One Cold Working Day

 

The long narrow bridge takes you to the railway station. It is a long walk but it’s early cold morning so people don’t mind walking a bit -unless they are late. Some run, some walk, some  stroll, some laugh, some sombre, some in a trance, some listen to music. They reach the station and wait for the train to come.  A fast train whizzes past the platform where they are waiting.  A blur of people can been seen standing or sitting. Obviously not their train. So they wait. A shoe polish fellow has just opened his shop -chooses his area which is almost always the same- next to a big steel pillar-  spreads a big cloth to sit on, lays down a small wooden stool, a brush, variety of polish creams, old cloth, shoe laces, leans back on the pillar, and he is set. Bangs his wooden brush on his wooden stool to call out to his customers. He spots them, looks at them, and then starts looking at their shoes disapprovingly - not too good.  I can give a good shine, buddy - A juice vendor has started his juice machine and is making quite a bit of whir.  Orange, lemon, chikoo, banana. People wait. A chai stall is set up by someone. Some drink. A samosa stall is open now and the vendor expects people to buy from him. Seriously? How hungry does one have to be to eat one of those samosas? In fact it is a perfect diet plan - you look at it and you lose your appetite. The train arrives and people hustle and bustle to get in even when the train could be empty. It is just a habit formed over a period of years. Lots of seats available but many people stand, as if suddenly realising that the seat is important only when it is scarce and then they would fight to grab one. No fun when easily available. Life. People switch on their mobiles and start browsing. All heads down aa if in a prayer. No newspapers are read nowadays. Noise level goes up when people don’t use handsfree , or they are too bored to take them out and stick into their ears. Or just plain pleasure in seeing others getting annoyed.  Ceiling fans are off in this so-called cold season and anyone wanting to put the switch on is looked upon as someone from outer space. Can’t he see that others are wearing those fluffy colourful sweaters so lovingly hand-stitched by their grandmas some hundred years back?  So what if they are out of fashion and loose threads are sticking out? They are for cold season. Some talk loudly and debate heatedly as if the outcome of world politics and business depends on their discussion here. Some are immune to everything and doze off. But get up just when their stops come. Intuition. The final station approaches. People get down and rush to their offices. Some walk, some run, some take a taxi or bus. The working day is about to start. Though it has already started few hours back. 

School ?

The chalk squeaks on the blackboard-

wakes me up from my slumber. 

Letters appear tired and bored. 

And distant seem those numbers. 

I hear an ancient language. 

It is the teacher speaking. 

The teachings are hard to gauge. 

Maybe it is me sleeping. 

Still dazed under a weird spell-

I wait for my saviour bell.

A Torn Ten Rupee Note

I was blessed with a torn ten rupee note. It came into my worldly possession after a long booze session when one saw poorly.  So, as we say here - I wanted to chalav it - literal translation - wanted to walk it - but meaning - pass onto someone and get rid of it. 

Next morning with a clear head I thought of a bakra / popat ( someone I can dump this torn ten rupee note on ). Rickshaw wallah.  Perfect poor guy who can be bullied,  not always though. I had some errands to run so, after a careful selection of what looked like a poor rickshaw wallah and also who seemed could be bullied, I hired him and rode with him. I hid the torn ten rupee note among the good notes. I chatted with him about everything and nothing but all the while thinking about how to present the torn note to him so as not to arouse any suspicion. So I folded it, re folded it, made it into a tiny paper, then again unrolled it, pressed it and finally prayed that it would go unnoticed. Wow! What drama just to get rid of one ten rupee note.  But then, someone had fooled me in my inebriated state  and I wanted to fool someone else.  Ego issue. Ergo - rickshaw wallah. 

I restarted my conversation with him - politics, cricket, whatever he liked hoping for a diversion, and then his diluted attention span. 

