Wednesday 23 March 2016
I am starving
I am starving?
Yes , it is important to starve
Important to have that hunger in the belly
Important to want
just a bit more
and yet again some more
for in this journey of ours
this mirage of unfulfilled needs
is what keeps us going
the gnawing
at the pit of the stomach
the desire
the dangling carrot of
this and that wish
yes I live for tomorrow
Yes , it is important to starve
Important to have that hunger in the belly
Important to want
just a bit more
and yet again some more
for in this journey of ours
this mirage of unfulfilled needs
is what keeps us going
the gnawing
at the pit of the stomach
the desire
the dangling carrot of
this and that wish
yes I live for tomorrow
Hungry?
When I am about to take the first bite of my veg burger , and I see the sad eyes of a dusty boy staring at me from the streets.
When a famous batsman swaggers onto the pitch and the crowd goes mad with adulation , chanting his name.
When the skies open up their tightly guarded treasure of raindrops and the parched earth swirls up its dusty arms, reaching up.
When a chance visit to a library , opens up the past and the kid’s eyes to an era long ago, and the kid is most definitely hooked.
When someone comes home with a tantalisingly close-to-the-top score, and is told that he/she can do it!!
The aroma of a freshly baked cake, escaping the confines of the kitchen and waltzing down the street, in gay abandon.
The inner drive that keeps one awake , in the wee hours of night , tapping at the keyboard,in a mad quest.
When the fragrance of toasted cumin combines with crushed cardamom pods.
When a famous batsman swaggers onto the pitch and the crowd goes mad with adulation , chanting his name.
When the skies open up their tightly guarded treasure of raindrops and the parched earth swirls up its dusty arms, reaching up.
When a chance visit to a library , opens up the past and the kid’s eyes to an era long ago, and the kid is most definitely hooked.
When someone comes home with a tantalisingly close-to-the-top score, and is told that he/she can do it!!
The aroma of a freshly baked cake, escaping the confines of the kitchen and waltzing down the street, in gay abandon.
The inner drive that keeps one awake , in the wee hours of night , tapping at the keyboard,in a mad quest.
When the fragrance of toasted cumin combines with crushed cardamom pods.
Friday 18 March 2016
Encounters of the avian kind
We have been going for morning walks ,for the past two weeks.
The route involves a blind road which has wooded areas to both sides. Two large British-era barracks ,abandoned lie en route. The roofs have caved in , with sunlight gleaming through windows, in a couple of rooms ; and the water tanks in the backyard always overflow. The lawn and the yard has overgrown . Thick creeper vines, rope-like, entwine the lampposts, and obliterate the windows, doors, and choke the chimneys .They have also choked an entire banyan tree, its arms raised heavenward for divine help,draped with brown and black ropes, bereft of foliage. It looks quite creepy and hogwartish even in the broad daylight.
As a result, the place teems with wild-life , specially of the avian kind. It has become a virtual birdwatcher's paradise.I had been hearing the chirps, grunts and whistles coming from the bush and the overgrown woods, for quite some time. On a trip to the library , I chanced upon a book titled, "Birds Of India." It was like peeping into a pandora's box. Suddenly , all those beauties I had seen, acquired names, behavioural characteristics and personalities.
Parrots,flashy, noisy, and swooping around in vast groups.A solitary lapwing(colourfully called titahri in Hindi), racing across a field,soaring up and dive -bombing a group of stray puppies, pecking them with its beak, all the while emitting its characteristic, high-pitched cry that sounded "Did he do it, pity to do it,"to my author, and "PA Check up it."to my anaesthesiologist husband. Graceful, silent and meditative doves, love lorn pigeons lost in their amorous goings-on. Chatty and gregarious babblers, vigilant and omnipresent crows and mynahs. Mynahs can be aggressive as they have been seen to raise a shindig at the sight of predators like snakes /cats, those that need human assistance for shooing off. They have been known to have territorial show-downs with squirrels too. Besides, their orange-yellow masks give them a sinister , conspiratorial look.
