The trip

The car swerved at the bend dangerously,missing the mud-bank by millimeters, not that there was much space on the asphalt strip.Out on the highway, one noticed large rectangles of orange-brown rice grain put out to dry, in the blistering sun.Doesn’t matter if the roaring vehicles,
centimeters away,blew exhaust, dirt and various other pollutants into the edible grain , they will eventually be milled , right?
Here, in the village heart, there were goat-kids, crawling babies, (naked , except for a bell and a charm tied around their waists),and entire brood of clucking hens strolling purposefully, in the center of the less-frequented village road.
The car, a large old jalopy, occupied the entire width of the by-lane , sending chicks scattering ,
and grumbling mothers assiduously oiling their daughter’s hairs,climb hastily onto the crumbling perimeter walls, the car even scraped bit of someone’s thatch roof , complete with a half smoked pack of beedis , that landed on the back seat with a rustle and a thud.
One could smell the sea, through the maze of huts that surrounded the road, and the smell of fish, all powerful, all pervading.Fish drying in batches on dirty polythene sheets on the roof, fish lying in a scaly , squirming pile at the bottom of a tin tub , infront of a fisherman's home , fish scales glinting in the sun.stuck to nets, put out to dry on the palm leaf frond on a conical roof top.
On top of it , the salty,moist, fragrance of the sea, coming closer every second .
After two hours of negotiating winding village lanes , and not reaching the beach, one had to stop for directions . So , didi stuck out her neck, betel -leaf stained teeth bared in a scary smile , accosted the nearest passerby with a load  of dripping net on his shoulders causing him to lean strenuously , smiled , folding her hands ,  began -"Kemon achchen?"(how are you?)
"Einh?" The fisherman panted in return.
"For heaven's sake didi, we are in Orissa right now, try hindi, and stick to key words , no formalities please." A stream of practical directives were issued from the driver's seat.
"Okay, okay. Chandipur?"
Didi asked , and gestured askance with her hands.
The man stared for few moments at didi, still swaying to avoid toppling over, and hastily made away, grunting under all that weight.
"Dekhle !"(I told you so)
"Poltu!! Your turn!" Poltu swayed to the music from his earphones , like a zombie on drugs, totally  unawares.
"POLTU!" A shove  missed the target and landed on poltu's knee. "Ki"? Poltu vaguely mouthed, mildly alarmed.
Next stop, a smartly dressed gent in white kurta and dhoti kuchi in pocket ( "bangali hobe " . didi speculated , hopefully) ,Poltu poked his head and asked "Chandipur?'To drive his point home , he curled his fingers of the right hand , in a universal gesture of enquiry.
That was his undoing . The sight of all his bejewelled fingers, down to the thumb, with a heart shaped large tattoo on the dorsum, with the words " baby "(justin biebers', not his ; he would painfully explain to umpteen elders)written inside it, was too much for an Oriya / Pseudo - bengali bhadralok to take .He
smirked, coughed , dribbled some red  pan juice from the corner of his mouth , and broke into a hiccoughy- laugh(if there is any such thing )
"Ugh!!" Poltu recoiled, to avoid being sprayed with pan-spittle.
Baba sped forward. Didi, the eternal spinster/family flirt , saw a kindred spirit in the paan-eater.  Twisting back to take a good look, she breathed smugly and loudly into Poltu's ears -"He ij istill making phaan of you." Adding a paan scented chuckle of her own.
"Ugh!!" Poltu plugged his ears again, and went back to his swaying.

It was getting dark, and the car was now going round and round in circles, thanks to Vishnu, the driver, who was also night -blind.
"This is the third time we have entered this hamlet."The swaying Poltu would state the obvious, promptly countered by didi, eager not to be left behind," Shakespearer hamlet?"
No one would answer her, and Poltu would turn his face windward, with another "ugh".

Asking for directions became an emergency now . There were no street-lights either. Driving in the darkness, with only headlamps lighting up startled dark faces was getting edgier.

To relieve tensions building up, Didi took to crooning the Maa-durga ahwahan (invocation)song -"Jaago, Tumi Jaago"(Awake , oh mother, wake up), Vishnu smiled and nodded his approval at the divine incantation. Baba shook his head in despair, and Poltu cranked up his volume, thankfully inaudible to the rest.

Suddenly, Vishnu braked, hard. A motley group of villagers , complete with lathis and lanterns , stood in our way, blocking the road. Didi raised her pitch-"Jago doshoprohorani jago(arise , one with hundreds of weapons, arise). For once , Poltu unplugged his ears, and looked genuinely terrified. Vishnu was panting as he came to a halt, as if he had run a marathon, and Baba wiped the sweat off his brow . The same thought occured to all. Unspoken-"Robbers."

