Tuesday 22 October 2019
I wish
I wish it rains tonight
ruining the perfection
of a sky ,star lit and bright
Bring on precipitation
ruining the perfection
of a sky ,star lit and bright
Bring on precipitation
to cloak the earth in mist
hold it in chill’s tight fist
The streets clog
with night fog
hold it in chill’s tight fist
The streets clog
with night fog
The school shut down
and we pad around
in our night gown
from dusk to dawn
and we pad around
in our night gown
from dusk to dawn
The gullies fill with slush
In rainwater flush
On TV they showed
other cities flood
Why, unfairly parched
is my land scorched
Burnt to a crisp
Every grass blade
Let life arise from the ashes
foliage shoot from marshes
Friday 4 October 2019
The room
He showed me the room on my way .
"This is the one we will be shifting to , today " , he gushed .
I had my doubts though . The windows were taped shut . There was a pile of broken furniture piled outside in the balcony . Two enormous terracotta feeding bowls lay outside , a pool of dirty rainwater at the bottom , moss swimming on the surface.
The walls were rain streaked .An air conditioner shaped hole remained on the wall, ill covered by a thin piece of flaky plywood , curling on the edges. The worst sight was upholstery torn off from sofa ,ostensibly ,by powerful canine jaws .
After breakfast , I was given a group of boys armed with mops and brooms and we set off in the direction of the room .
The room was dank , musty and smelt of dogs . It did not smell at all of a certain petite female who was supposed to have lived there.
The sight that greeted us inside the room was far worse . One entire wall , in the prevalent , though inexplicable , trend of the times , was painted blood red . Constant rainwater collection on the roof had caused blood coloured seepage splotches , revealing the white underneath. Every square inch of the floor was dug up , viciously , again , a canine souvenir. It felt like standing on a small patch of desert with cupboards and beds for comfort . There were no signs of a human having lived there.
All wooden furniture also bore claw marks speaking of the vicious beasts enclosed within the walls. The solitary tap in the bathroom leaked , drops dripping every two seconds.
Boys entered and made a valiant attempt , swiping at cobwebby corners with their brooms and wrestling with the tap.
I came out and stood in the sun .
"Yo, mate ! " Someone broke my reverie . A sunny chirpy female voice .I turned back to see her walking on the road , wearing a teeny skirt and an enormous pair of sunglasses , being tugged by two snarling german shepherds lunging towards me .
"Oh I see! You are getting my old room . Bubbles and coochie coo loved this room !! Didn't you boys ?"
The" boys" dribbled saliva from their bared fangs on the grass.
"They want their feeding bowls back , I will send someone . By the way , you must see my new accomodation . "
She pulled her "boys" away with superhuman strength , laughing away to herself .
"This is the one we will be shifting to , today " , he gushed .
I had my doubts though . The windows were taped shut . There was a pile of broken furniture piled outside in the balcony . Two enormous terracotta feeding bowls lay outside , a pool of dirty rainwater at the bottom , moss swimming on the surface.
The walls were rain streaked .An air conditioner shaped hole remained on the wall, ill covered by a thin piece of flaky plywood , curling on the edges. The worst sight was upholstery torn off from sofa ,ostensibly ,by powerful canine jaws .
After breakfast , I was given a group of boys armed with mops and brooms and we set off in the direction of the room .
The room was dank , musty and smelt of dogs . It did not smell at all of a certain petite female who was supposed to have lived there.
The sight that greeted us inside the room was far worse . One entire wall , in the prevalent , though inexplicable , trend of the times , was painted blood red . Constant rainwater collection on the roof had caused blood coloured seepage splotches , revealing the white underneath. Every square inch of the floor was dug up , viciously , again , a canine souvenir. It felt like standing on a small patch of desert with cupboards and beds for comfort . There were no signs of a human having lived there.
All wooden furniture also bore claw marks speaking of the vicious beasts enclosed within the walls. The solitary tap in the bathroom leaked , drops dripping every two seconds.
Boys entered and made a valiant attempt , swiping at cobwebby corners with their brooms and wrestling with the tap.
I came out and stood in the sun .
"Yo, mate ! " Someone broke my reverie . A sunny chirpy female voice .I turned back to see her walking on the road , wearing a teeny skirt and an enormous pair of sunglasses , being tugged by two snarling german shepherds lunging towards me .
"Oh I see! You are getting my old room . Bubbles and coochie coo loved this room !! Didn't you boys ?"
The" boys" dribbled saliva from their bared fangs on the grass.
"They want their feeding bowls back , I will send someone . By the way , you must see my new accomodation . "
She pulled her "boys" away with superhuman strength , laughing away to herself .
Thursday 3 October 2019
Patriotism
“Patriotism”, No sahib , I don’t know what that means .”