Lesser visible visitors include a couple of sand-coloured hornbills , that have no truck with the other species. A pair of "teetars" walking along the wall of the compound, disappearing into the brush, never to be seen again. Cuckoos sing to entice you, then sit silently, trying hard to pretend being invisible, when you try to look for them. In all this cacophony, bulbuls , the red-vented and the sipahi variety, sit pretty , and silent on the highest possible perch of a barren tree.
Large and clumsy peahen gather in groups of four or more , on rooftops or come to take a drink at the puddles of overflowing water at tank bases. They are always watched over, warily, by a male , sitting a few trees away, a glorious sight even with its famous feathers tucked away, looking for an opportunity to dance ,like a star dancer peeping from the sidelines at a stageshow.
An owl sat hooting mournfully in the peach tree in my backyard, some days ago. It was noon. When I went to check , it was this beautiful scops owl, brown and white,with its ears raised, trying to catch forty winks. Espying me, its neck swivelled down to give me a round-eyed , disdainful look. By the time my daughters tip toed in to have a look, it had gone off to sleep,it eyes dark tightly shut slits, in the green hued bedroom.The girls tiptoed back.
The route involves a blind road which has wooded areas to both sides. Two large British-era barracks ,abandoned lie en route. The roofs have caved in , with sunlight gleaming through windows, in a couple of rooms ; and the water tanks in the backyard always overflow. The lawn and the yard has overgrown . Thick creeper vines, rope-like, entwine the lampposts, and obliterate the windows, doors, and choke the chimneys .They have also choked an entire banyan tree, its arms raised heavenward for divine help,draped with brown and black ropes, bereft of foliage. It looks quite creepy and hogwartish even in the broad daylight.
As a result, the place teems with wild-life , specially of the avian kind. It has become a virtual birdwatcher's paradise.I had been hearing the chirps, grunts and whistles coming from the bush and the overgrown woods, for quite some time. On a trip to the library , I chanced upon a book titled, "Birds Of India." It was like peeping into a pandora's box. Suddenly , all those beauties I had seen, acquired names, behavioural characteristics and personalities.
Parrots,flashy, noisy, and swooping around in vast groups.A solitary lapwing(colourfully called titahri in Hindi), racing across a field,soaring up and dive -bombing a group of stray puppies, pecking them with its beak, all the while emitting its characteristic, high-pitched cry that sounded "Did he do it, pity to do it,"to my author, and "PA Check up it."to my anaesthesiologist husband. Graceful, silent and meditative doves, love lorn pigeons lost in their amorous goings-on. Chatty and gregarious babblers, vigilant and omnipresent crows and mynahs. Mynahs can be aggressive as they have been seen to raise a shindig at the sight of predators like snakes /cats, those that need human assistance for shooing off. They have been known to have territorial show-downs with squirrels too. Besides, their orange-yellow masks give them a sinister , conspiratorial look.
Lesser visible visitors include a couple of sand-coloured hornbills , that have no truck with the other species. A pair of "teetars" walking along the wall of the compound, disappearing into the brush, never to be seen again. Cuckoos sing to entice you, then sit silently, trying hard to pretend being invisible, when you try to look for them. In all this cacophony, bulbuls , the red-vented and the sipahi variety, sit pretty , and silent on the highest possible perch of a barren tree.
Large and clumsy peahen gather in groups of four or more , on rooftops or come to take a drink at the puddles of overflowing water at tank bases. They are always watched over, warily, by a male , sitting a few trees away, a glorious sight even with its famous feathers tucked away, looking for an opportunity to dance ,like a star dancer peeping from the sidelines at a stageshow.
An owl sat hooting mournfully in the peach tree in my backyard, some days ago. It was noon. When I went to check , it was this beautiful scops owl, brown and white,with its ears raised, trying to catch forty winks. Espying me, its neck swivelled down to give me a round-eyed , disdainful look. By the time my daughters tip toed in to have a look, it had gone off to sleep,it eyes dark tightly shut slits, in the green hued bedroom.The girls tiptoed back.