The guy right in front walked around to the rear window and peered in, taking in wide-eyed Poltu and a closed eyed Didi,went full blast on invoking the warrior Goddess."Tumi Jaaaaaagggoooo."
The "robber" seemed to cock his ears at didi's chanting, suddenly broke into a toothless grin, straightened and informed his "fellow -robbers" on the watch -"Arrey, thik achche , era bangali."(its okay, they are bengalis)

A palpable relief swept over, as this revelation broke through. Smiling robbers told us directions , and even offered us "Cha", and an invitation to dinner , though politely declined.

We discovered we were mere four miles from our destination, albeit, in a different direction.

But our benefactors, did turn out to be "robbers", of some sort. You see, they were collecting "forced"donations ('chanda') for the upcoming 'parapujo'.All that bonhomie and they still left baba's purse lighter by one thousand bucks.

But as Baba says , it was a small price to pay  , and after all they were "bangalis."

Rebirth?

One gets sometimes affected by reading a book radically. One such book was Brian Weiss’s “Many lives, many masters.” I mean how can you ever reconcile with the fact that you were a mongolian foot-soldier, or an african concubine , or an Arab slave in your last birth.
I mean if the powers-that-be intended us to remember all that, wouldn’t it give rise to identity crises, (in this birth) of gargantuan proportions?
I hope my hyper-sensitive children do not read this book, else they have resolute delusions of grandeur. I can already see the younger one at the dining table, with her feet resting where the mat should, and back-answering me. “What? Me? Set the table?No way! I am His Highness the Marcus Aurelius reborn…”

I worry

I worry that I wont be always around to see you off every morning
I worry that something may make you sad enough to weep privately
I worry that I may not know and may not be able to wipe your tears and fears away.
I worry that life may take a weird turn and you may have to grow up faster than you ever thought.
I worry that your life’s energies will be sapped in dealing with your friend’s heartaches and much reserve wont be left for you when you seek it.
I worry that I may not be able to see through the fog of your lies, again.
I worry that my gullibility will be your doom , as I unwittingly let you walk in harm’s way.
I worry that you may not be willing to share your teenage angst .

Mr.Moustache

A beautifully cultivated moustache . Curling up from beneath the nose up to the lip line , in one single heave of smooth , jet black shiny mass.
I am sure he gelled the moustache too. Lot of words were spoken by those lips beneath the glistening wonder, but I was always lost in the moustache . I am sure the main reason for my crush on Mr.P was his fantastic growth on the upper lip.
It was a topic of serious discussion amongst the giggly teens ,as to what is done when the milk is skimmed clean off the cream by the holy bushiness, or how a small comb was carried in the butt-pocket , just to smoothen and groom the dark beauty.
So , one day , when Mr. P walked into the classroom , hugging his biochem notes, devoid of darkness beneath his nose, lot of dreams came crashing down . A storm of whispers broke out, in sheer despair, and a smiling Mr. P had to actually devote first ten minutes of his lecture to-“Why I decided to shave my moustache?”

Anju

"Wait for Anju !!"
The scrawny captain of the mohalla cricket team, said. All looked at each other askance. Some one reflexly smoothened his hair. Another, straightened the T-shirt, lungis were unknotted so they covered the rest of the hirsute legs , in sombre modesty.
 One gent, a smart guy , cleared his throat , and said ."So, Anjus' coming too?"
"Yes !! We thought we agreed on gathering as many players as possible."
Again , looks of incredulity were exchanged all round.
"Look here , who asked you to call.... "and trailed off as a gawky teenager , in oversized pants , panted up across the fields , swinging  his bat rakishly .
"Yuuuhuuu, Anju , over here."
The proud brother called the bat-swinger over. "See I told you, Anju wouldn't ditch us."
Rest all exchanged looks again, and burst into hell-raising mirth, cackles of loud laughter,scaring clouds of mynahs from the tree next to the shed.
The two brothers stood in the shed , an island of discomfiture in the sea of humor around them.

Gender mixups were common for Anju , right from his childhood. Anju was a girly name , Anjani wasn't. He was named after the Goddess mother of the monkey -god hanuman,who had a masculine name . If the goddamn scriptures weren't so gender-bended, life would have been much smoother for Anju. It wasn't. So he turned it into his USP.

 His mother longed for a daughter, after the first son, the father named him after a goddess, and he turned into Anju, the boy with the name of a girl.

His own fragile , fair skinned , curly haired looks didn't help much either.Family lore has it that , in infancy, the mother used to dress him up in frocks;inarguably, a sore topic for Anju.

