The queer story of John Banks

My grandfather was in the engineering services of the railways , Once , while still an undergrad , he received scholarship to study in the UK, during those halcyon days of the British raj (It was one of the family legends).This was his story.

It was a beautiful Sunday morning in Scotland . The moors were awash with purple heather and greenery. There was this  garden in front of the hostel , where I lived . Across the road.
I would carry my books , after breakfast , and sit in the sun for good part of the morning , savouring the countryside . On this particular Sunday , an old gentleman walked in through the wicker gates . Carefully latching it behind him . Force of habit , I thought.

He silently doffed his soiled and battered cap at my cheerful greetings. Then he came and sat on the very bench I was sitting on. He smelt of the earth , heather , and a strange musty pungency . He sat silently , sunning himself , then asked me , in husky undertones , "Where you from , young man?"
I replied , tersely"India ". Not trusting him to know anything about India.

He smiled , as if he already knew . Then launched into a remarkable soliloquy.

"I was in the 33rd regiment Bengal native infantry . Then I was sent to fight in Kabul. "

I did quick mental maths. This was 1930, and the Kabul war was fought in 1842 , that meant close to 90 years ago . Blimey. I opened my mouth to interrupt , but he carried on , totally unaware of my gasps .

"Then General Henry Lawrence was killed at the Lucknow seige ."

Goodness! He was talking about 1857 sepoy mutinee. I didn't know how to react , other than listening with rapt attention . Old age onset dementia was known to be punctuated with hallucinations . He continued .

"I was made the civil commissioner . Lucknow burnt . All around the residency , there was unspeakable outrage . Disbanded rebel sepoys poured in from Bengal . The Biharis and Telengas . It was terrible . General Havelock was stuck at Unao. Wave upon wave of attacks by rebel forces , weakened us .It was 17 days since the general's death. We were low on morale.  It was July 21st morning , a sniper post west of the residency , sent a signal of warning . The boys were terrified to investigate. So I got the syce to saddle my horse , and I rode out to the post . The city was ghostly silent around me .My trusted  Risaldar -major  followed me , at a distance . His gun cocked for any trouble .

When I reached the post , I halted at the base of the machan , I called out his name .No answer. I think he was called  Sipahi Makhan Lal. After calling out his name the third time in a row , we both dismounted , and prepared to climb the machan . The Risaldar had his gun cocked ,and I stuck a boot in the bamboo ladder .I must have climbed a few steps when some bullets sang past me . The Risaldar  shouted a warning and an expletive in Hindustani , at the same time . But it was too late . I felt a thump in my chest , the bloody thing tore through my sash of gold braid . To my horror , it turned crimson in a trice. As I fell off the ladder, a bullet caught me in the forehead , and all went dark .

Next when I came to , my risaldar major was panting and bleeding from his arms and neck, but had me pinioned beneath him , riding away from a pursuing bunch of rebels , hot on his heels .

But he made it to the sanctuary of the residency . A volley of shots from the guards turned the rebel horsemen back. "

The old man became silent after this out burst .

It was my turn to ask "Why are you telling me this now ? It  all happened so long ago ."

He turned to me , for the first time . I took in his wrinkled , dusty face and the dusty cap , and an agony in his old eyes .

"For they no longer tend to my gravesite . My name is Major John Sherbrooke Banks ,I lie buried in a cemetery in Lucknow . I know you are from Lucknow , so find me and get my tomb cleaned ."

Blood froze in my veins as I saw the torn gold braid on his chest , darkened with soil and something else . Sun shone brilliantly on the old man , his brass buttons gleaming briefly through the dust and then poof ! Just like that , he vanished.

Grandpa did find the grave of this gentleman officer and had it cleaned up . He did invite the ire of his swadeshi friends though.

To hide or not to hide

Nature is known to camouflage .

We all have seen arctic fox , that changes the colour of its coat . During winters , it turns snowy white , to blend with its icy surroundings, and during spring it has a mixed coat of greys , whites and blacks , to match its rocky surroundings , with rocks being exposed as the snow melts .

Everyone also knows about that giant called polar bear , which has only black eyes and claws , to tell it apart from the expanse of frozen white it inhabits.

Babblers , a group of noisy , chatty birds are  dusty, greyish brown in colour , which merge very well with the dustbowls or grasslands they inhabit .

 A grey brown squirrel is difficult to spot when it sits quietly on a tree trunk . There are rattle snakes that snuggle in sandy depressions on the desert floor , even sprinkling sand over themselves, in order to make themselves invisible .

Nature is also known to un-camouflage . An equal number of examples can be given of animals that have no qualms being the proverbial sore thumb . They stand out in a crowd , do not blend in , are noisy, where quiet would ensure survival , are slow where speed means life , and are garishly coloured , sometimes harshly so , where being mundane brown would have made blending and hence survival , easier/ surer.

There is a small , pretty bird , which is less famous than peacock or macaws. It is called the small bee-eater . The very name implying there must exist a bigger cousin of this bird , unknown to us. People who have seen the Dwayne Johnson movie "Journey to the mysterious island " will remember the cast of characters being attacked by a bird , while riding bees (for in the Jules Verne story , birds and bees are magnified , mammals dwarfed).That bird is a "small" bee eater.

It has a natural , exaggerated black mascara streak around its eyes, a lovely sky blue eyeshadow , bright green plumage , a needle sharp tail and a black beak . It may or may not have a redhead. It darts around and is totally visible , even as a streak of green in a dismally monochromatic scrubland.

Next of course are the showy dancers , over whom generations of poets have swooned, the peacock . Also the chattering macaws , the undisputed ,colourfully caped , noisy citizens of Brazilian rainforests.

The tamarind seller

He came everyday , on bicycle , pedalling , winding his way rather , slowly , smilingly , savouring all that came his way . He was in no hurry .

Then he would reach this giant tamarind tree , and alight . Untie a bundle sitting behind , on the "carrier", one meant to carry .

A red cloth spread on the ground beside the road , right beneath the tamarind tree . He would climb up , and shake the ripened pods . Once his simple fare collected , he produced a simple system of weights , made up of twigs and stones , to weigh , sell and collect a meagre sum of money , mostly in coins . It was almost like begging .Almost . But not quite.

They said , tamarind trees harbour ghosts . At nightfalls , he had often seen bicyclists , like him , and hardened street urchins too , hasten past , eyes lowered , lips muttering incoherent prayers . Fear was a great leveller . Fear of the unknown , at that too .

But he was at home in the lush , thorny branches . He could climb with the  agility of a monkey , and sit , camouflaged within all the sour scents of raw "imli", and the lush greenness of its fine tooth-comb like leaves , chuckling , silently at all that went on in the street below .

Sometimes , some tooth-picking rogues would gather around , accusing him of stealing something , that did not belong to him . He would smile , as they emptied his small battered aluminium bowl of the few coins he had managed to collect since morning. This infuriated them all the more . They would kick the red -ripe pods , and crush them under their boots , turning back to laugh at him as he picked them clean and replaced back .

Or he would simply climb up and shake down a fistful of green ones . The girls' from the school liked the green unripe ones . Making faces as the sharpness hit them . Hissing like a bunch of geese. Gigglers.

That day , he had no ripe ones . A girl requested him for a ripe pod . She stood beneath the tree, and gave him directions , authoritatively . "This one , no no, that one , brother ." His heart melted at her words . Brother . No one calls him that . And then his foot slipped . Negotiating these branches all his life , and he still had to slip .

The school girls had screamed . Scattered . Some people rushed in . Stood .Perplexed . Some went to call for help, get more men.

He sat watching, crouching , amidst sour smelling imlis and green and red baby leaves of fine tooth comb tamarind leaves , as they prepared, to cart him away.