Thursday 17 March 2016
Waiting
Waiting for the bus, for school bus in childhood.
That was some waiting .
The school was some 6kms from home . Reluctance to trudge that distance either on foot or by slow moving rickshaws, would prompt me to land at the bus stop, some 20 minutes before time .
Those 20 minutes were mostly filled with counting the number of bricks exposed in the plaster-peeling wall of the government office building , across the road. But mostly , I was idling.
Except for exam time , when sanskrit shlokas, French Revolution, algebra,Indus Valley , organic chemistry, grammar ,calculus and hindi proverbs waged a chaotic war inside the cranial confines .
Once , in this dazed state of cramming , I heard an ominous rapid grating of metal on macadam, coming from somewhere behind me . My anagrams for various UN bodies was quickly shattered by the noise coming closer to me by the second, accompanied by galloping sounds made by certain hooves and warning , desperate shouts from human throats.
That was some waiting .
The school was some 6kms from home . Reluctance to trudge that distance either on foot or by slow moving rickshaws, would prompt me to land at the bus stop, some 20 minutes before time .
Those 20 minutes were mostly filled with counting the number of bricks exposed in the plaster-peeling wall of the government office building , across the road. But mostly , I was idling.
Except for exam time , when sanskrit shlokas, French Revolution, algebra,Indus Valley , organic chemistry, grammar ,calculus and hindi proverbs waged a chaotic war inside the cranial confines .
Once , in this dazed state of cramming , I heard an ominous rapid grating of metal on macadam, coming from somewhere behind me . My anagrams for various UN bodies was quickly shattered by the noise coming closer to me by the second, accompanied by galloping sounds made by certain hooves and warning , desperate shouts from human throats.
I turned to face snorting , scary and startled pair of oxen, wide eyed with fear , as they raced ahead of the farmer's whip. Between them they dragged the yoke on the ground to which they were still tethered.Too close to even side step, all I could do was to run , to avoid being mauled. Both the sides of the road were lined by muddy ditches, so jumping in there would be perilous-er. From frying pan into fire sort of an affair. So ran I did, with all my might.Followed by the oxen, followed by the farmer, cursing and whipping the air.
We must have made a pretty sight, for soon, people emerged from their doorways , and materialised on their terraces , as we progressed down the road.
To make the spectacle complete, my school bus arrived and joined the procession from the nether end , i.e., behind the farmer , honked a couple of times , and slowed to a crawl. Classmates leaned from the bus windows to catch a glimpse of the "tamasha," hooting and whistling , grateful for this comic intermission to their science formulas.
Red-faced, panting , cursing all the world, praying to the Lord, I was about to give up, and had almost decided to jump into the ditch, when Lord , in His mysterious ways, whispered the same into the oxen's ears. So they slid into the ditch, yoke and all, and lay there, thrashing, mud-flying every which way, lowing loudly, and farmer , hands on hips , surveyed the scene with dismay, and cursed some more.
I quickly boarded the bus to tumultuous applause.
As I sit writing this down 30 odd years later, I am thankful for the absence of smartphones then , else that would be the most hilarious clipping ever circulated.
Sunday 13 March 2016
Attack
"Aakraman !!" Screamed the Colonel. Stupidly , I thought" attack" would have sounded better. The hindi version just didn't have the crack-of-a-bullet sound to it . Then , he shrieked-"Fire!" Now, that was much better. Understood in all languages . Transcending all barriers .
Everyone , and I mean everyone , Vijju the nerd , who would play "temple run" till his phone ran out of juice , bhola the unit joker , Karamchand of the valley of brave hearts , banerjee the sissy thumb sucker , all leapt out of the trench , all guns blazing , like a single massive predator, shouting ,screaming,shooting at random. All except me. I was frozen , like a statue. Every thing was happening around me , but I wasn't in it. Like an out-of-the-body-experience. It was like a scene from a movie . Only grislier.The enemy guns took half-a-second to retaliate. A bullet hit banerjee, and he crumpled ,like a cartoon character,seeping crimson river into brown mud. More bullets kept hitting him, and his lifeless body jerked with each impact.