In order to reassert his masculinity, Anju did everything , right or wrong , which a boy / man should . He turned a rebel of the highest order.He also crossed over to the forbidden territory. He rode bikes, bunked classes, fell in love (with the opposite gender)with regular frequency, creating an avalanche of problems for a struggling family of eight.

In keeping with the family traditions , he was thrashed , grounded, coaxed, cajoled , threatened , but to no avail.

The climax reached when he eloped with the neighbour's daughter.FIRs were lodged, neighbours blamed each other's progenies, threatened each other with dire consequences, filed separate cases in the court and turned bitter enemies.

After a fortnight of high voltage family drama, the daughter called up her parents. She said she had left for the neighbouring city , because she "wanted to study further , and you guys, despite being my parents , want to tie me down in matrimony." She further added that she had run out of money , so "Anju bhaiya " helped her out with some cash of his, and it was not fair on their(the parents') part to have misunderstood  her noble intentions and taken the matter to court, etc. Now , she would like to come back home if all was forgiven, and Anju -bhaiya was forgiven too.

Of course, alls well , that ends well.

The girl kept her word and passed her bachelor's degree , whereas Anju was hastily married off to a village belle , who "knew how to sign her name "and whose father offered five buffaloes and a contractor's job to Anju as dowry. It was too good an offer to be refused.

Airtight

1. “Wham!!Wham!”
   “Order!Order!” The judge pounded the gavel on the large shiny table.
   The murmur instantly died down. All faced the table, with expectant faces.A few flashbulbs went off , almost by reflex.
   “Humph! Press-wallahs! Who allows them in , in the first place?” She thought to herself, as she smoothened her sari, waiting for the announcement.”This had better be good.” She was scared to even look back at the defendant’s family, the criminal-types! What possessed her to take this case in the first place ? A defeat might mean loss of career; nay, life even. She gulped hard,
   “The case is airtight.” The judge announced.
   She felt terror flutter at the pit of her stomach.
   Already she could feel the accusatory stares of “You did nothing to defend him” burning into the back of her uniform…

The man on the cot

Writhing, cursing, a pathetic mass of twisted flesh; I would see him everyday, on my way to and back from school.

He was afflicted with a virulent form of polio. His entire body wore an agonised look. Right from his face downwards.He would be dressed in a lungi, with no vest. 

His long suffering wife would appear and disappear, carrying towels, trays, food etc.Occasionally, we would also see her massaging his pained ,grotesquely mal-formed limbs.

I would avert my eyes, when I crossed him. More out of disgust.

A combined odour of urine, sweat, pus,talcum and hair oil would emanate from him.

I would avoid being in the absorbent range of that odour, like by-passing radioactivity.

Holding my breath, giving him wide berth, and heaving a sigh of relief when I had passed the house.

Under a thatch roof, he would lie, come rain, sun or wind. He had been put out into this shelter, probably to help him see the world ,and let fresh air dissipate the odours that emerged. It worsened everyday. The pained look on the face, and the filthy odour from his festering sores.

Occasionally, his throat produced strange . high pitched, hoarse sounding words,that faintly resembled choicest abuses in hindi. That exactly it was. Abuses flung at his dishevelled wife , fluttering to and fro, like a miserable bird, her pain inextricably linked to his.Unable to comprehend or soothe this flaring up of  impotent rage.

In the mornings, he would be stinking of fecal matter, as he would have soiled his meagre clothings, and would be calling for help, again in a string of abuses.

In the evenings, he would be cleaner and  quieter, and smelt better; of talcum , and daal , from the lunch, which would have dribbled down his chest, and lying there, caked, impossible to reach/clean as he lay on his stomach, his distorted limbs gripping the strings of the cot, every which way.

The wife would cheerfully greet me , if her eyes fell on me, or nod and smile. That would make the husband look up from his ruminating position, and grunt / groan, with a grimace, we took for  a smile. We would hear how handsome this couple was when they got married, of how good they looked together, of how they had a daughter together;who was growing up somewhere in the unseen dark recesses of this house of pain; before fate played this cruel joke on them , and he was condemned to live this miserable life,for goodness knows how long .I would find it difficult to believe or even visualize. I had always seen him like this, horrifyingly disfigured.

To believe , that such a person was worth or capable of anything else was impossible for me. But, destiny has different things in store for all of us.

One day,I missed the school bus. 

The second stop was a good 100metres ahead, and I ran, as gracefully , as one could with a huge school bag and a largish water-bottle banging against my sides.

The school bus merrily trundled on ahead, oblivious of my shouts .