I ask around , mike in hand , feeling very foolish . The Hindi translation too , doesn’t seem to make any sense .
But I am asking the home makers , slaving away every breath . Cooking , cleaning , wiping runny noses , laying out the roof , threshing , winnowing , bringing the crop in .
There is a group of village elders , sitting on a charpoy , smoking the hookah , surrounded by a group of village louts . Quite uncharacteristically , the louts slink away at my approach . The elders give me the silent treatment , become shifty eyed , and look away . Someone clears his throat noisily , but still doesn’t answer me .
I get my answer later that day when I enter some of the huts . There , framed prominently , on the mud wall , is the photograph of a soldier , a garland hanging desultorily, vermillion tilak on the glass , and a soot emitting solitary ghee lamp burning underneath. Making the dimly lit interiors, gloomier .
Almost every house has their resident martyr . This village has given its best sons to the nation , what was I thinking ?
I ask around , mike in hand , feeling very foolish . The Hindi translation too , doesn’t seem to make any sense .
But I am asking the home makers , slaving away every breath . Cooking , cleaning , wiping runny noses , laying out the roof , threshing , winnowing , bringing the crop in .
There is a group of village elders , sitting on a charpoy , smoking the hookah , surrounded by a group of village louts . Quite uncharacteristically , the louts slink away at my approach . The elders give me the silent treatment , become shifty eyed , and look away . Someone clears his throat noisily , but still doesn’t answer me .
I get my answer later that day when I enter some of the huts . There , framed prominently , on the mud wall , is the photograph of a soldier , a garland hanging desultorily, vermillion tilak on the glass , and a soot emitting solitary ghee lamp burning underneath. Making the dimly lit interiors, gloomier .
Almost every house has their resident martyr . This village has given its best sons to the nation , what was I thinking ?
Tuesday 13 August 2019
Fate
Flexing factoids
Like damned
Deltoids
The overfilled tank
Ran and ran
Till the taps
Squeaked dry
One day
the great came calling
fate caught you
Napping
Better taken
Unawares
Rather than
Be awake
You may reiterate
A thousand words
But grey hairs
Speak the loudest
Truths
Like damned
Deltoids
The overfilled tank
Ran and ran
Till the taps
Squeaked dry
One day
the great came calling
fate caught you
Napping
Better taken
Unawares
Rather than
Be awake
You may reiterate
A thousand words
But grey hairs
Speak the loudest
Truths
Tuesday 21 May 2019
The cloud
This corner of the planet , it is never ‘a cloud ‘. It is “the cloud “.
No cirrus wisps of cottony innocence here . Here clouds come thick and fast , and dark . Ominous and numerous . Cumulonimbus . Piling one on top of the other . Heralded by winds , gusts and dust storms . There is a pale grey border , where one dark blue grey monster meets the other , or rather , lies on top of the other . In enormous piles of darkness , shutting off sunlight and meaning every inch of business .
They begin with an innocuous pitter patter and then the sharp stinging pellets of raindrops lash you and you run for cover . Once , i drove my scooter in rain and got to experience , first hand , the meaning of the phrase “Blinding rain ” . There was no way one could keep one’s eyes open when one is being bombarded with sharp rain drops .
Road trip
I was in the lift when I heard the burglar alarm go off. Beeping incessantly . begging to be switched off. The morning cleaner boy . He was instructed to dust the insides of the car too , every Sunday . Every Sunday , my neighbours would forget to unlock the car for the poor boy . Every Sunday , at 5;30 am , while darkness was still lurking in certain nooks and crannies , hiding from the golden beam of sunlight , all the 250 or so occupants of the colony would be woken up to hooting and beeping noises from the car .
My scooter was an open air affair . No mats to be dusted , no burglar alarms . Just kick and go , adjust your chinstraps on though. The cold morning air hits your face . I always feel guilty about having left the kids behind . About how I have laden the fridge ,with stuff that is definitely going to outlast my duration of absence .
The roads are empty . Some sweepers trying to clear up the roads of its accumulated dirt , over the last week . No school buses though . Sunday .
Even parking lot guy was sleepy enough to ask me my registration number . Usually he is alert and fast enough to note it down before handing me over , the slip . 10 Rupees for 12 hours . The two wheelers are sparse . Sunday .
Even the bus is late . I never wait for this bus . Today I waited for 5 min . The conductor takes his time to amble to my window seat . An old man with a young girl in yellow dupatta sits ahead of me . The wind from the open window slaps the faces and billows the dupatta into a transient yellow balloon .
The horizon is rimmed with pink and grey , as the day breaks . Slowly , the world wakes up to a wash of liquid gold , blotting all breeze and early morning chill . Even as the bus trundles to its first stop , the stifle of heat slowly creeps up the footboards and golden light pools on seats .