A hysterical laughter, primeval , strange , incongruous, bubbled inside me . Bullets were flying every which way.
Everyone , and I mean everyone , Vijju the nerd , who would play "temple run" till his phone ran out of juice , bhola the unit joker , Karamchand of the valley of brave hearts , banerjee the sissy thumb sucker , all leapt out of the trench , all guns blazing , like a single massive predator, shouting ,screaming,shooting at random. All except me. I was frozen , like a statue. Every thing was happening around me , but I wasn't in it. Like an out-of-the-body-experience. It was like a scene from a movie . Only grislier.The enemy guns took half-a-second to retaliate. A bullet hit banerjee, and he crumpled ,like a cartoon character,seeping crimson river into brown mud. More bullets kept hitting him, and his lifeless body jerked with each impact.
A hysterical laughter, primeval , strange , incongruous, bubbled inside me . Bullets were flying every which way.
I must have laughed for I heard the Colonel spit out an expletive , and felt his rifle point nuzzle me . I also saw the fear in his eyes , for he must have read the insanity that had , in that instant , taken a grip over me . I raised my gun and slowly swivelled it to face the Colonel , my team leader, our God , who had sent my mates to death, and was cowering like a rat in this hole.
Everything seems so crystal clear to me . It was as if it happened yesterday. I can even freeze frames in my memory and tell you how dust, blood and bits of clothing flew and hit my face as I faced the startled look of the Colonel. I even saw an enemy soldier looming over me . He too was startled. Not knowing what was happening.I had bayonetted him , even before I could think. Screaming , killing, I had transformed into a beast, and I was not even aware .
I emerged out of the trench, and saw Bhola gasping on the ground . His eyes met mine and his lips moved . A bullet caught me below the knee and I keeled over ,my head hit the ground , and all went black.
Wake up !!
I read somewhere that the day Edison discovered electric bulb , and the night darkness was banished, was the day we rang a death knell for our true quota of restful sleep.
Nighttime activities grew by leaps and bounds , and the signal the body received from a darkening sky, to rest, sleep and recuperate, was confounded by dazzling lights. We became nocturnal beings , and perpetually tired, yawning , zombies during the daytime.
“Wake up !” cries my hubby for me to take my morning walk , to watch birds already chirping praises to the Lord.
“Wake up !” Screams my brain when the milkman rings the bell.
“Wake up !” I scream at my daughter to catch the early morning bus.
We are all waking each other up , even as each of us wants to burrow deep down into that warm quilt , and sleep the rest of the day off.
Nighttime activities grew by leaps and bounds , and the signal the body received from a darkening sky, to rest, sleep and recuperate, was confounded by dazzling lights. We became nocturnal beings , and perpetually tired, yawning , zombies during the daytime.
“Wake up !” cries my hubby for me to take my morning walk , to watch birds already chirping praises to the Lord.
“Wake up !” Screams my brain when the milkman rings the bell.
“Wake up !” I scream at my daughter to catch the early morning bus.
We are all waking each other up , even as each of us wants to burrow deep down into that warm quilt , and sleep the rest of the day off.
Yesterday
Yesterday is bygone . Yesterday, was, and therefore, is not threatening anymore.
Yesterday and day before that, it rained . Today is brilliant and blindingly sunny. On the surface , the mud puddles are drying up and the slush acquires the dusty sheen of dryness , within hours. When you dig deep , the soil retains the moisture for much longer than it seems . It may be moist weeks hence.
Same with life . As Salman Rushdie says in his Midnight’s Children” yesterday leaks into today and stays there in puddle.”
There is a school of thought that says , you can never get rid of your past. It stays with you , forever. Subconsciously , colouring your thoughts , speech and actions .
I have seen this more of late . When I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I find my parents , a strange juxtaposition of both , rather, staring out at me .