The cook book

1. For some reasons , unknown to mankind , it was called “Elegant Rasoi Sikhiya ” , roughly translating into Learn to cook “Elegant Recipes” . It never failed to crack us up . Elegant? Seriously? 

   But , what it unwittingly did , was bring the family closer . We learnt some good ,( Moong dal dosas ) and some forgettable ( subzi kadhi with tamarind water , Eeks!!) recipes from that small , paperback sized book . Even the pages consisted of newspaper material . Those ones that remind one of cheap , B grade novels , sold by railway vendors. 

   Yet , it taught me some difficult (and parliamentary ) Punjabi words. Allowing me to show off my newly learnt alphabets , to my fawning parents-in-law . Once I cooked some paneer with some carom seeds , a culinary crime , as per my carom- hating father-in-law. The blame was laid squarely at the cook-book’s doorstep , and the dish never mentioned again. 

   When my Mom-in-law had to leave for foreign shores , she carried a copy with her , so impressed was she , with the book . Some where along the various movements of households , the book disappeared . But the memories remain.

My friend

I can’t call her my friend , as she was friendly with everyone . She wouldn’t let the stamp of authority of a group or clique , sully her pristine , free existence . That she didn’t align herself to , or swore allegiance to , a group , made itself felt painfully , on more than one occasion . 

Our board exams were round the corner , and teachers were racing with each other to finish the pending syllabus. The dress code for extra classes on weekends would be a bit hazy . On one occasion, everyone arrived in crisp, white , starched uniforms , and she came in a floral T-shirt with a corduroy skirt . She kept sitting at the last bench , smiling at everyone , enjoying every bit of the “sore thumb” appearance . 

On other occasion , she finished an assignment , way ahead of everyone , submitted it to the said teacher , a certified terror, and plunged the rest of the class into hot water. No one talked to her for days after that trespass. An unwritten moral code of conduct had been violated , and the class was in no mood to forgive. She was ostracized , no one would talk to her . Any number of apologies , hastily written in chalk on class black board , couldn’t suffice .

The Corner

It was the cosiest , warmest , and loveliest corner in the whole of the house .

Ravi remembers coming bounding in , his satchel flying , tripping on his shoe lace , hair all over his face , dusty uniform , barging into the kitchen , grab a wooden “Patta” ( a really low stool), plonk himself, and begin recounting everything that had happened in the school , play ground, class room , at the assembly , school play . 

She would smile indulgently , wipe the brow off her sweat , and listen to him , enraptured . The hands , of course , would be automatically making rotis . She was always making rotis , or turning some stew over , in a steaming pot , fanning the flames . The kitchen was always ops, the fire burning , and food cooking . It was the yummiest and the most welcoming place on earth. 

“What ?” “She doesn’t whack you with the back of the ladle ?” “Or shoo you out with the rolling pin?” Ravi’s friends found this behaviour of Ravi’s mother , highly suspicious , un-mother-like . Yes , she would gently tell him to take off his dusty shoes outside his bed room , place his satchel on the string cot, wash his hands with soap . And he would comply . But all this was accomplished in gentle undertones , and while he continued his stories , babbling , non -stop.

Ravi would consider himself lucky . He had a beautiful , gentle mother . Not the whacking psychos others had . 

Years later , into his twenties , when away on a job in the city , he would hear of her grave illness , and would rush down , to find , hand wringingly , she having passed away quietly . A quiet woman , who was always cooking , smiling ,  uncomplaining , with her back to the door . A befitting end . The kitchen fell silent , and no fire burnt . For the first time , in Ravi's lifetime , there were no hot rotis being made , and no quiet soul , waiting to hear his stories.

When he returned back with her remains in a brass pot , placed reverently next to the Gods , in the Puja room , did someone whisper behind his back " Did someone tell him , she was his step-mother ?"

Keep it up

“Keep it up !!” The teacher wrote in red ink , bold letters , ending with a smiley and some x,os. The kid learnt later , they were kisses.

She kept staring at those words , then sighed .

“That means no more fun ” The teacher was stern , bespectacled , cross armed , intimidating , like all teachers .

“I will now forever have to do well , won’t I ?” Shoulders drooping , she slunk away downcast . The burden of success. The burden of expectations , the unending scrutiny under limelight. It almost seemed as if she was “keeping it up”, the burden on her tiny head . 

She walked that way till the door , where she chanced upon two friends of hers giggling and chasing each other , breathless frenzy of playtime. She looked at them , and then at the paper in hand , stuffed it in her satchel , dumped it at the doorstep, and hopped-skipped her way out , shouting at the “thief” to catch her.

Why I write ?

Words pile up, on and on
like unspent  emotion ,
higgledy -piggledy
every which way
Need channeling ,
streamlining ,
hence the writing
the raining
the out pouring

The clouds dry 

wrung laundry 

Flying under sky 

plain blue sheet 

of paper 

inviting 

hence the writing 

The night descends 

stars twinkle, condescend 

conspire , gossip , laugh 

the earthlings relax, half 

raised on elbows 

of doubt , what follows 

of intrigue 

in pique 

to paint 

and pontificate 

Humans , aah! Never 

allowing each other 

in peace to respire 

only perspire 

with various desire(s) 

Hence the inner fire 

Rise !Aspire !

Write ! Sire!

a life changing event

A life changing event occurs surreptitiously . Like a predator springing on you . It charges softly , out of the blue  , without warnings , and doesn't give you reaction time .

For me , it was my grandmother's death . Seeing her lying there , "ready to go", swathed and bandaged , suddenly hit like a jackhammer . I went falling headlong into a bottomless , dark pit . People were wailing , weeping , but to me , it was like a deafening silence . The ringing of the ears after a bomb-blast kind of effect . In a daze , haze , the world passed by . People came , said kind words and went . It was strange and numbing . I was , or felt I was, suddenly alone . On my own , to fend for myself .

The loss of a parent cannot be described in words . And my grandma was a parent . When I woke from the stupor , people had left , they had a life to live . I was grateful for studies , classes , the humdrum of existence , that buoyed me and somehow dragged my reluctant self out of the bottomless pit of grief .

Overnight , me and my sister , grew up. We took charge of our lives , and my sister took charge of other things besides , a home , my mother and me.

In my day

"Today Rocky hit a boy " , teenage number two giggled at lunch table .

Rocky was the nickname for a history teacher , who un-Rocky like , had a bald pate and a paunch .

He ,on the contrary , had large molars , which were seen crushing walnut shells , hence the nickname.
She raised herself and patted me twice on the back , very gently , dropping crumbs on my arm .

"That is not called hitting , it is called patting ."

I flicked crumbs off and began ,"In my day..." I stopped cautiously , sniffing for non-cooperation . Room doors are known to shut , ever so softly , and earphones replaced back into ears ever so surreptitiously , at the mere mention of the magical three letter words .

Nothing happened , chew , chew , stare , stare . "Yes , in your day?"

 Eyebrows were raised , inquisitively . I grabbed the golden opportunity , and unleashed my memories . Like imprisoned stallions on the green meadow .

'In my day , it was de rigueur for a teacher to carry canes to the class room along with registers . We were asked to outstretch our palms , if we made a mistake , and wham ! " Teen 2 winced .
"Some of us took special pride in fashioning bamboo canes out of shoots ..."
"For you and your friends to be beaten !Mom , you must have been retards to do such a dumb thing!"
"It was considered an honour ."
"How can be preparations for your humiliation be an honour , Ma ?" Teen 2 was smarting by now , and I had lost track of what I was saying.

In fact , I was so muddled up , thinking of what was right and wrong , that I didn't realise her moving out with the plate , faint songs playing in her ears , and me staring at a row of fresh crumbs on my arms .

Time had moved , mores had changed , and accept it , I was old .

All this while , I had been tugging on my unruly hair , and as if on a cue , a grey hair gently floated down , and sat at the head of the crumb row, on my crowded forearm. 

