Ageing

The beloved print
seems
out of focus.
unforgivable
words
that even bitten tongues
cant
swallow
back
wrinkles
and
caries
stiffness
of
joints
once
straight
now
bent
repent
now
or
rot in hell
so said
the
scriptures.

Nature
they say
is
a
formidable
sculptor
and
shall
mould you
in its likeness
of
age
whether
it be
to to
your
liking
or not.
Never
mind
the
heartburns
the
twisted
knuckles
the
engravings
of
corns/wrinkles/cellulite
on
thy pristine
temple
time
spareth
no one
know
this
moron
you
are no
exception.

Doggone tales

Some childhood memory has made me forever wary of wolves, dogs, foxes and their ilk. Here, I extend my sincere apologies to all dog lovers, nay animal lovers, Maneka  Gandhi,Jane Goodall,Greenpeace, PETA and all such individuals and groups of people who deem it fit to equate humans to our animal/canine brethren.The wild varieties one encounters only inside the safety of the wire mesh enclosures, whereas , the domesticated variety is encountered almost anywhere. From posh drawing rooms, to seedy garages.
The block I live in comprises of  four flats. We occupy the ground floor.My family comprises of only humans, no dogs.The two neighbours on the first floor have pet dogs , of the exotic breeds too. There is a huge , shaggy, St.Bernard called Sugar,and a frisky labrador called Alex . The block in front houses a black labrador who goes by the name of Scooby( a misnomer, for if I remember correctly, Scooby was a Great Dane). Then there is a flea-ridden, hairless, stray bitch who has been adopted by my next door neighbour(in a spirit of canine camaraderie), who consumes all the uneaten and inedible portions of tandoori chicken with gusto.Needless to mention, the bitch, thereby , does an immense favour to the punjabi couple and the quantum of garbage ,produced by them.
When we moved in, the garage had been lying empty and unused for quite some time. A friendly neighbour decided to help himself to the empty space and parked his huge ,glistening white sedan there.(His own garage being full of packing boxes, the bane of all army men ).
But the appearance of the roaring metal beast did nothing to deter a determined group of stray dogs from setting up camp there. When we moved in , we requested the neighbour to kindly withdraw your sedan(if you please),and he complied. But the dogs, (being dogs), put up a' dogged' resistance.All 'doggerels" of appeasement fell on deaf flea-bitten ears. There must have been ten odd of parents, siblings, pups put together.They set up a regular howl of protest, barking at our mere presence.Any trip to and fro, the kids school, shopping complex, or the workplace, was fraught with embarrassing cacophonous howls and angry barks, not to mention the potential danger of bites.Canine crowds would growl, blood-curdingly, from beneath parked cars, and chase shoppers overloaded with groceries. Many a time , yours truly has had to make a panting breathless,sorry arrival into the foyer, deprived of footwear and groceries scattered all over the driveway.
Dogs  being' dogmatic' in their disapproval of the scheme of things,we took to keeping the garage shutters lowered,at all times, (after having checked the automobile underside for glistening pairs of yellow eyes and warning growls).
Gradually, the dogs dispersed,and peace reigned once more.
Then the pets moved in.
Dog poop reappeared on immaculately trimmed lawns.Because you cannot' tell a dog from its poop', after weeks of patiently cleaning the lawn, we erected a makeshift fence made of green netting .When we arrived, we had found these fences everywhere, and were puzzled. Now , we had the answers .
Some weeks earlier, the stray bitch gave birth to a pair of black and white pups, which surprised everyone in the neighbourhood. Being emaciated, she didn't seem pregnant at all.The upstairs neighbours'(Sugar's keepers) garage was vacated in a moving show of magnanimity and canine solidarity. Anti-flea powders and left over chapatis were showered upon her. The only protest came from a possessive Sugar who was likely to greet her competitor with a half-friendly swipe of hairy paw, whenever the two met.
Now, any postman, milkman or newspaperwallah had to contend with three sets of stranger-danger barks. No wonder, our leaking taps and flickering bulbs remained unattended, despite repeated complaints.Dogs were in , so humans were out. Classic Arab and the camel scenario.
One morning, Alex and Sugar, normally quiet, went berserk.Their loud lion-like barks were interspersed with plaintive squeals of the stray. An intruder dog, as emaciated and hairless as the stray herself, if not more, had crept into the garage and mauled both the pups.
Now we could correctly say that our neighbourhood had" gone to the dogs".What we had just witnessed was a "dog-fight" to the finish, no less. 