Some times , in a haze of anger , an ancestral expletive slips out of the tongue, where it must have sat patiently , for so many years, unaltered, unfettered. It takes everyone by surprise. Even me . For it has waited so long , that no dictionaries tell its meaning , and no one living does too, even me . I have just parroted , what I had heard , so many years ago, in a haze of some one else’s righteous anger.
Yesterday and day before that, it rained . Today is brilliant and blindingly sunny. On the surface , the mud puddles are drying up and the slush acquires the dusty sheen of dryness , within hours. When you dig deep , the soil retains the moisture for much longer than it seems . It may be moist weeks hence.
Same with life . As Salman Rushdie says in his Midnight’s Children” yesterday leaks into today and stays there in puddle.”
There is a school of thought that says , you can never get rid of your past. It stays with you , forever. Subconsciously , colouring your thoughts , speech and actions .
I have seen this more of late . When I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I find my parents , a strange juxtaposition of both , rather, staring out at me .
Some times , in a haze of anger , an ancestral expletive slips out of the tongue, where it must have sat patiently , for so many years, unaltered, unfettered. It takes everyone by surprise. Even me . For it has waited so long , that no dictionaries tell its meaning , and no one living does too, even me . I have just parroted , what I had heard , so many years ago, in a haze of some one else’s righteous anger.
Wednesday 9 March 2016
Procrastinator's poem
Tomorrow I will get even with my fate
Tomorrow The day will dawn brighter
Tomorrow opportunity shall knock the gate
Tomorrow I shall be a fighter
Tomorrow I will not let the neighbour's dog relieve on my lawn
Tomorrow I shall transform into a Super(wo)man
Tomorrow I shall bake perfect brownies
tomorrow they'll publish my stories
tomorrow they'll acknowledge my genius
tomorrow there won't be any fracas
tomorrow there will be world peace
tomorrow there'll be no shouts,no riots
tomorrow no schools be set on fire by compatriots
tomorrow in parliament, no pandemonium
tomorrow at meetings, no acrimony,no bad blood
tomorrow everyone will be fed, no lack of food
Tomorrow The day will dawn brighter
Tomorrow opportunity shall knock the gate
Tomorrow I shall be a fighter
Tomorrow I will not let the neighbour's dog relieve on my lawn
Tomorrow I shall transform into a Super(wo)man
Tomorrow I shall bake perfect brownies
tomorrow they'll publish my stories
tomorrow they'll acknowledge my genius
tomorrow there won't be any fracas
tomorrow there will be world peace
tomorrow there'll be no shouts,no riots
tomorrow no schools be set on fire by compatriots
tomorrow in parliament, no pandemonium
tomorrow at meetings, no acrimony,no bad blood
tomorrow everyone will be fed, no lack of food
Rain tonight
Tonight it is going to rain.
Not your friendly pitter-patter, and cheek caressing drizzle .
It is going to be a fierce outpouring of wrath and bile .
Rain
when the sky speaks and you listen .
Thunder(s)
, boom, burst and threaten to tear
the world asunder.
Lightning spits
the sky splits
sizzles
dazzles
It is a fearsome
fireworks of heaven, a lesson
dancing a terrible dance
of destruction
Not your friendly pitter-patter, and cheek caressing drizzle .
It is going to be a fierce outpouring of wrath and bile .
Rain
when the sky speaks and you listen .
Thunder(s)
, boom, burst and threaten to tear
the world asunder.
Lightning spits
the sky splits
sizzles
dazzles
It is a fearsome
fireworks of heaven, a lesson
dancing a terrible dance
of destruction
Monday 7 March 2016
mothers' day
It was Sam's idea. He always had these celebratory, over the top ideas , high flying , never staying in a place kind of idea. It was okay that we were meeting after a decade or so, but what the heck, we were meeting at the funeral of our father . Is it a time to go swimming in the creek ? That too armed with refreshments like fried chicken , not to mention Sam's gaggle of his disreputable female friends.