Maybe

Maybe the bullets will stop flying , for once
Maybe we will all breathe lead-shot free air
Maybe homes will be welcoming places, free
Maybe we will garner enough courage to speak
against murders of dissenting journalists
Maybe we will finally welcome people who talk
in different tongues , to our home and hearth
Maybe we will empathise with harrowing ordeals
of others , so we may see humanity reflected
in salty ,tears
Maybe one day we will see a child as a human
and not a carrier of religion and language
Like a contagion , burden of birth
Polluting, labelling , segregating
Maybe one day they will reach out to the sky
and claim a fistful of stars
twinkling
in the same universal language
for thousands of years

Journey by metro

There were two serpentine queues . Two different routes . Yellow line , blue line . There were some charts and maps, displaying which line goes where , but I always found it better to ask a stranger . My neighbour’s mouth was full of “paan” , but he still ventured to indicate that I was standing in the correct queue , if I had to get to the station K. 

I was issued a plastic token , which was imperative for the gates to open . A flood of commuters accompanied me to the said platform. We climbed down two flight of stairs , went under a dimly lit culvert , and emerged onto a neon lit platform . All my co- passengers were young . Young and fit . Two words , light weight . Travelling via metro , reinforced another bitter truth . You have to be fit enough to jog alongside and board the train swiftly, thin enough to squeeze yourself in at rush hour , and strong enough to hold your ground and not be swept off your feet when the train brakes , suddenly. Secondly , minimal luggage . Preferably rucksacks , anything superfluous will be a millstone around your neck .

A small toddler , squirmed out of his mom's arms and started crawling on the crowded floor . After few failed attempts to rein in the bugger, the panting mother sighed and gave up . Keeping a watch from her perch , as the apple of her eye , made his way through impatient boots , slippers and moccasins . A strange girl , decided to help out and grabbed his grimy paws . The baby squealed in delight , tottering unsteadily on his pudgy legs , started walking  the narrow path between rows of trousered legs , rubbing against millions of germs, eliciting a frown here , a smile there . Mostly people ignored this homely scene , and busied themselves in their phones , and i pods .A tiny human being was taking his first tentative steps , and no one noticed 

We were about to reach station K . I had been forewarned that there will be a surge of crowd towards the door at K , as most of the commuters got down there . I dutifully positioned myself at a safe distance from the door . K arrived , announced , doors slid open .No one got out . Not a single person in that jam packed car moved . I read the signs again , asked a neighbour, panicked  , and heaved and pushed my way out of the car , just in time . The train whooshed away , just as both my feet hit the ground . Another lesson learnt . Never presume anything . 

Now K was a massive junction of sorts . There were various exits for K east , K north etc . I caught one and kept walking , don't remember which.I was boarding a regular , long distance train from K. No one told me about K east / north etc. Again I presumed they all would lead to K . But as they say , there are millions of paths to reach God (K in this case ) Some are easy , short ; others torturous and agonisingly long . I cross multitudes of helpful battery operated rickshaw-wallahs . Offering to drop me at my destination. For this and that price . I refused. I started walking. 

And kept walking for the next 45 minutes. I crossed one bridge. Several stretches of road , winding through the residential areas, a school, several bazaars , three automobile repair shops, and no railway station in sight . Several severe looking men in chequered scarves and kohl-lined eyes crossed me . I could not see a single woman. 

Let alone anyone in western clothings . It almost felt like time travel . For a moment I had entered last century.  

Then I saw this boy with his ears plugged with ear phones and walking in a trance , skipping slightly to the beat in his ears . He decidedly belonged to this era . I flagged him down , and to my great embarrassment , he pointed out the sprawling vista of station K to my left . He asked me to keep going and take a U-turn here ,and there I was . 

Back in civilisation. 

Life enters and exits

The shopping complex had a perfect entrance . 

It lay on the road from the city . First the entry , with a petrol refilling station to your right , and the offices , the billing booths and the main building to your left. You parked your vehicle beyond the greengrocers , walked a small road between the parked two wheelers and then walked into the air conditioned world of human consumption . Neat labelled shelves full of merchandise . Food items , utensils , luggage , clothing , plasticware , all in their separate sections . Occasionally , salespersons will be found sitting on unopened cardboard boxes , arranging bottles of shampoo from another box , onto shelves . 

In short , a world of perfection . Well , as they say , perfection is a mirage . 

So , one fine day , a trip to the aforementioned place met with strange mutations in signs , and chaotic traffic jam at both the entrance and the exit . Upon enquiry , it was revealed that the former exit was the new entrance with a large “Enter here ” written in cheeky neon , and vice versa . So , now you entered through the backdoor , with a wall to your right and the LPG cylinder godown to your left.

The entrance became dismal , severe . A concurrent slashing of subsidies saw the consumer goods vanish off shelves , and not replenished . The footfalls reduced . Another supermarket opened its services to the needy public , and moss engulfed the wall lining the "entrance ". The once bustling market wore a  deserted , abandoned look , and the billing counters , once jostling with cramped humanity , had one single cashier ,playing temple run on his phone and yawning occasionally . Flies sat on the tray of cream cakes in the display , and few abandoned shopping carts  in the foyer developed irreparable rust. 

Of traffic rules and breaking them

The siren is audible over long distances . When the siren wails at unearthly hours , even in the dark , the motorcycles start honking and run amok . The pedestrians and cyclists race. General cacophony ensues , and one wonders what the fuss is about. A rickshaw wallah pedals his rickety ,noisy vehicle, loose shirt end flapping wildly , narrowly missing a doodhwala with his aluminium canisters banging against the sides of his mutant bike .


Along with the siren the barriers are lowered inch by inevitable inch. Now the hysteria reaches a crescendo , and everyone , small enough wants to crawl past . Well , almost everyone. A large Honda car slows and then stops , like a law abiding citizen . See , that is the problem with law abiding . In a place where no one knows or recognises the law , abiding by the rules can come a s a major irritant for most of the lawless populace .

When negotiating a one way , I encounter confident motorists and bike riders roaring down at me , from the reverse direction . They are such a multitude that you wonder if you are going the wrong way .

It is common practise to jump the red light at traffic lights , if the coast is clear. But someone from the reverse direction may decide to speed up at supersonic levels ,just to use up the last second of his green light .That causes not collisions but ugly name calling and fist waving in the middle of the crossing with a trillion shrill horns drowning the expletives in a flood of  impatient honking.

Mostly , the trespasser goes scot free , escaping harm by a hair's breadth. That encourages him to do it again, and again , till it becomes a habit with him , and he forgets what the red light at crossings was meant for . To halt him , or to egg him on .

Stars

That week it rained , and rained .

As if Gods had left the taps on and forgot to turn it off. Said Sibo as she moped around .Her jobs increased tremendously . In the cramped space of her hut , She had to dry the washing , make a make-shift chullah(oven) by sacrificing a good aluminium bucket , and store firewood indoors . One third of her good pots would be placed at strategic points to catch the drips from the roof.

Bhushan in his booming , domineering voice said "It is because the Gods are angry , they are angry because Nimmo ran away with the barber's son ." Bhushan always had a judgemental reasoning to most calamities , small or big. He didn't expect people to giggle as they did at Sibo's remarks . He expected them to be shocked into silence . He would achieve his goal with aplomb.

He was the village eccentric , and no one wanted to argue with him . He sat on his charpoy , smoking his chillum with blood shot eyes , and expounding wisdom of questionable variety . Sibo was content to have him out of her hair . Philosophy or no philosophy . Mostly Bhushan would talk to himself , and be not answered. He was used to the silent treatment . It was a mark of respect . Someone adding a rejoinder , or questioning would be insolence .