The coconut seller already has his gamcha wound around his head and a thin layer of moisture around his lips . The soda seller is already doing brisk business .
People take cover against sun . Goggles , scarves . Two wheeler riders wrap themselves with cotton chunnis , just about keeping the eyes open . Some wear sunglasses over their mummified shrouded selves . Boys in smart turbans tie hankies around their mouth and nose to keep dust and heat out . With sunglasses, they look formidable .
Where there are open fields , heat and dust comes gambolling in , rolling into the bus , open from all the sides . We are awash with dusty heat . Whenever we cross a tree lined avenue , the air cools down , and the breeze is kinder , dust free , cooler , benevolent . But such oases are few and fleeting .
At the entrance to the city , the sun has blotted out , a cool moist breeze , threatening into a storm , blows . The sky is laden with ominous piles of cumulonimbus . Dark grey blue monster , upon another dark grey blue monster . Their borders wavy pale grey . The raindrops first tap on the window panes , tentatively . Then, without waiting for an answer , let loose the deluge . All hell breaks loose on the flyover underpass where everyone , in a hurry to get away from the rain , goes this way and that . Honking and purring madness . Rain battering tarpaulin covered chicken carrying lorries , smug food couriers , swiggy and zomato , in their rain soaked uniforms .
Our bus decides to take a U turn . We go over the divider in the highway , in pelting rain , holding up disgruntled traffic , on either side . They watch us , warily , behind swishing wipers , as not one but two monster buses lurch this way and that , heaving their bulk over foot high dividers .
Suddenly , we are in the city , rain has stopped and the sun is out . Rain puddles fast shrinking , we rush through empty thoroughfares and I have reached my destination full fifteen minutes before time .
Not surprisingly , there is no one to receive me .
My scooter was an open air affair . No mats to be dusted , no burglar alarms . Just kick and go , adjust your chinstraps on though. The cold morning air hits your face . I always feel guilty about having left the kids behind . About how I have laden the fridge ,with stuff that is definitely going to outlast my duration of absence .
The roads are empty . Some sweepers trying to clear up the roads of its accumulated dirt , over the last week . No school buses though . Sunday .
Even parking lot guy was sleepy enough to ask me my registration number . Usually he is alert and fast enough to note it down before handing me over , the slip . 10 Rupees for 12 hours . The two wheelers are sparse . Sunday .
Even the bus is late . I never wait for this bus . Today I waited for 5 min . The conductor takes his time to amble to my window seat . An old man with a young girl in yellow dupatta sits ahead of me . The wind from the open window slaps the faces and billows the dupatta into a transient yellow balloon .
The horizon is rimmed with pink and grey , as the day breaks . Slowly , the world wakes up to a wash of liquid gold , blotting all breeze and early morning chill . Even as the bus trundles to its first stop , the stifle of heat slowly creeps up the footboards and golden light pools on seats .
The coconut seller already has his gamcha wound around his head and a thin layer of moisture around his lips . The soda seller is already doing brisk business .
People take cover against sun . Goggles , scarves . Two wheeler riders wrap themselves with cotton chunnis , just about keeping the eyes open . Some wear sunglasses over their mummified shrouded selves . Boys in smart turbans tie hankies around their mouth and nose to keep dust and heat out . With sunglasses, they look formidable .
Where there are open fields , heat and dust comes gambolling in , rolling into the bus , open from all the sides . We are awash with dusty heat . Whenever we cross a tree lined avenue , the air cools down , and the breeze is kinder , dust free , cooler , benevolent . But such oases are few and fleeting .
At the entrance to the city , the sun has blotted out , a cool moist breeze , threatening into a storm , blows . The sky is laden with ominous piles of cumulonimbus . Dark grey blue monster , upon another dark grey blue monster . Their borders wavy pale grey . The raindrops first tap on the window panes , tentatively . Then, without waiting for an answer , let loose the deluge . All hell breaks loose on the flyover underpass where everyone , in a hurry to get away from the rain , goes this way and that . Honking and purring madness . Rain battering tarpaulin covered chicken carrying lorries , smug food couriers , swiggy and zomato , in their rain soaked uniforms .
Our bus decides to take a U turn . We go over the divider in the highway , in pelting rain , holding up disgruntled traffic , on either side . They watch us , warily , behind swishing wipers , as not one but two monster buses lurch this way and that , heaving their bulk over foot high dividers .
Suddenly , we are in the city , rain has stopped and the sun is out . Rain puddles fast shrinking , we rush through empty thoroughfares and I have reached my destination full fifteen minutes before time .
Not surprisingly , there is no one to receive me .