The day that I died (on the passing away of a loved one)

That day dawned so blindingly bright
That was also the day of gloom
It was the summer solstice , right?
The spectre did correctly loom

Of heartbreak and wrenching loss,
No words can describe the feel
of being abandoned, alas
In a world brimming to the  fill

With gaiety and mirth and song
Of schoolkids waiting for buses and kisses
Of radios blaring, and life going on
As if nothing's  really amiss

Of heart's sudden desolation
and a world torn asunder
In a blinking, an unfelt motion
I cremated my dreams, desire

With full vedic rites
The smoke spiralled
out of the temple spires
and in my soul snowballed

a deep dark belief
that here lay the remains
of my  insignificant life
I too had borrowed a leaf

out of my grandmother's
book, and laid myself
to rest ,in the depths of ganges
where we submerged her ashes.

Parade-charade

(The early morning sun had dimmed, as the parade was being held on the verandah.The Colonel's jeep was still running,and this is what I saw and felt, as I passed through.)

A picture
of composure
the back
being ramrod
straight
the creases
in the
olive green trousers
having
been
tended
to
very carefully.

Shoes
glistening
in the sun rays
of early morning.

A sharp waft
of
cologne did
nothing
to mask
the overpowering
stench
of disdain

Disappointment
writ
large
on faces
shaven
shorn of
gaiety

Sharpened
spears of
masterly words
burying deep
into dark
depths
of
scarred hearts.

Like a
vampire
feeding
on the
life blood
of discomfiture
helpless boys
squirming
in pain
plain
for
all to see
even as
sharp talons
twisted in deep
tongues
words
lashing
whiplike


leaving
welts
of remorse
disgust
tattoed
into
souls

Is one
that worthless?

(kabir once said-
maati kahe
kumhar se
tu kya
roonde moy
eek din aisa
aayega
main
roondoongi
toy)

The hapless
mound of clay
in the potters'
hand
says
why do
you
knead me
so?
there will
come
a day
when
I shall
dismember
you

Munnidi and her mother

"It is my turn."
A pair of  gold bangled, manicured hands, with every perfectly shaped fingernail the colour of rubies, materialised at the drum-tap.
"What?"
We all scruffy, scrawny, country-rats looked up from our daily squabble at the drum-tap, all  jostling, pushing and screaming frozen mid-scream, and mid-shove to view a picture of total, incredible contrast- a vision in orange and yellow chiffon saree,fumes of perfumes emanating from her peaches-and-cream skin, voluptuous lips painted bright red,perfect eyebrows framing pretty kohl-lined eyes, bent down, to wash her hands , in slow motion, as it were.

 The shoving , pushing resumed the moment she left, but a lingering aroma of her mysterious perfume stayed on in the air.There was some swooning(fake), and raised eyebrows accompanied with hysterical giggles .

Suddenly, the mother appeared, looking very upset. We were informed that Munnidi was sobbing in the bedroom, and that we were to be blamed for the gross"miscarriage of justice".Someone(it was difficult to say who)touched her 'flower-petal hands'(exact words used by the fawning mother)with curd-besmirched hands. That too 'sour-curd'(here, our venerable aunt assumed a high- pitch voice)

My grandmother turned to us in mock gravity(her eyes dancing with mirth)'Is it true?"

We all shook our heads in collective negation of the crime.

"And that's not all Maa, they even had the temerity to laugh at my Muuni's back. My dear sweet Munni."

At which point, my grandmother thrust a ball of her cotton pallu(saree-end) into her mouth to stop her own giggle, face rapidly turning red.That was the cue for us all to erupt in joyous, gay laughter, and aunt beat a hasty retreat, grumbling, fuming.

She was Munnidi ,and she was not a girl, but an apparition of made-up beauty("fake, I am telling you, that mother of hers is spoiling her silly."-my grandmother would declare, her nose high up in the air),and totally out of place in our austere, no-nonsense home.