On the third night of rain , there was a lull in the rain , and Sibo cooked on her dear beloved outdoor wood stove . A large thud emanated from the hut . A part of the roof had caved in , given up after being lashed by rain . The floor was a mess of splintered rotten bamboo, and stinking heap of sodden straw. Sibo was close to tears .

Bhushan stopped smoking . He got up and cleared the floor with a broom and threw away the trash . He then spread dry gunny sacks on the floor . It was a miracle . Sibo went back to her cooking , in silent gratitude . When she brought in his roti on a steel thali , he was lying down,face up , hands locked behind the head , and admiring the jagged edged  gaping hole left by the missing piece of roof . He smiled at Sibo. Another miracle. Sibo didn't like it . A succession of good events put her on the defensive .

"Can you see ?" Bhushan pointed up"All those stars suddenly smiling down at us "

The next day it stopped raining and the sun came out . Bhushan went to the market , and bought  a length of transparent plastic sheet . He fixed it around the edges so it became a natural skylight . Now , he could see stars every night from his vantage point . His mood improved and so did Sibo's . Now she could get sunlight throughout the day , and her hut with the bright light of the sun became a talk of the town.

Love

He scratched his head .

“That movie ? But you have read the book haven’t you ? ”

“Yeah, I have . Twice ,but I still want to watch the movie ! It’s okay if you don’t want to come .” She said and looked down . He knew she wanted to watch the movie badly . At the same time , she didn’t want to go alone . He understood her really well. 

Besides , it was not safe for her to go alone . this was a small town , and english movies with hindi dubbing were watched by very few. Just a fistful of enthusiasts. 

In the movie hall, he was happy he came along . Just to see her clap , smile and shout at the characters in the movie . Even if the movie itself didn’t seem to make any sense for him . He hated magic shows since his childhood , and these guys were waving wands and doing lots of magic .

He made a mental note to read all the seven books , even if he found them gibberish .Just so that he could hold night-long conversations with her , on the various characters , events in the stories ,she loved so much . 

Years later , he would acquire the CDs of all the movies , so he could stay up and watch them with her , or just watch her , watching them.

Blood orange

In retrospect , everything that morning was queer.

Down to the colour of the sky . A smear of fiery crimson against the usual azure . The sun tried its best to emerge , fought against an army of angry black clouds and was injured . The sky bore testimony to its injuries .

"Paah ! Balderdash ! " Sun bend her head and whispered to herself "Focus ! focus " . She had missed the bus and was sprinting to the school . She had begun running , the moment she saw it trundle away , "without her ".  Not an easy task with a "two ton load of wisdom " , as her  mother would put it , thudding on her back .

Gesturing or shouting didn't seem to help , as the back benchers on the school bus were the footballers, her sworn enemies . Not only did they show her the finger , one of them was actually making a video with his smartphone , as she ran . She noticed the chap. Samar ! Must report him to ma'am , for illegal possession of the phone , get his phone confiscated . It was this stubborn sticking to rules that made her , a prefect , and a natural enemy of the footballers , the  congenitally lawless lot.

He stood by the roadside , selling oranges. As all fruit vendors do . Possibly crying out his wares . She doesn't remember . She remembered seeing him earlier too , but never paid attention . That day , she stopped . Why ?

Two reasons . The school was in plain sight , there were ten minutes to the first bell . The footballers were alighting . She wanted to give them wide berth , and the oranges looked tempting.

In fact , they looked like the sun , bruised , red , glistening . Sun , or Sunita , shook her head . The vendor , quickly grabbed one and sliced it . It squirted red juice . Horrified , she looked at him . The vendor looked different , almost radiant ,smiling . "Blood oranges , baby ! Here , take it !"  He squeezed one of the bleeding halves and the red juice landed plonk , on her shirt front .

"Oops sorry!" He offered a grimy dusting cloth , rubbing with which made matters worse . The vendor was still holding out the cut halves towards her .

"Seriously , he wants me to buy the cut orange ?" Sunita thought absently. She also remembered reading about blood oranges being native to the mediterranean.

She shrugged , paid for one orange , and thrusting it into her bag, slouched away . Today was just not her day.

                                                               $$$$$$$$$$$



First person to notice the stain was , of course , Samar . Smirking , he brought his head close to hers , as they stood in the prefects' line , at assembly, whispering confidentially . "You've burst your heart , running so hard, Sun ". he smirked .

"What?"

"You're bleeding from your heart " He dramatically placed his hand on his chest and swayed .

"Silence " PT sir thundered . The prayers were on .

Sunita looked down . Horrors , the juice stain had spread , and it actually looked like blood . She touched it . Sticky , thick . Goodness, it even smelt of blood . Must rush to the washroom , immediately after the National Anthem .

Next two minutes were the longest two minutes . Warm , sticky red fluid , started trickling down , and actually dripped onto her shoes .

"Blast ! Omigod ! What was this ?"No one else seemed to have noticed , thankfully .

                                                         $$$$$$$$$$

The more she rubbed , the larger the stain spread . She had taken off her shirt and was rubbing it vigorously , then she noticed her reflection . It was actually pumping out of her , in spurts .

 But she felt no pain , only a queer calm , and an urgent need to hunt for a clean shirt .

 Giving up on all efforts , She took off her shirt , camisole and bundled it up carefully , before dumping it into the dustbin . She remembered seeing a grimy shirt , full of plaster stains , which the janitor didi hung in the broom closet . That would mean sprinting two metres across the corridor, clad in nothing but her bra . That too had started oozing blood ." Yech!"

She peeked out , no one in the corridor. Taking her chance , Sun sprinted and yanking the door open , closed herself in .


                                                   $$$$$$$$$$$

Two minutes later , She knew all will be in classrooms . She slowly emerged . The bleeding had stopped and now she smelt of stale oranges . The trick was to sprint back home , find a new shirt , wear it and come back before the first period is over.

Then she could explain everything to the class teacher , Mr. Roy , who would probably not believe a single word . Sunita sighed . A completely strange turn of events .

The school seemed strangely silent. Padding softly , to her classroom , Sunita was surprised to find her classroom empty. The clouds had moved in , and the day was grey . A cold wind blew from open windows. One panel banged noisily . Sunita sighed. No one had bothered to close the window. It was all upto her , the prefect.

Still wondering as to where all had gone , She climbed onto the last bench and tried to shut the window, when a large newspaper cutting on the notice board across the corridor , caught her eye.


                                                   $$$$$$$$$$$$$$


 It described in great vivid details how a schoolgirl , sprinting to school, behind the school bus was seen being stabbed in the heart several times by an orange seller .

It took her a moment to realise , she was reading about the morning's incident . It went on to describe Samar's observation , in his own words and described the video clipping he made .

"This is ridiculous !" Thought Sunita . " How come ?" Stupidly , she felt through the fabric of her shirt. There were no stab marks , nothing . She pinched herself . It felt real .

So where were the people , students , classes ? How come she is the only one in the school.

She ran to the gate , where the watchman was sitting . Relieved at seeing one person , in the deserted school , she breathlessly placed a hand on his shoulder and asked -"Bhaiya , where have the others gone ?"

Still staring at the ground he replied ,"they have gone at the poor girls' funeral ,what are you doing here ?"

He looked up , there was a massive thunderclap , and Sunita , was dimly aware of staring at the face of the orange seller .


                                                    $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

Next thing , Sunita finds herself staring at the orange vendor at the school gates .

The bus has finished offloading the footballers , and no , she is in no mood to buy an orange , so thank you. She was also relieved to note that these were tropical oranges , yellow-orange in colour . Her uniform shirt is unstained white .

Thank God ! Bright sunshine pouring from the heavens and all was well with the world .

She enters the classroom , dumps her bag and joins Samar on the prefect's queue.

"Late comer " He sneers and Sunita actually smiles back . Nonplussed , he frowns .