Then there was Tom with his camera and tripod, not letting any thoughtless moment go unrecorded.
That evening , all came back wet , spent and happy, tripping over the carpet, in their beer- induced tipsiness.
That was the limit. Mother, still red-eyed and black laced, came charging out of her room and ordered us out of her home and her life . She has had enough , she said , and rightly so.
Five years later, she was still there, rocking herself to sleep on the porch, her overgrown cat in her lap, hissing at the sight of us . Mother had shrivelled , her spirit had not. She looked at us , squinty eyed in the sun , and did not smile . Warily she took us all in , and the rose , with great difficulty, looking for her walking stick , stoutly rejecting all help. The cat slid to the floor and ran into the back seat of the rusting Chevrolet in the backyard. Mother wouldn't sell it , for all the money in the world . For her , it reminded her more of dad , than any of us did. We were her shame . She hobbled in, and turned back to face us , her face a dark mask in the shadows, "Why have you come now ?"
Always a picture of propriety, She did not want a scene on the porch , where the neighbours could see and hear. But then , She was the one to drive us away. It could have been the overpowering and numbing grief of having lost a great spouse, a friend and companion for a life time . But we were too young and foolish to comprehend all that.
"It is mother's day Mom. Tom had to come down here, so we all decided to see how you were doing ."That's right, so like Sam , hiding behind the skirts of other people's decision.
"You didn't answer our letters ."
"Neither did you pick up the phone."
All of us felt brave enough to chime in , after Sam's small speech.
Mom muttered and turned her back, hobbling into the kitchen. The breakfast things lay on her spotless counter. Even the sink glistened in its steely glory. She sat at the stool where she had made numerous meals , packed countless tiffins. Her rickety stool, painted white , every christmas eve, by father.
Then She turned to me , the youngest, even as all stood at the entrance to the kitchen , askance , afraid , hesitating.
"Can you put the kettle on dear? The coffee is in the drawer, and the mugs in the cupboard. It has been ages ...." She trailed off and I was the first one to go and hug her. I was the youngest and I had that privilege. Also to see the tears in her eyes .The others sighed , and the sun suddenly seemed brighter and sunnier , as if a huge cloud had lifted.
Then there was Tom with his camera and tripod, not letting any thoughtless moment go unrecorded.
That evening , all came back wet , spent and happy, tripping over the carpet, in their beer- induced tipsiness.
That was the limit. Mother, still red-eyed and black laced, came charging out of her room and ordered us out of her home and her life . She has had enough , she said , and rightly so.
Five years later, she was still there, rocking herself to sleep on the porch, her overgrown cat in her lap, hissing at the sight of us . Mother had shrivelled , her spirit had not. She looked at us , squinty eyed in the sun , and did not smile . Warily she took us all in , and the rose , with great difficulty, looking for her walking stick , stoutly rejecting all help. The cat slid to the floor and ran into the back seat of the rusting Chevrolet in the backyard. Mother wouldn't sell it , for all the money in the world . For her , it reminded her more of dad , than any of us did. We were her shame . She hobbled in, and turned back to face us , her face a dark mask in the shadows, "Why have you come now ?"
Always a picture of propriety, She did not want a scene on the porch , where the neighbours could see and hear. But then , She was the one to drive us away. It could have been the overpowering and numbing grief of having lost a great spouse, a friend and companion for a life time . But we were too young and foolish to comprehend all that.
"It is mother's day Mom. Tom had to come down here, so we all decided to see how you were doing ."That's right, so like Sam , hiding behind the skirts of other people's decision.
"You didn't answer our letters ."
"Neither did you pick up the phone."
All of us felt brave enough to chime in , after Sam's small speech.
Mom muttered and turned her back, hobbling into the kitchen. The breakfast things lay on her spotless counter. Even the sink glistened in its steely glory. She sat at the stool where she had made numerous meals , packed countless tiffins. Her rickety stool, painted white , every christmas eve, by father.