She and her mother would descend on our simple, non-descript house with all the pretensions and airs of the city-bred visiting the country cousin.They would arrive in a flurry of suitcases and bags, riding high on a wave of cologne/perfume/face cream-scented air into our rustic environs.

Munnidi's mother was the youngest daughter of my grandmother.She would indulge in this annual "high -profile visit" to our humble abode for two reasons. One , ostensibly, to meet her parents(i.e., my grandparents) and secondly to hunt for eligible grooms(IAS/ IPS officers of the highest sub-caste in the kayastha category, my poor hassled grandfather would be informed).

Her electric blue ambassador would be parked in the grounds and a poor, hapless, driver(she brought one along with her )would be forever scrubbing it down. She came from a place called Hazaribagh(she made it sound like the best place on the earth), where her husband was a "daroga"(in our childhood naivete, the best -paid job in the world) who was probably, driven to heights of bribery to meet his wife's and daughter's burgeoning demands,thereby remaining suspended for most of his lackluster career as a cop.

She would shop voraciously. In an age where materialism was frowned upon, she was the ultimate shopaholic.For chiffon sarees, sweetmeats, takeaway meals, anything that caught her fancy.She would bully shopkeepers for a good bargain,(mis) using my grandfather's and her disreputable cop husband's name .

She also had marked prejudices, and she made no effort to disguise them.Fair kids and male children were favoured over the dusky girls(her own daughter being of the' milky-white skin').

But the nadir of her bad behaviour came out in the open one day when she' stole'( or lured him away with false promises of better salary/cop-job)one of my granny's servants.The aunt had taken up residence in the same town as us , for a short period of time , as her husband had been posted there(on' demotion', was the whispered rumour). This lad must have been 14-15 years old, a highly impressionable age.

That meant war. My grandmother's hackles were raised. Like a wounded tigress, she did the best thing. She abandoned her errant cub. We stopped visiting the aunt. Later, she would come and apologise, bursting into uncontrolled sobs of remorse, one rainy evening, startling the normally sedate and sleepy maths teacher out of his chair.

But the wounds had been several, and too deep. In our collective memory, she still remains a laughing stock. Like all mothers, my grandmother forgave her.For us , she and her quirky nature is the stuff, family gossips are made of!!

Ammaji

(It is strange that we look for bravery and endurance in newspapers, or plastered across billboards,when it is staring us in the face , right in our backyard.I have, in my short and singularly uneventful existence, come across many such individuals and I am sure there are many more out there, their stories waiting to be chronicled.)


Sari hitched between her legs, her spindly legs all wet, she would be assiduously sweeping the water off the tiled floor in our kitchen, hissing like a goose, all the while, to beat the chill of late December.Occasionally, she would break into a bhajan(a holy song),loud enough to make the inmates of the house smile in indulgence.

"Ramji jehi vidhi rakhiye, tehi vidhi rahiye."(roughly translated as 'let the Lord decide your fate)

The floor would still be muddy and wet, and had to be mopped with a mop, which would be dripping wet owing to previous days' floor washing and bad weather ,put together. Any amount of reasoning and convincing (that a dry floor is cleaner than a wet one) wouldn't work with ammaji.
She would , invariably inundate large parts of the house with vast quantities of water, and then proceed to mop it up; wetting things,and her saree , further.

This act of apparent thickheadedness is prompted by the rustic hindu belief of dousing everything with' gangajal' (water from the holy ganges) to render it pure.

Ammaji, or mother, as it would mean in Hindi, was a braveheart and a fighter.She worked as a domestic help, or maid,for us and couple of other houses too.She bore five children to a drunkard , who drank his way to oblivion, "many winters ago".He probably drank up all her savings and left her in abject penury, with several mouths to feed, and bodies to clothe.

But she bore him(' a soul long gone' ) no ill-will. Single handedly, she raised her kids from the scratch, earning money from her several jobs,living in various servant quarters , and over the years, developed a rock steady faith in the" Lord", and her own abilities.She also made an attempt to educate them, wherein one son matriculated last year , after a string of failures, and others just gave up after having "learnt the letters".