                                                       $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

There is one teeny weeny problem though. Janitor didi has suddenly discovered some blood stained  clothing in the dustbin of the girls' bathroom , and that her own old grey shirt which was covered with plaster bits is missing.




                                                   

Bread and butter

Once upon a time , bread and butter , was , well , you know , bread and butter. It was commonplace , accepted and expected to be present at every breakfast table .

 Like a genial matron , ruling over her home and hearth.

 Fattening , lovable , unassuming , lip-smackingly  delicious .

Then came science and it rang the death knell for this simple and  hearty  fare .

Loaded with "sinful calories and  free radical fats " , it turned into a villain overnight . Like a politician having crossed over to the wrong side of political correctness. After having sat on the fence for too long , and beguiled us , public , with delectable debates , of the "cholesterol " variety , it finally jumped , and scooted over into the darkness of the 'deadly carb' land .

The worst part is , we weren't aware for long . So long as our metabolism kept sweeping the 'evidence ' under the carpet. Once metabolism waned , and took to sitting on a broken charpoy , outside our body systems , like a retired soldier ; the calories piled up . Visibly . Like unswept garbage . Love handles, double chin, wobbly arms !!

Some of us developed deadly diseases . The joints creaked and gave way , under all that load . The arteries clogged up , and heart huffed and puffed , lurching and creaking dangerously , like an overloaded Punbus.

Ominous signs .

Like rising floodwaters . Important to stay lightweight and afloat .

But then , as they say , to err is human . Human err, errors recur.

Emotional eaters like me , are known to slather fridge -cold bread with hastily sliced slabs of butter , in the deathly silence of midnight , only to be snatched by ever vigilant vigilante daughters , who take large bites of your fare , and hiss sibilant warnings in your ear- "Sshame on you Mama!" Making away with your booty , in the dark.

There is another  emotional eater in the family , who throws caution (read  dietary plans ) out of the window , every time , North Korea shoots its mouth or a missile . Chomping on a thick slab , he retorts " We are all going to die anyway" . One doesn't have the heart to point out that North Korea lies hundreds of  thousands of kilometres away.

The best of times

The old couple sat on the porch . The plastic chairs were finely dusted with the early morning spray of rain. The leaves of the potted plants dripped steadily with weighted pearls of moisture .

The air was crisp , rain washed . Both held a cup each . His morning herbal tea , her coffee sans sugar . Both sat and took a simultaneous sip . The resultant sigh was also simultaneous .

He started to talk , about something , somewhere , in the distant past . She tried listening , then she gave up . He continued talking , his voice a comfortable , familiar sound in the background . She looked at him , with a faraway smile . Somewhere on the horizon , the sun broke out from behind the cloud cover . A dazzling rainbow flooded the vista . It was magical . With his thick glasses , he missed the light effect by the providence . 

“It was the best of the times , wasn’t it ? ” He rounded off his reminiscing . 

She smiled . Almost grabbed him by his chin and turned his face to the glorious sky , and asked “What about now ? Eh?”

But she just smiled and held his hand , the free hand .

The post-office

The post office is small, inconspicuous and at the end of an unpaved gully . The hotel and pub  next to it is three storied , garishly painted , with neon signs (that flash for miles at night ) .

You have a very hiccupy drive upto the post office .

For a long time , you are alone . The counter behind the glass is unmanned . A clock ticks time 10 min slower . Talk of timelessness. Piles of letters and a defunct desktop , complete with CPU and wires sit desultorily on the roughly cemented floor . Damp from last weeks rain is evident everywhere .

A sodden doormat tells you . you're welcome .

Sudden rustling and slow emergence from beneath the wooden partition of a human face. Bald head preceding a cheerful smile framed by curly salt and pepper beard. The man must be crouching , or seated on a very low stool , to have just his face to show for the rest of him . It takes superhuman effort to stop oneself from peering over.

All jobs are done adroitly , and queries regarding post , fielded adeptly . Visibly impressed , one emerges and is met with another outstanding sight . A wiry , lanky Sardar , flowing white beard , roars in , on his Yamaha, spraying gravel . In your face . Swiftly dismounting , lugging vast stacks of what seems governmental correspondence , dumps it in , shouts a greeting to the bald-head,curly beard , and has roared off, revving with wrinkled hands .

Ageless.

Outstanding .

What takes the cake however is the humble declaration of the location on the massive  hotel's hoarding .  Deliciously unassuming , it declares , Next to the Post Office . 

Staying Sane

Excess of words
Libellous tirades
Words profane
Nothing to gain
Suggest ways
to stay sane 

DIY
no calling of name
build a solid frame
of ethics , all the same
There is no shame
thereby stay sane 

dont follow the crowd
break the mould
Painful , lonely , outcast
Follow your heart , at least
insulate against searing pain
hence stay faithfully sane

Imagination

As a kid ,we have terrific imaginations .
I , for one , used to imagine teams of small people sitting inside the radio , singing songs , playing music.  Another popular thing imagined was sprouting of orange seedlings from one's  ears , if one  swallowed orange seeds whole (convinced by  wicked cousins , no doubt). Then , of course , came demons and ghosts and spirits and all other things that go bump in the night . Specially when one is lying wide awake , in the bed , long after your sibling has started  snoring in the neighbouring bed .

A garden shed on my grandpa's property had an ancient , weatherbeaten door , made of crude wood . There were black fungus(or blackened , dried moss) streaks on the door. The rest of the door  bleached white by sun .

It held endless fascination for me . The black streaks followed the grain of the wood , mostly . Occasionally they didn't . It would turn into a procession of a king , riding an elephant, with lot of subjects following, on foot. The elephant even had a "howdah",  complete with a fly-whisk wielder and  mahout . Sometimes , it would be a house on fire , with people running helter-skelter , calling for help. At others , it was a parade of pretty models , wearing stilettos and flouncy gowns , holding  Chinese paper fans , with elaborate , feathered head-dresses.

That door was a source of endless joy to me , and chagrin to the rest . "There she goes , staring at the damn door ".

Cousins would come , stare , cock their heads , and tried , patiently , to hear me . All they could see was a door in need of paint .
One spiteful summer , someone actually painted it , a dark , ugly , shiny brown . I stopped staring at it , and people stopped whispering at my back. 

Got a pen ?

The lady at the counter was miffed and overworked . 

She was middle aged , and had an expansive midriff , not unlike mine . She too, grunted while bending . She had rivulets of sweat running down her temples . Long snaky queues of men and women waited to send registered parcels and letters , or buy postal stationery . 

She got up to weigh someones parcel and had just sat down when a scrawny guy walked up. He held a scrawny envelope , not unlike himself . He didn’t have anyone’s name put down on the sender’s list .

“Bhai ! You’ll need to write your name ”
The bhai stood frozen , rooted , speechless. She repeated her request . No answer. She then , asked him “Got a pen ? Write down your name , mister !”
He swivelled back , to scan crowds around him , as if the question was directed to someone else .
She sighed and pulled a drawer open . Fishing out a ballpen , sans the cap , She asked the guy , “What was your name again?”
A flash of relief crossed over his worried face . 

Working for years now , the lady could spot an illiterate person , while I thought this guy was a plain idiot , or maybe deaf .

Home

Last week , I destroyed a wasps' nest , discovered in the metallic holder of the ceiling LED. A very narrow space exists between the holder and the bulb , and the residents are under a real threat of being electrocuted / being subjected (occasionally ) to harsh glare of electrical light . 

Not to mention , being open to the elements . 

They died in vast numbers , and were swept up in a heap of orangey misery , still reeking of pesticide. 

The remarkable thing is , they are back . Defying science , gravity , and common sense . They are at it again . The nest is already half the size of the destroyed colossus. 

