Friday 28 April 2017

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. 


Monday 24 April 2017

The Library

The wrought iron gates  are, always  partly open .

 Rusted into introversion . 

Reluctantly admitting jeep loads of perfumed , spray -haired ladies . The old gates always creak , in protest , at this intrusion . Privacy invasion . 

Some sick (or smart ) soul decided that this area of benign neglect , needed a fresh coat of paint , some bugles , and smart , heel-clicking soldiers . 

Some buildings have souls. This is definitely an old soul , as souls go . There is peace , calm and serenity . Stubborn moss covers even most assiduously painted walls . 

Moss also covers the lawn , as a large peepul tree claims most of the skylight and sun . Army steadfastly plants new grass , every spring , to dry during summer , and be overrun by gleefully green slimy moss during monsoon. 

It is old , brooding and a place full of ancient wisdom . If places had souls , this one's as old as Buddha. The flowerpots either are overflowing , choked with greenery , or are dead , shrivelled . 

The lack of direct sun , keeps the verandah cool , like a bower , even during the heights of summer . 
 
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Inside there are shelves , iron shelves , wooden shelves , concrete , in built cupboards . All overflowing with books . Books that were bought and perused by the British residents of the Cantonment , in the 1920s , 1930s , and newer additions, added later. 

It is a treasure to behold , and an honour to share . 

Every yellowed page smells of nostalgic perusal. Categories have been made , again with the same steady , enthusiastic , assiduity , which the army is famous for . But the boys who issue books , are rotated daily , and the classifications create greater confusion . 

The most confusing being the alphabetical classification.

One might find "chicken soup for soul" in the cookery section. Or Chaucer snuggling up with Cartland (of the Barbara kind), or National Geographic issues old , sitting on an unpainted , hastily made wooden shelf , beneath old issues of Navbharat times . Hindi novels sit in a separate corner , unread, like poor relatives from dusty provinces.

One of the best surprises was finding a robust , well-thumbed volume of  Rapidex English Course, sitting bang next to Rushdie's Shame . 

The theme is to expect the unexpected . Like a petulant , small brat in ponytail , who peered over the mahogany counter and asked for a "Kinder Joy" . The sepoy , on duty , promptly went to peer over in the "K" and then followed by "J" sections ,  only to be educated  by an older , family-wallah havildar that it was the name  of  a chocolate and not book . The kid , expectantly , silently , followed the sepoy around , sucking her thumb , in anticipation. 

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Tuesday 11 April 2017

Wrong turn

As she stopped to catch her breath , she looked back .

The pariah dog had now changed its stance . It was no longer a timid , mangy creature , skulking around with its tail between the legs .

It was transformed into a fearsome canine , snarling and growling, rabid saliva drooling , standing feet apart , ready to strike . She knew she had blundered into its territory .

A vulture sat on the perimeter wall , eyeing the scene with inborn shrewd indifference .

This was an unfrequented road . Empty plots demarcated with low , crumbly , brick walls . Land sharks who had bought the fields , had stopped short of delivering their promise . Ornate lampposts , loomed above like dinosaur skeletons .

The plots were unkempt , weed grew dry and untidy , with garbage strewn .

In the early morning haze , she made out the shapes of lumps sitting in the weedy wasteland . Mattresses, bed sheets and pillows ! Heavens ! Who would now go and dump used bed linen in the middle of nowhere ?

 In a trice , things fell into place . The building , unlike any other , sitting at the end of the dusty road , comprised of a raised cement platform and a high tin roof , blackened with smoke . A small room at the entrance to serve as an office or a guard room .

She was standing outside an open air crematorium .

A sign read in punjabi, and  hindi " This in the end, is all that remains , my friend "w

Monday 10 April 2017

The last word

“Your understanding of algebra is fuzzy !” A cloud of chalk dust arose from the table , where the duster had been forcefully thrown to emphasise the point . The remark was directed to one sorry individual , not the entire class .
“Is it ? Shouldn’t the word be hazy ? ” He countered with a smile . He was always treading on toes , picking grammatical error in a teacher’s remark is academic equivalent of committing harakiri. 
The kids gasped . The teacher faltered , stumped for a moment. A moment later , he said , sticking to his guns-“No , it is not !It is fuzzy , and faulty and unsound , like a mouldy apple .” 
The bell rang, kids got up , the boy mumbled ” But apples are sweet” thrusting maths book into his satchel .
The teacher emerged , pushed out by a tide of home-bound, eager , sweaty kids . 
“Hey you ! ” he had caught the boy again . “I heard that ” . 
“Apples are sweet , but mouldy ones aren’t , trust me .” The boy smiled his toothy grin . The teacher pumped his fist with an impish grin and disappeared in the sea of humanity.