Suddenly, the air was rent with a high pitch growling and howling,emanating from the "cot". 

The man was straining every fibre in his body, his neck veins distended, as he produced primeval sounds.Alarmed, the bus driver braked, and I boarded the bus.

Seated at my usual window seat, I turned back to smile in gratitude, and the man on the cot grimaced in return, lifting his head off just a wee bit to catch a glimpse of the moving bus.

thou shalt not live by bread alone

the restlessness
got my goat
the wanderlust
gripped me
and rattled me

it caught me
unawares
as i drank my
morning coffee
and jostled
my brain
for some elbow space

it caught my
arm
and took a reluctant me
on a guided tour
(like the famous
spirits of
christmas past)

through the
alleyways
of my lacklustre
existence
and kept exhaling
a rotten breath
of sheer despair

as I hung my
Scrooge's head
in shame
and misery

I wasn't a prodigal
son
neither was I
the fattened
calf to be
slaughtered
 at the altar

the sorriest part
was my inability
to be
slotted
or be butchered
purposefully
either

Just add water

“Just add water”
“Added. Now what?”
She looked at me askance.
“Stir it, then steam it in moulds.”
“Oooh!”

My daughter’s first idli. From a packet, telling you exact amount of water, oil and steaming time. Goodbye hard work.Goodbye overnight soaking, grinding, fermenting, waiting. Goodbye patience and all the other good things . Want to eat an idli. Cool. Pick a packet off the shelf, and “Just add water.” How I hate those words!!

They may have made life easier, but the romance is missing. So much of ease, is it good?

My self

In moments of my deepest
solitude
you creep up
and lie beside me
like a besotted
canine
wanting to be
caressed

In profound silence
you find the
temerity
to whisper
juicy gossip
into
my ears

In darkest
of nights
in mid slumber
you invade
my dreams
with panache
and compel me to
watch
technicolor dramas

Leena didi

She was short, thin, and a livewire.
And she wore a oversized, faded blue sweater. Probably , a hand-me-down from an elder sibling ,she was too proud to admit.
That sweater made her stand out in the school assembly, where after, she would be called by sisters and roundly scolded as to the drab-ness of dress.
The sweater would make her a laughing stock amongst her well-to-do classmates, but that sweater, combined with her smartness and agility, became a lethal weapon on the playground,and she metamorphosed into a kabaddi-legend.
The game ruled that opponents touch each other's team -members , thereby rendering them "out",once the line demarcating them was crossed.
She would unbutton her garment, and enter the "enemy territory", taunting the opponents with war-like whoops ,so that they were enticed into trying to grab her, a veritable whirlwind.
Most of them were foolish enough to grab the ends of her flying garment, in an attempt to subdue her. That would swiftly become their undoing.
She would leave her sweater behind, along with half of the opposite team ,"out-ed", and red faced.

Incredibly, the saga would be repeated , match after match, and she would exit the playground hoisted on her team-mates' heads, speaking a great deal about human intelligence, or lack of it ; depending on which side of kabaddi-line you belonged to.

the firing squad

They marched
in single file
like
toy-soldiers
automatons
breathing,living
hence
more dangerous

masked
alien
beliefs
fighting for
someone else's
figment of imagination

they lined up
facing me
against the wall
no escape

one barked
any last words

I should
have smiled
and said
fire away
but my bravado left
me
and my
mouth was
parched
silent
 heart
beat loudly
for the
last time

A volley
of shots
thuds
that rocked
me

I smiled
foolishly
as I bled
painlessly
and needlessly
into the mud
and
wondered
at the peace
and the
calm
that
passing away
had
brought
finally

I think
I was
also
trifle
disappointed
at the
lack of hysteria

it also
brought
home
the uncomfortable
notion
that
i may have
valued myself
highly
but was
absolutely
dispensable
in the
natural
scheme of things

The malady and remedy

When you
 treat the mind
 what do you erase?
 what infection
is decimated?
 what do you
 pluck and discard?
 What goes bad?
 What percentage?
 what is cured?
 If it is intangible
 how do you know
 if the treatment
 has taken effect?
 If the insane thoughts
 are plucked clean off
 what remains?

 Is madness
 some dirt
 to be
 mopped
 off the floor?
 Or is it mud
 to be scraped
 off the heel
 of one's shoe?


 how can you
 separate
 a person
 from his
 thoughts
 beliefs
 emotions
 personality?

 Is the body
 the shell
 able to
 survive on its own?
 In a mindless state

 Aren't we
 missing
 something there?


 And lastly
, who decides
 what is insanity
 and who is to be
 called insane
 How do we know
 that the remedier
 himself
 is not afflicted
 with the malady?