Some weeks ago , some one suggested cow-dung for better health of my potted plants . It did boost the growth of my plants (Partly , as my science students point out , due to oxytocin etc being illegally injected into the milch cows , whose dung has been sourced . Blimey!) 

The cow dung pats accompanied bits of undigested straw , which poked through the soil , invitingly enough for the nest-building mynahs . Every day , tell tale dung is strewn on the floor , some leaves are missing , and an occasional feather shows signs of skirmishes when more than one mynah eyed the same bit of prized straw. 

The outlet of the chimney is blocked with an upcoming pigeon nest .

And the space (roughly 0.01 mm) between the clothes cupboard and floor is occupied by a family of very busy ants , bustling about. 

Invisible lizard eggs have hatched , in the meanwhile , and every swish of the curtain is followed by a squeal , as the siesta of a teeny weeny baby lizard is disturbed. Flying out in alarm , they land on floors, tables , and human hair . Generating squeals .

The plant kingdom couldn't be far behind . Just discovered a holy tulsi plant growing in the gap between the AC duct and the floor. 

I have just been cautioned by a fearfully religious maid as to unholy effects to my karma , should I bring about the end of the tulsi .

Kiran

She darted out 

An angry shout

after an erring 

brattish sibling

about to be run over 

by speeding motors 

Mom-like concerns 

She was just a sister 

to young ones, elder 

by just a few year(s)

Burdened by fate 

and bad luck spate 

to parentage 

and other dotage 

She cleans , she cooks 

After her brothers she looks 

Watches backs , 

delivers whacks 

She should be in a school

Having fun ,playing fool

learning letters and rules 

to live among horses and mules  

saddled with housework 

different from homework

To do painful chores 

to handle worldly mores 

She darts me a smile 

as she chases the boy 

for a second I see a little 

girl, still shy and coy 

The park

One determined old couple silently walk on the dew – dusted concrete path , interspersed with grass. It is their daily routine . Even the birds know them . The bulbuls don’t fly off at their sight . They have to make way between groups of babblers , babbling away in the early morning pale light . 

Unlike the babblers , and the mynahs hopping , tweeting in the trees , the couple are silent . All this years of living together , they are comfortable in each others’ silent company . There is nothing more to say . They march almost , feet falling in rhythm , as they walk , in the park . 

The park needs some dedicated attention . The artificial lake has dried up , and the water hens have disappeared . So have the ducks . The fountains do not work , and the benches would do with a fresh coat of paint. 

The lawn grass has been freshly mowed and the air is thick with the grassy smell. Cut grass swept into heaps , lies , waiting . The bower top vine has also been trimmed , and it no longer grazes the old man’s head as he passes beneath it . He is a very tall man , still upright despite the years .

Though years of care have drooped the shoulders of the old woman , and she walks with a slight stoop, slightly out of breath , trying to catch up with her athletic husband .

Ignorance

                                  My maid , today morning , saw me making coffee , for one of my kids , and asked me what that black powdery "tea thing" was .

That said , a few days ago , her daughter , a precocious ten year old , heard some conversation , in queen's language  (laced with unparliamentary words ) between the two offsprings of mine and wished to know , why were the "didis" talking "like that" .

Now , that would be ignorance , or as Roald Dahl would put it "lack of schooling".

What name would one give to admission of total , blank , "un-knowledge" about some punk lyrics "rapping" away into one's cochlea . Utter gibberish ! Not for everyone though . Not only is it lip-synched , but also claimed by dreamy-eyed listeners to be "oh-so -sublime "

There are several chocolate faced guys on the silvery frontages of TV, ipads , who fight mythical sea monsters , and wage seriously violent wars in remote galaxies , who one is totally unfamiliar with .

Then there is this tip of the iceberg syndrome . Wherein , you familiarise yourself with some piece of remote history (well-documented , the wikipedia reassures you) only to discover several layers and branches , and bylanes to that piece of your (or someone else's) hoary past .

What were you thinking ?

Every piece of information is like a small , piteous firefly pitted against a huge black wall of ignorance . Believe me , there are real monsters looming in that blackness. Monsters of facts , giants of inference , colossal unspoken truths , no one knows or cares about . All we see is the puny firefly , and its teensy radii of glowing light.

It is humbling and scary , at the same time.

Admission of ignorance is wiser, and more closer to the truth,  than parading one's sparse hoard of knowledge.

To quote Plato  " I am the wisest man alive , for I know one thing , and that is that I know nothing".

The human condition

We humans let our lives be ruled by convictions , rules , norms , and loads and loads of it . 

The human condition is such that we cannot afford to waste a single moment of our lives . It is drummed into us that we , like automatons , must earn , play , sleep , eat and work , at dictated times, in measured amounts. Any deviance is considered abnormal , suspect and must be shunned like contagion . 

I remember my grandfather , few years before his death. He would sit , for hours , at the window . Doing nothing , watching sunshine play across the yard , the full day long . People saw him , sighed and said “He is wasting his time “. 

But how do you know ? He was living . Probably , more alive to the nature , the sun , wind , rain , birds twittering , buds blooming , than we were , rushing about in confused circles of life . He was not wasting his time , we were wasting ours . On trifles , on useless chit chat , mindless chores , never ending grind . 

I can still see him , at the window , his tiny bald head bobbing , glistening in the afternoon sun , smiling at a bird chirping at the window-sill , or at some old memory , nodding his head , in sage wisdom , grinning his toothless grin.

Run

We all gathered in the tin shed. Miss Jenny stood on a small stool , in the centre of the small group. 

She was short , and forceful . Then she pronounced ,” Today all will take five rounds “. We all held our breaths . When she made pronouncements like that , you do not contest , you do not protest, you do not even squeak , you just run . Run for your life . 

Then she clapped her hands , an environment friendly gunshot , and we shot out of the shed , higgledy -piggledy , in a jumble , stumbling against each other . 

Miss Jenny was known to sneak up behind stragglers holding their friends’ arms for support , behind bubble gum chewing enthusiasts , and open -mouthed chronic “panters” turning purple blue while panting . Hands would be quickly disengaged , gum spat into grass, and mouths closed . 

I was one of the open -mouthed idiots , who suffered years of humiliating knuckle taps on the chin , before I remembered to not mouth breathe while running . Miss Jenny believed that shutting the mouth conserved energy , and you could run longer . It actually worked . I ran and ran . It was one of the most glorious periods of my entire existence . I have never run with such gusto, and a simple desire to please , as I ran to please Miss Jenny .

Village Ramlila

Every year , Vangesh was chosen to play the lead female roles .

Why ? Vangesh was as unfeminine , as they come . He was taller and more muscular than most of the cast .

 He was heftier than the guy who played Ravana, and he had trouble kidnapping Sita , played by Vangesh. She swatted Ravana on the hand , onstage ,last year .She also  leaned on Lakshamana , drunkenly , when he chided her . Last to last year , she hooked her hands playfully , into Ravana's Dhoti , and threatened to rip it apart. Then She coquettishly marched ahead of him , hip-swinging , braid flying and batted her eyelids at him "You coming?" Ravana meekly followed. The crowd hooted in glee.

When Hanuman came to the vatika to "rescue " Sita , he was to throw some thermocol mangoes down at the ground . This enraged Sita to no end , and she proceeded to throw her raw , cowhide , peasants' shoes at him . One of the formidable footwears hit the poor guy squarely in the chest . That mere act of sacrilege made news for quite some time .

Vangesh , with his drunken buffoonery , sold more seats than a staid and composed , demure Sita ever would . Everyone knew the story . Vangesh just notched the fun quotient up.

So , this year , Mahabharata , was being staged . As  a change . Vangesh was Draupadi, of course .

When the time came , Vangesh was sozzled . He preferred payment in the form of toddy bottles , which he consumed , in advance , before the play.