Then She turned to me , the youngest, even as all stood at the entrance to the kitchen , askance , afraid , hesitating.
"Can you put the kettle on dear? The coffee is in the drawer, and the mugs in the cupboard. It has been ages ...." She trailed off and I was the first one to go and hug her. I was the youngest and I had that privilege. Also to see the tears in her eyes .The others sighed , and the sun suddenly seemed brighter and sunnier , as if a huge cloud had lifted.
Friday 4 March 2016
Hello Yellow
Yellow in the turmeric of the curry in today’s menu
Yellow in the colour of prosperity of a bride’s trousseau
Yellow in the rust golden , lush paddy crop,
Yellow in my basmati, coloured by a saffron milky drop
Yellow in the gigantic ,happy sunflower heads,bold
nodding in the midday sun, in a field awash with gold
Yellow is the colour of the soil of "Haldighati" before it reddened
Yellow is the colour of silky yolk swaying,gladdened
in a sea of gooey, eggy, moist, sumptuous vision
Yellow is the overwhelming promise of an ocean
of shimmering mustard flowers, stalks lithe and long
Yellow in the dhoti of the punditji doing Paath, sing song
Yellow of the sun that washes over the backyard old
after a morning of rain and clouds , wet and cold
Yellow of the "Nishaan sahib" waving defiant
in wind , sun and moon, in rain pliant
Yellow in the earthy goodness of falling leaves
of sleet and breeze and rain drops from eaves.
Evolution of faith
The old man sitting under the peepul tree, on his rope-charpoy, smoking hubble -bubble the whole day long was the village bringer of wisdom.
He would sit there, hunched , practically the whole day long, doing precious nothing but smoke his hookah and stare at the trees.
People would come and present their queries. There would be a long pause . More bubbling and chillum-smoke . After a long pause , the old man , would deign to remove the pipe from his mouth and proceed to offer solutions , to patiently waiting people.
Sometimes , he wouldn’t answer at all. he would just continue smoking his hookah and staring at the trees.
People would wait for hours and then go. They would be back again the next day.
One day, the old man , like all mortals,passed away.
The entire village came to attend his funeral. His ashes were not submerged in some holy river as was the custom . By popular vote it was enshrined in a small temple which came up under the peepul tree.
The local MLA came and spoke words in praise of the old man . A pucca road was built till the peepul tree.
Loudspeakers were installed , and holy songs were played . non-stop from the top of the temple . People still came with their problems , prayed to the old man , who was a full fledged deity now .
He still had no answers for them . People , however , did not stop flocking to his temple .
All sorts of healing miracles were associated with him , and he became a saint .
He would sit there, hunched , practically the whole day long, doing precious nothing but smoke his hookah and stare at the trees.
People would come and present their queries. There would be a long pause . More bubbling and chillum-smoke . After a long pause , the old man , would deign to remove the pipe from his mouth and proceed to offer solutions , to patiently waiting people.
Sometimes , he wouldn’t answer at all. he would just continue smoking his hookah and staring at the trees.
People would wait for hours and then go. They would be back again the next day.
One day, the old man , like all mortals,passed away.
The entire village came to attend his funeral. His ashes were not submerged in some holy river as was the custom . By popular vote it was enshrined in a small temple which came up under the peepul tree.
The local MLA came and spoke words in praise of the old man . A pucca road was built till the peepul tree.
Loudspeakers were installed , and holy songs were played . non-stop from the top of the temple . People still came with their problems , prayed to the old man , who was a full fledged deity now .
He still had no answers for them . People , however , did not stop flocking to his temple .
All sorts of healing miracles were associated with him , and he became a saint .
Wednesday 2 March 2016
Olfactory memories
Heera, the charwoman , was in the habit of applying some kind of a strongly aromatic oil in her hair . Being downwind of Heera as she dusted the windows and sang bawdy songs , was the worst thing that could happen to you on a freshly washed , crisp Monday morning. All promises wilted, as you veered windward, while trying to finish homework, assignments, and projects.
