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".