Draupadi was to be dragged by her hair to the court . The artificial braid pulled at Vangesh's own , short , oily locks . Irked, he raised his bangled , hairy arms and pulled the offending braid off. The crowd roared, and the producer quaked behind some curtains.

This year , some ladies from "good families" had bought the front tickets . the show had better be not "too rowdy".

With Dushashana brandishing the headless braid in his hand , like a limp lance, and his scalp still itching , Vangesh picked up a pitcher of water , kept next to Dhritarashtra , after having been sprayed on the mud floor to settle the dust down ( it also served the dual purpose of waking up extra actors who nodded  off , mid play)and emptied the contents on his head , in one swift move.

This served three purposes .

One , it silenced the crowd , who didn't know what would follow, next .

Two, it sobered up Vangesh.

Three , it wet all the various layers of sarees that Vangesh wore , rendering them dark and indistinguishable from each other .

Dushashana was supposed to slow down , after pulling the second saree , which was red , and Vangesh was supposed to start praying for Lord Krishna , who would arrive in a hand cranked raft lowered from the ceiling , awash with twinkling lights.

In the absence of colour -coded sarees , Dushashana pulled with all his might , till Draupadi stood shivering wet , in  short oily locks , pink makeup streaming down her stubbly chin , in "her" striped blue and black "chaddi".

The crowd roared . The ladies covered their mouth .Some one threw a footwear onstage . In one moment of absolute clarity , Vangesh knew , the play was seconds away from a free-for-all .

So , he folded his hands , and broke into a prayer . Not the prayer rehearsed, but a different one . One that is recited every evening , in every hindu household.

"Twameva mata cha pita twameva "("You are our mother , and you are our father"), rang Vangesh's shaky baritone , and people put their footwear down . The producer peeked through his fingers.

"Twameva bandhu sakhaa twameva "(You are my friend and my confidante), The women folk in the first row, got up , folded hands , covered their heads and joined Vangesh.

"Twameva vidya dravinam twameva "(You are the wealth , and our wisdom ), The stage guys chose this auspicious moment to lower Krishna down , complete with blinking lights. More people joined in the chant.

"Twameva sarva mam ,mam  deva deva "( You are my everything , O Lord) ,The crowd finished the prayer with a flourish. Thousands chanting simultaneously . Vangesh bowed his head , and the hundreds of spectators bowed their heads , goose-fleshed , and overwhelmed.

It was a spectacular ending to a farce .

The train

The train went
rattling,
hooting
shouting
to vent ,
to rent
the air, pent
up, steaming
a streak
of flash fury
a freak

It scattered
stragglers
startled
hagglers
scooted
scooterists

and raced
fast paced
sort of  crazed
across sun glazed

land , idyllic
village bucolic
serene , scenic
iconic

Warm winds

Warm winds . She thought when she emerged from the gate . First thought . Quickly changed to hot wind. Oh ,oh , really hot winds. It was like putting her whole self into a mildly hot oven . The winds entered her nostrils and dried the walls up . It blew grit and sand into her already tearing eyes, inside the goggles . It seared her arms as she held the handlebars, and it entered her loose T-shirt and cooked her skin from the inside . The scalp kept cool , thanks to the helmet . 

A layer of fine , salty , dust settled on the parched lips . Her throat was already craving a bottle of chilled water . She wondered if , in a matter of days , she would turn brown baked and leathery , wrinkled like the people who sped past her , on her bikes , totally oblivious to the heat , sun , dust and grit . 

Sun had turned everything luminous , incandescent , glowing . Crops wilted in the parched fields . Roadside bushes all dried up. Dry kindling . Someone set fire to an abandoned plot next to her home last evening . She watched mesmerised , as a small leaf shaped tongue of fire , quickly engulfed the entire plot. Fanned by hot winds , turned a patch of peaceful bushes into a roaring , hungry , crackling inferno . When the flames lit up her walls in flickers of orange tongues , that the horror crept in . But someone had already brought a bucket of water . Next morning ,an ugly patch of black remained ,smouldering ominously at the edges , and the grey ash floated into the balcony , settling on her potted plants , laundry and chairs.

The bush ash swirled in small waves in the corner of the house , come riding on the hot tropical summer wind.

Power grid failure

“You are really married?” She peered earnestly into my face , her face lined with concern . I smiled . I realised I wasn’t wearing any of the standard signs of matrimony. No saree , vermillion in the hair parting, no gold bangles or ear-rings etc. I was a freak . Dressed in pants and shirt , in a remote bengal village , I must have come across as strange as a beached whale in Juhu . And as much of a crowd- magnet . Whispers made rounds , and a small crowd of dusty , bundle toting bengali women were gathering around me , like monsoon clouds . Some men also peered in from the edges , interested. 

“You’ll go back , won’t you ? After all , your kids are there . ” She was getting frankly nosy.

I had begun slinging my backpack now . It was time to run . I nodded breathlessly and started walking away . Whispers and strange looks followed me , like a contagion . Some frankly gawped . It was terrifying . 

The train was an express one, and never halted on this God-forsaken station . It was dusty , had two huts for refreshment, one had run out of its simple fare of  aloo-torkari and bhaat , the other of its chai , served in mud cups. One overbridge linked one platform to another , on either side of the now stationary train. The reputation was such that I was reluctant to leave the comfort of its innards ." The railways couldn't let me down "I thought . But it could . 

There was a massive power outage in whole of Northern India.It started somewhere in Haryana, and  ended domino-fashion, with Kolkata Municipal Council conking off the power supply .The train stood , unable to budge , and disgorged its spoilt occupants onto the dusty platform . Like hungry locusts, they consumed everything remotely edible , including fly infested, ancient  sweets in glass jars . 

We were joined by the mofussil crowd from stranded local trains . This is where , I became an unwelcome centre of attention . 

Luckily , my father , despite his palpitations and neuroses , drove down with our family friend  ,who was waving frantically , now at me , from the opposite platform . Relieved , I raced up the overbridge to find him on the stairs , surrounded by a group of villagers , whom he was trying to expound the causes and duration of power outage . A typical bengali characteristic is to appear sure and well informed in a crisis , which no one knows anything about. 

Driving through the highway , one met with siege like scenes. Huge , confused looking masses of humanity , dis engorged by stalled Metro and local trains , thronged streets, turned buses , trucks and cars into seething human masses , crawling by . 

Evening falls swift in the east , and darkness added to confusion as in Mathew Arnold's poem "Dover beach"

"Where confused armies clash by night".

We stopped at a roadside eatery for that famous nectar of life _"Chai " Or "Cha " as it is called here , served lip-searingly hot , poisonously sweet , in tiny terracotta cups, for 2 rupees a cup. 

As we drank our third cups , the street lights , reluctantly blinked on . And a collective sigh of relief rose from the parched , dark  earth.

                                             #######################

In another remote part of the country, in Gorakhpur , two small girls , aged 8 and 10 , made a makeshift bed on the carpet , as the bed room was stiflingly hot , opened the windows and doors to permit cross ventilation.

 Papa was away on emergency duty in the hospital , but he was constantly on phone to tell them what to do and where to find candles and matchboxes .

                                             #########################

When I reached home and rang up , both my daughters had already relocated to their beds and the comforts of a  fan , light and air conditioning . The power was back.

Existential paradoxes

To live ,
as time flies
to weave
a web of lies

To speak
serial untruths
To write
unspeakable truths

To cook
inedible food
to look
Incredibly good

To think
disjointed thoughts
to put to ink
lucid , clear, noughts

To breathe
air that doesn't agree
to create
an era of sheer misery

To travel
where to/ what for ?
to unravel
knots furthermore?

What is neater
knots or tangles?
What is better
Speech or silence?