One daughter was married to a guy who lugged gas cylinders in the gas agency,other to a sweet shop owner(halwai) in a remote village. The second marriage being somewhat of a failure, the daughter would land up at ammaji's doorstep every six months' or so, with her latest newborn in her arms, a large number of runny nosed kids of various ages in tow, probably pregnant with the next arrival.She would then proceed to stay at her mother's place, for an uncertain period of time, thereby straining the meagre resources further.She would be welcomed every single  time with equal enthusiasm, and gifts showered on her numerous progenies. The family shifted a little to make space for' baby'(as was her name)and her babies, and few more kilos of groceries bought with borrowed money.

Every twelve years, a festival of mammoth proportions is held in the holy city of Allahabad, a site of confluence of the three holiest of holy rivers for hindus, the Ganga, Yamuna, and Saraswati(albeit underground).Ammaji was determined to take a dip into the holy river, despite the risk of stampedes,overwhelming crowd, filthy waters and freezing temperatures.Take a dip she did, and returned back safe and sound with' prasad'(holy sacrament) for all and sundry.

When a neighbour fell ill, she would be the first one to pay a visit.
 When the government decreed that new identity cards be made, she was one of the first to apply and receive a copy. Not only did she brave long queues, stifling heat, and inefficient Govt. employees, she also didn't let her illiteracy stand in the way of her grit and enthusiasm.
 When my mom-in-law broke a hip, she pressed her sons into service too, and took over additional tasks of cooking , without a murmur. Later when she recuperated, ammaji used to accompany her on her routine evening walks. A chore demanding tremendous patience.
She would offer to bring groceries in, even when it rained, or the winter sleet howled around her bony ankles, growling like a dog.

She had corneal opacity in one eye, which indicated a trauma to the head , long ago. Probably sustained during the early marriage years. Something she was always reluctant to talk about.But that didn't slow her down.She would have near-brushes with disaster , on a daily basis , almost. Once she was almost hit by a speeding car, on other occasions, utensils with food still in them would land in the sink, peelers chucked into dustbins along with masses of peels, but she would make up with the most endearing gift of assiduity and generosity.

On busy mornings, she would offer to carry forgotten notebooks to classes of irresponsible kids having hurried off  to school in a huff. Not once unfazed by the fact that she might have to face rude sentries and displeased teachers.

In a world that turned increasingly literate, computer savvy and fast, she remained unfazed, old-fashioned, illiterate , but a generous and enthusiastic beacon of hope to people around her.

My Story

Where does one begin ?
 Is the effort worthwhile?
 Was my story so interesting as to rivet my readers?
 What shall I gain from recounting tales of my tears and laughter?
 Will it be cathartic, or will I continue to wallow , as a poet so colourfully put it,” in the cesspool of self-pity”?
Shall I move on , and face the new dawn with clear, tear-free eyes, or will my story have clouded my visions , by reinforcing my prejudices, and deepening chasms?
 Why this sudden need to pen down one’s story?
 Is it because the ennui of existence has become apparent in the fourth decade of existence? Or is it because it has dawned on me that one is gifted with a finite number of life -breaths, a gift which can be snatched at any, undefinable moment in the future?

To the lost one

Your collection
of penguin classics
sit
rotting
patiently
in a tin trunk
beneath
fathers bed.


Mother has
aged
tremendously
from
what
you last
saw her as.


She parted
with your
trousers
shirts
shoes,socks
with great
reluctance


As if you
would
pop up one day
and ask her
the whereabouts
of your
belongings you
so recklessly
left behind.


You also
left behind you
a
mountain
of
highly
inflammable
questions
which
catch
fire and
become
a raging
inferno
at the slightest
sympathy/query


They leave behind
a charred heap
of flaky ashes
which
cannot be
submerged
into the ganges
even, accompanied
by
chanting
of sacred
mantras.

We
have gathered
them
in our hearts
where
we keep them
 guarded
from
winds of
change.


No pyres lit
no dirges sung
no tears shed
you took away
the wrenching
grief
of having
to
see you burn with
your half-baked ideas
of changing the
world.


The only
jarring
remnant
is an
unfortunate
habit of staring
at homeless
wanderers
looking
for an aquiline
nose
a broken
incisor
an
unforgotten
 sparkle
in the eyes

Motu
I am afraid
I am
beginning
to even
forget
what
you looked
like.