to relax-

to fret not about small stuff. 

There is nothing that I lack

for her smile is just enough. 

Her soul in every feature. 

She is my daughter-teacher. 

Water Aunty

 

When heat and dust clogged my face. 

And the sweat poured from the pores. 

I would then thirstily gaze

at her window and implore. 

As always she would be there-

a glass of water in hand. 

Her smile showed how much she cared

for me and my restless band. 

Now closed is her kitchen door. 

Our thirst will be quenched no more.