To believe,
In a faith that betrays
To not believe,
Is to produce strays,

Lalithaji and her American sojourn

The neighbourhood comes alive when Mrs. lalitha .A , comes back from U.S.of A . Apparently , she doesn’t get to talk there much . The son and his wife are off to work , and the neighbours speak english.

Lalitha, who had never set her foot off her motherland , who would never miss a single fast , puja , or festival , had to go festival-less for days . There was no one to guide her , her tropical flowers were missing , heck , even mango -leaves and “doob” grass for her daily offerings to the Lord Shiva were missing . Every day , she would fold her hands at the Ganesh pratima (this idol being the only one , on sale at the local Mart), and request forgiveness from His father , Shiva , for frequent and unforgivable lapses in her vrat-puja-tyohar routine . 

Everyday , on her evening walks to the park , she would scour the trees for “bel” , or wood -apple , a sacred tree, the trifoliate leaves of which Her Lord loves . She would be disappointed every single day , and would return crestfallen . She pined for the yellow “kandel” and red hibiscus flowers , and the smell of burning “dhoop” , and the sights of home . In short , she was terribly homesick.

Once she and her family were called over to a dinner by their neighbours , a friendly african-american couple. Lalitha , who was determined to make friends , decided to help in the kitchen . There , she saw , to her amazement , the large Mr. Bob , throwing vast amounts of blood red tomato sauce onto a large plate studded with quite kachcha -looking leaves , on top a large roti . Hearing her gasp , Bob turned his swarthy  bulk to give her a toothy , white grin .His gums were red . Lalitha flipped . She thought she had seen the male -version of kali . She made some excuses , ran home and threw up . 

She never touched pizza , and never went to the Bob's either . Her son accused her of "racial thoughts " , her daughter-in-law sulked , and her poor , long suffering husband just shook his head , and smiled good naturedly . They returned home . 

Laitha , now , is  happy . And garrulous . She won't stop talking . 

In the morning , she talks to her car -cleaning boy , and force feeds him tea and soggy , six-month old biscuits . He , pretends to listen to her , nods his head , and pours his cup , into the flower pot . Lalitha stopped feeding him biscuits , when she discovered  the remanants of her parle-g s carefully arrayed on the edge of the large parapet of the club-house , apparently , to feed the pigeons. 

Next comes the rakish doodhwalla, who doles out his frothy concoction , in an acrobatic fashion . He sits on the farthest end of the seat , and dangles his legs on the handlebars. A remanant of his feat in "Shabash India " days. Lalitha ji , somewhere between the second and the third "paua", involuntarily blurts out , ...."and you know what happened "Not one to be caught offguard,  the doodhwalla comes armed , plugged with white apple earplugs and his i phone selection . He gives her a hazy , faraway smile and roars off , leaving her mouthing ..." Arrey! Suno toh sahi".

 

Labels

Organised religion ,with a venomous hiss
 has labelled humans, as of that faith , or this .

One practised penitence(Abstinence?)
Other just plunged into  binges.

One was mainstream ,
Other on the fringes ,

One of comrade-in -arms
from the  other , one cringes

What is it with us and labels
we , ardently believe in fables

Who , what, why, where and when ?
Can't we leave it at that , and then ?

Why carry colours in the head
Brown , white , and molten lead

People we may like , or hate
The heaven's  massive gate

Do not obey our petty prattle
It is above our mindless battle(s)

Wifi - travel and travails

The other day , someone dropped the wifi dongle. And it promptly went into the sulk mode . Wouldn't charge , wouldn't switch on . Was just , plain and simple , dead .

I , blamed the kids ; the kids blamed each other . The dongle remained dead. The truth was, it had been dropped , several times , by all , in turn. 

It was a dismal deadlock.

In absence of viable wifi , life came to a standstill . 

The elder kid couldn't google her numericals , which she couldn't solve herself ; the younger one couldn't see the trashy soaps , which she shouldn't be seeing , and I couldn't see recipe videos of food that I could never cook . 

Something had to be done . So, phone calls were made , directions / days / hours were discovered , finalised and acted upon . I secured the directions from three sources .My spouse , crying himself hoarse , repeated them thrice , on the phone . I jotted them down , but as , the erratic  static wreaked havoc , I could go no further than the first flyover . 

My friendly neighbour , a retired Colonel , pitched in at the last moment and told me to ditch the flyover . He told me to follow the road L . Take a turn right , and a left , and voila! , you're there . 

Third was my google map app on the android . It displayed a lot many exhausting options , and told me , in clear terms , that I lived in the locality W and not Locality B , as I always thought . Well, I never!!

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Finally , I hit the road . First turn was fine . The second turn was a maze of three roads . Youngsters in motorcycles , and men in flashy cars zipped by , with the speed of surety. I stood , confused, coming in everyone's way . 

As always , my old allies , rickshaw-wallahs , came to my aid . The first guy , who undertook to explain to me , did it with great effort . One would gasp at the sight of him , I think I did too. He didn't have lips , or eyelashes , eyebrows either. His teeth were bared in a permanent snarl . The facial skin was stretched drumskin -tight over his bones and made speaking , very difficult . It was the face of a man who had beaten a bad burn , and escaped , by hair's breadth. He explained , and one of his colleagues , helpfully , pedalled over with me , to a chowk , where the said building was in plain sight .

I thanked him , and proceeded on , thinking , the worst was over . How wrong ! How can one miss a building , after having seen it ? Don't ask me . I missed it .

Half a kilometre into the highway , I came across a man in a business suit , with sun glasses ,and a brief case , waiting for a bus .

He shook his head dismally , and dramatically pronounced that I had "left it behind" (sounds terribly melodramatic in hindi ). He then proceeded to point out a broken road to me , sewage water overflowing in merry gurgles , over shapely potholes . That road had several glass-fronted , swanky offices , asking you, in garishly painted signs ,  if you wanted to emigrate to Canada /Australia /U.S.A  ?  A moot point .

Several cars of foreign make , sat , parked sullenly in the puddles .

Suddenly , the building loomed , phoenix-like , in front of my eyes . A watchman sat drinking water from a plastic bottle . He shook his head at the sight of me , and his water-filled cheeks wobbled. Taking it as a no , I stopped . He swallowed in one go , and water dribbled onto his chest.

He gestured with his empty bottle towards a prehistoric tunnel , at the end of a 45 degree slope , a dark and dismal cave , marked , basement -parking . For truants like me , an arrow showed the way.

It was bereft of humanity , and had a puddle of murky water , at its entrance. No way !

I turned and parked next to a friendly-looking paanwallah .

When, I entered , I avoided looking the sentry in his eyes , but I could feel him stare at me , sucking on the , now empty,  plastic bottle.

Some people were at work , sawing , welding some shop into shape at the base of a dimly lit staircase. The lifts were lifeless . Thinking of the fire escape as the lesser of two evils , I proceeded . Not a single soul inhabited those stairs . I could hear a Mrs. Norris- like feline hissing a warning somewhere , but no one materialised . Not even a hatchet wielding hoodie(as a mind overwrought with fear imagined).

The phone office hummed with people. Phew!! Many of them had wifi devices with them like me , and I was reassured . I was not alone in my misery.

 Air conditioning worked , and the waiting room was  full , except for one chair . It was in the farthest corner . To reach there , I had to move , in a semicircle around the Knights at Arthur's round table . All the knights quickly vacated their seats , at the sight of the lone female . Now , I was alone in the  waiting room , with the entire round table at my disposal . I felt like the Queen Guinevere.

Soon enough , a young , eager gent came to my aid . He almost snatched the dongle from my hand and slapped , punched it , before even I could squeal in protest. Next , he plugged it to its charger and switched it on .

It was working !!

A look of triumph, mixed with pity , and unspoken words "Women , Humph!!" were tossed in my direction , and he went out to be besieged by chairless Knights.