In the shadow of fear

Teetering on the edge
with a foot
in the abyss
always
how can you
live
with fear
breathing down your neck
every
 moment?


Every
breath an agony
every
heartbeat
a fearsome
tattoo

Each
second
ghosts
leap out
from the
shadows
to devour
you

and you cower
helplessly

Each
minute
another
bothersome
thought
plagues
your
mentation

how can you
live
like this?

In the quicksand
of  your
worries
one fear
allayed
is quickly
replaced
by the other

and you
wilfully
sink
letting the burning sands
engulf
you


Have you
seen yourself
in the mirror
lately?
you
mutterer
stutterer
wide eyed
fear monger


Your nightmares
unbridled
have spilt
the confines
of your brain
and are
prowling
the
backyard
of my mind


like a plague
your contagion
pollutes the
very air
I am breathing

And my grip
on the rescue
ladder
seems slippery

"Monica"

They stood in a rough queue. The father, mother , and the two kids, sleepy and yawning intermittently. It was 4 a.m. in the morning, dark and wet at the bus stop.
A tired group of sightseers, all wearing sneakers and other apparel which immediately set them apart, as tourists.Listlessness overcame the children, and they sat on a stump of concrete , that might have had a noble existence as a bench once, now worn shiny by numerous other passers-by.
At last, at long long last, the welcome sight arose at the farthest end of the road, negotiating the hump was the bus.
Everyone picked up their assigned luggage, cameras, waterbottles, smuggled snacks in baby rucksacks,and looked expectantly at the bus with “ Monica ” emblazoned in LED on the sides.
In an inexplicable move , the bus gathered speed and sped past them,leaving a cloud of dismay and dust in its wake. 
The father came to his senses first, and sprinted behind the bus,yelling "Monica,Monica"(for want of a better word), an act which made him sound like a love-lorn teenager and made the girls pant and giggle at the same time.
Rest of the party followed in desperate speed, but the bus resolutely moved on, unmoved.
Huffing and puffing, they came to a stop. eyes watering, chest heaving, in the middle of the road,partly hidden from view, by a dust cloud.
Luckily, technology in the form of mobile phones came to their rescue.
The travel agent was rung up, talked to; he rang up the bus driver, and almost instantly, the bus came to a halt, with a screech of tires, some 50 meters ahead. Hallelujah!!

I am a verb

Verbosity,verbiage,verbs, words, actions, descriptions.
We live in a world overwhelmed with the need to speak out, be heard, make noise, articulate.

That brings to the mind the story of a tao master, who was lying beneath a tin roof, counting his last breaths.
The courtyard was full of seekers of wisdom, come to lap up his last words.
He remained in silence, absorbed in listening to squirrels scamper on the tin roof.
Impatient disciples whispered into his ears,”master please speak.”
Master said,”Shhh, listen.”
And died.
In the pindrop silence, squirrels carried on, oblivious.

Words(3)

Words are bound editions
of boundless emotion
words are coarse definitions of
what ceases to be infinite
words are stray forays
into attempts to limit
the limitless
words give body
to soul and the spirit
at times the capturing
is apt , precise , masterly
at other times
you are left
clutching sand
that runs quickly
through your fingers

Bath

“Bath, who needs a bath!” He would shake his head and spray everyone with the oil scented raindrops from his wet locks. Like a cheerful puppy.
His mates in the truck would recoil from him and his infectious good humor, especially when they shivered after being drenched in an untimely late winter shower.
He was a milk delivery man.
Every morning, sharp at 0545 hrs, while the sky was still slumbering, and the trees silent, he would sprint across the colonies, his crate in hand, reading name slips by the torchlight, dropping the days’ quota of the armyman’s manna, ration bread and milk into polythene bags with yawning mouths, waiting for him at closed doors.
An unlikely Santa Claus , he was.

Defiance

"It matters not how strait the gate
how charged with punishments, the scroll,
I am the master of my fate
I am the captain of my soul."
                                            -"Invictus"


The wings severed
the bird caged
the ideas stifled
thoughts muffled

do not forget
the song in the heart
as you crawl
on the floor

only thing that
scares your
captives
is your free will

singing in gay
abandon
even as the body
writhes

and the
soul
soars.

Words (2)

Words are like
a pilfered fortune
some stay with you
some don’t.

In your waking hours
in your sleep
in the twilight zone
in between sheets

an idea, preposterous
nascent, nebulous
is like the fluttering
of a gossamer wing

May be gone the
next moment
like a smile hovering
on lips, truant

so, stop,
drop, and write
lest the epiphany
flees

and serendipity 

melts