Assembly bell would sound in a couple of minutes. But Mother Superior had to have the class register, filled in correctly, brown paper cover crisp and not torn, and names entered correctly, no smudges there, please. So , lives for senior students and prefects was edgy, a few minutes before the assembly. Heera's assault on everyone's olfactory senses did not help much either. In fact, it cemented a sort of pavlovian response, so much so that the other day, in a local train , when I was accosted with a similar smell, I was filled with a foolish dread of urgency. I had to do something , fill some register, submit some assignment, which lay pending.
Smells are known to trigger memories. Sudha , the head girl , offered Heera her imported scarf , when all entreaties ("dust the room later, Heera", Why don't you go and wash your hair , Heera?" " Which cat s(h)at on your head , Heera?")failed to evict the determined sweeper.
Next day , the scarf was seen adorning the nether-end of Heera's last born, lungi-fashion.
My grandmother chewed betel nut and cloves . The fragrance still makes me , falsely so, very comfortable and reassured , and results in fruitless, time -wasting conversations with pot-bellied grocers. These nearly always end with me getting conned into buying cloves by the "Pudiyas",which keep getting accumulated in my kitchen, un used.
The fragrance of fresh apples , makes me want to read tintin comics, hiding in a shady corner of a sun-washed terrace. My father brought apples and tintin comics for us , in one large duffel bag , resulting in this hodge-podge of memories.
The aroma of aggarbattis means Gods have been propitiated , and all is well, or is going to be well.
The smell of frankincense burning, means the pooja has come to an end , and delicious , sweet prasad awaits us all.
Assembly bell would sound in a couple of minutes. But Mother Superior had to have the class register, filled in correctly, brown paper cover crisp and not torn, and names entered correctly, no smudges there, please. So , lives for senior students and prefects was edgy, a few minutes before the assembly. Heera's assault on everyone's olfactory senses did not help much either. In fact, it cemented a sort of pavlovian response, so much so that the other day, in a local train , when I was accosted with a similar smell, I was filled with a foolish dread of urgency. I had to do something , fill some register, submit some assignment, which lay pending.
Smells are known to trigger memories. Sudha , the head girl , offered Heera her imported scarf , when all entreaties ("dust the room later, Heera", Why don't you go and wash your hair , Heera?" " Which cat s(h)at on your head , Heera?")failed to evict the determined sweeper.
Next day , the scarf was seen adorning the nether-end of Heera's last born, lungi-fashion.
My grandmother chewed betel nut and cloves . The fragrance still makes me , falsely so, very comfortable and reassured , and results in fruitless, time -wasting conversations with pot-bellied grocers. These nearly always end with me getting conned into buying cloves by the "Pudiyas",which keep getting accumulated in my kitchen, un used.
The fragrance of fresh apples , makes me want to read tintin comics, hiding in a shady corner of a sun-washed terrace. My father brought apples and tintin comics for us , in one large duffel bag , resulting in this hodge-podge of memories.
The aroma of aggarbattis means Gods have been propitiated , and all is well, or is going to be well.
The smell of frankincense burning, means the pooja has come to an end , and delicious , sweet prasad awaits us all.
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All the while , the sky , whether bejeweled with teeming stars, blazing gold with the sun or shrouded with clouds, keeps looking
down at us , bemusedly.
The sky is wise, old . For thousands of years, man has looked up to the sky, in bewilderment, amazement, and gratitude.When things surprise and sadden , satiate and gladden, mesmerize and madden, man has forever looked up at the sky.
Even the atheists among us will agree that the sky in monsoon, after a thundershower or before one , is a numbingly humbling experience . When we look up , we look at infinity, at the marvel that begat all life, at our creator himself.
The other day my elder kid came rushing back from the bus-stop to grab my cellphone . It had rained in the wee hours of the morning and the eastern end of the sky was still full of dark cumulonimbus, looming large. The sun rose , nevertheless, behind the cloud cover, lining the dark giants with glittering silver,the rays piercing the dark body too, wherever it espied a gap.