Midway to my destination I started feeling bad. My conscience at last woke up. What was I doing? So I thought of giving him the torn note only after telling him that it was torn. What honesty! Then I thought what the heck! Will give him a charity / tip whatever you call it. If it worked - fine - else it was not a financial loss to him. I stopped the rickshaw just a few meters from my destination. I handed him the torn note and told him it was torn and it was not part of the fare.  It was just extra. And if he could “chalav” - it was his else he was not losing anything. He just smiled and said - let it be part of the fare. It’s fine. I will somehow manage the torn note. Need not pay me extra-

I was dumbstruck.  And before I could say anything he said - I have noticed that  you still need to go a few meters farther up. Hop on and I will drive you there. No need to pay me since I’m already heading there. 

Well! I thought myself. If he has noticed this then he has obviously noticed my shuffling and reshuffling of the torn ten rupee note. 

I didn’t know what to say, what to do.  Since no words could come out, out flashed my silly smile which said thanks. I would walk the remaining distance. Before I could tell him or rather acknowledge him further, he smiled and bid me good day. 

Old Woman

 

All day along she sits by the window 

watching people go about their business. 

Some smile, some wave, some nod to say hello-

she finds these greetings a bit meaningless. 

Sometimes someone drops by for a quick chat

which lifts her spirits just a little bit. 

Sometimes someone brings flowers, pats her back-

finds nothing to offer but some lame wit. 

She longs to talk but hears the clock ticking 

so her words jumble, tumble and overlap. 

The past overflows memories leaking,

and those tears or joys seem a bizarre yap. 

She sits by the window, asks for our time,

long talks- and a clock with no hands, no chime. 

Red Checkered Wallet

 

Stuffed with my identities

a red checkered wallet lies. 

Old photos and old cities-

knots of memories it unties. 

I stare at it quite often

but I rarely carry it. 

It helps my nerves to soften

as my past nears bit by bit. 

When it gets worn out and blurred-

It will lie in my cupboard. 

Cauliflower

 

I never liked cauliflower - still don’t. My hate for this vegetable goes back to my college days. Once I drank half a bottle of rum and ate cauliflower like crazy - those days it didn’t matter what you ate after drinking.  And so - after drinking, what felt like, gallons of rum I puked - and the floor became a cauliflower garden. So I gave up - not drinking - but cauliflower. 

My mom had a belief that one should eat all the vegetables and since I didn’t like cauliflower ( not aware of the reason ) she was hell bent on feeding me. So she devised a plan. 

She cut this bloody cauliflower into small pieces and shoved it into pav bhaji. She camouflaged it like a true detective that she was -some secret mission.  She served me pav with this bhaji, and  sat back. Generally there was always a smile on her face when she served food but this time there was no smile and so I suspected something fishy. And then I spotted just a tiny bit of my nemesis sticking out of the well disguised bhaji.  To not disappoint her I ate the bhaji with extra pav so as to reduce the know-ability of cauliflower. She smiled and asked me - How is the bhaji?- 

I said - It is terrific -

She smiled even broader and said - There was a bit of cauliflower in it - 

I gave a silly-overacting-astonished look and said - I don’t believe it-

She busted out laughing and said - See, you like my cauliflower. 

I nodded vigorously - overacting in full force. 

I hated to spoil her secret tactics. And went along with it. But told her laughingly not to do that again else I would fear eating pav bhaji next time.

She said ok.  But she did that again many times. And I acted even more stupidly every time.  We played along with this game for quite some time. 

After many years of this, she eventually stopped making cauliflower pav bhaji.

One day we talked about it and I told her that she quite fooled me with that dish. She was getting old but more alert.  She rested her legs on the table, reclined her head and said

 - Oh! of course you knew there was cauliflower in it. You just played along to please me - 

she smiled and then added 

- hope your acting has improved since then-

She passed away a few days later. 

I wish to have that cauliflower bhaji again. 

Niyo

 

A silent strength you possess-

lazy bum precious priceless. 

Kings and queens maybe many

but just one little princess.