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.