Thursday 6 April 2017

Dust- storm

Swirls of dust,
godknowswhat
dirt and
gritty sand

Leaves dry
brown -green
in unison fly
march in tandem

Some pirouette
perfect coquette
others advance
with a breezy stance

Give you a live
bhangra dance
in circles jive
thump , prance

The wind must be
at speeds more than 60
gives your chin strap
a yank ,a  clap

the helmet slapped
against the head
face sandblasted
roaring crops and field


A puffed up polybag
swollen windbag
Wings up , up and away
Some wind today



Tuesday 4 April 2017

Burn

To him, it came naturally . He cupped his hands expertly around the tiny flame , and blew , ever so gently . The flame , quivered , hesitated and went underground . The charred area of hay remained silent , and she was happy that the fire had burnt out . It unnerved her . Flames , fires . He revelled in them . She caught him panting , with excitement . Why so ? His tears had not yet dried . His eyelashes , long and curved , stuck to each other , moist . 
Then, a wisp of smoke , emerged ,from the other end of the hay filled thatch roof . He was grim , and satisfied , almost happy . Then, he had dragged her away , from the scene of crime .
She should have raised an alarm then , she would later recount, tearfully , to her parents , siblings , several times . What she was witnessing was an act of arson , and she didn’t know it . She thought it was just a prank , another one of his . How was one to know the devastating consequences of what was to follow?
  

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

It was another routine Sunday . Panditji had gone and plucked flowers from the school garden , for his pooja . Kept them on the doorway , and was washing his hands and feet . Panditji was old and he used a lathi , to support himself , when he walked . Now Panditji had a grandson named Bhoja , who had , recently adopted a stray dog . He called him Bhajana , and the two became quickly inseparable . Panditji was famous for his mercurial temper , and Bhoja always bore the brunt of his rages . Both loathed each other . 
    
A dog , that too pariah , curled up in panditjis path , to and fro the temple , was not at all acceptable . Bhajana  bore several lathi swings stoically , and learned to give the old man , wide berth . Bhoja's unflattering report card had arrived on saturday night . Raucous sounds of beratings emananted from Pandit's household ,in the night , for a long time . 

Bhoja ran away in the morning . He forgot to feed Bhajana. Hunger is a  great motivator . Bhajana didn't see Panditji, neither was he aware of his seething temper. And he nosed the flower basket , looking for concealed treats . 

What followed next , was explosive . The entire locality gathered . People tut-tutted , and moved on , unable to intervene , and unable to witness such brutality. It was an oath , a thud of the lathi swing and a piteous yelp . Million times over . 

Anju covered her ears with her blanket , as she wept into her pillow , waiting for the yelping and the beating to stop. Anju was Bhoja's classmate , friend , and partner-in -crime . Eventually , she couldn't take it any more. She raced to the fruit orchard , where she found him , perched on his favourite jack -fruit tree , chewing a twig . She narrated , he jumped , wide eyed , and ran home , heart -in -the -mouth. 

The dog was reduced to a pulp almost , Bhoja jumped infront of his grandfather , who didn't discriminate . In his blind rage , he continued to swing , till the thuds had stopped eliciting yelps , as they fell on Bhoja now.  His daughter-in-law , had broken purdah rules , and plucked her son into her arms , screaming at the "mad old man ". The crowd dispersed , as the old man , now contrite , withdrew. 

Bhoja refused food , or to come inside . He fetched an old blanket , covered up Bhajana, and stayed up with him , whole night ,till he breathed his last , in the wee hours of the morning . 

Anju , intermittently , came to give him company , and an occasional glass of water , which he offered to the still snout of his beloved friend . Finally , a kind neighbour , helped Bhoja dig a grave , and bury Bhajana , along with his few worldly possessions , a rattle , Bhoja's old school shoes and some bread (on Bhoja's insistence). 

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It was a change that Anju noticed , when he was patting the soil on top of Bhajana's grave . Bhoja stopped sobbing , took a deep breath , and became still . As if he had come to a resolution . 

She knew he was hurting , and she couldn't leave him alone .

So , when he brought matchbox out at dusk , and told her "Do you want to see some thing ?" She agreed to go with him . She even , with profound guilt , remembers giggling , as he set fire to the thatch roof of his grandfather's hut . 

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The fire raged all night , and threatened to swallow the paint factory , next door. So , it was the factory owner who got fire engines to screech into the small village, dousing fires in the "Pandit Mohalla". The old man was admitted to the General Hospital with 65% burns . 

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

Anju belonged to a conscientious family. Her father , the school teacher , took her to the pandit mohalla , when Police came for interrogation . Anju spilled the beans . Bhoja , stood stoic , arms folded , and refused to acknowledge . He said Anju was "lying " , and that "he didn't know her ". Pandit family accused Anju of being a corrupt influence on their beloved son . The policeman smiled and dismissed both the kids and their parents . 

Anju went crying home .

That fire had burnt up a great deal . 

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Sunday 2 April 2017

Excellence

Every art is like a 
monkey dance 
every artist , a monkey 
biding his chance 

I am better 
hear hear 
oh madam , siree 
look at me ,here 

We all are 
jugglers 
flame eaters
sword swallowers 


Some swallow 
better 
some eat fire 
better than other

That is all there 
who's better ?
that one , there 
this one , here?

Commodities 
even oddities 
we weigh , prepare 
judge, criticise, compare 

In the end 
we find 
a buyer 
a fool, a town crier 

crying out untruths 
about 
whereabouts 
of excellent arts 

bartered 
in a ground 
a market 
where you'd

sell
yourself.