Tuesday 23 April 2019
Ullu
अँधेरे की गुमनामी में
शोर का ढिंढोरा पीटते
हुए
एक नहीं दो नहीं
चार उल्लू
चहारदीवारी
पर बैठ कर
बोलते
हैं.
आती जाती
सुंदरियों पर फब्ती
कशते हैं ?
या कंपकंपाती
ठंड को ताना
मारते हैं ?
घर से दूर
उड़ गए
उल्लू भाईयों
को याद कर
रोते हैं ?
या अपनी
कोलाहल
से छिड़ी व्हाट्सप्प
पर बहस
को हँसते हैं
चार उल्लू
शाम की गोष्ठी
में रोज़ाना
गप मारते
हैं
और
हु हु कर
ठहाके
भरते हैं
शोर का ढिंढोरा पीटते
हुए
एक नहीं दो नहीं
चार उल्लू
चहारदीवारी
पर बैठ कर
बोलते
हैं.
आती जाती
सुंदरियों पर फब्ती
कशते हैं ?
या कंपकंपाती
ठंड को ताना
मारते हैं ?
घर से दूर
उड़ गए
उल्लू भाईयों
को याद कर
रोते हैं ?
या अपनी
कोलाहल
से छिड़ी व्हाट्सप्प
पर बहस
को हँसते हैं
चार उल्लू
शाम की गोष्ठी
में रोज़ाना
गप मारते
हैं
और
हु हु कर
ठहाके
भरते हैं
The neighbourhood
The neighbourhood was ummm, okay-ish . I express doubt , why? Because , my next door neighbour , touted as a celebrity ,was never home .
He was a singer , and earned piles of dubious cash . Paid all his instalments in cash . The flat was fitted in with cane, wooden and wrought iron furniture .Floral wallpaper . He came and left , once every few months . In a whirlwind of high end cars and the smell of expensive perfume.
A girl with streaked hair , false eyelashes and a faked high pitched laugh ,accompanied him, occasionally , to the place with a bunch of short and ill fed cronies. A word hissed around . Mistress .
There were few midnight parties and few cake cutting birthdays. A very public display of affection . Hugs and kisses before she left in her Honda civic and he in his Jaguar . It was scandalous in this prim and proper middle class society.
Once he send one of his "guys" to wash the house . He obeyed him literally and hosed the house down with soapy water . Put out all the cane furniture , buckets , brooms , doormats . Someone from the building complained when soap suds started dripping down from the roof of the lift , sparking fears of short circuit . The estate manager came and fired him . The chap left in a huff. His cane chairs are cosy for stray cats and the rest are drenching in the rain and bleaching in the sun . For the last six months .
On the upside , I got to place my potted palms in the common area , with no one to object or trip over . The top floor balcony is one seamless mass of pooled gold in the mornings . I can see my kid boarding her bus from the neighbours’ turf and she can memorise battle dates and algorithms while sitting in the solitude of his balcony , accompanied only, very occasionally , by an irate cat.
He was a singer , and earned piles of dubious cash . Paid all his instalments in cash . The flat was fitted in with cane, wooden and wrought iron furniture .Floral wallpaper . He came and left , once every few months . In a whirlwind of high end cars and the smell of expensive perfume.
A girl with streaked hair , false eyelashes and a faked high pitched laugh ,accompanied him, occasionally , to the place with a bunch of short and ill fed cronies. A word hissed around . Mistress .
There were few midnight parties and few cake cutting birthdays. A very public display of affection . Hugs and kisses before she left in her Honda civic and he in his Jaguar . It was scandalous in this prim and proper middle class society.
Once he send one of his "guys" to wash the house . He obeyed him literally and hosed the house down with soapy water . Put out all the cane furniture , buckets , brooms , doormats . Someone from the building complained when soap suds started dripping down from the roof of the lift , sparking fears of short circuit . The estate manager came and fired him . The chap left in a huff. His cane chairs are cosy for stray cats and the rest are drenching in the rain and bleaching in the sun . For the last six months .
On the upside , I got to place my potted palms in the common area , with no one to object or trip over . The top floor balcony is one seamless mass of pooled gold in the mornings . I can see my kid boarding her bus from the neighbours’ turf and she can memorise battle dates and algorithms while sitting in the solitude of his balcony , accompanied only, very occasionally , by an irate cat.
Thursday 11 April 2019
The Owl couple come visiting
Last night , I was awakened on hearing two owls talk .
It was a proper conversation with varying intonations for questions and answer , and sounded like a proper tete-a-tete. They took turns to make their points , to each other .
Then the conversation shifted to the window . the loud warbling and cooing , in turns , sounded too close for comfort.
The I lifted the curtain corner and at that witching hour , a strangest sight met my eyes . The two owls , their bodies facing outwards , were staring at me , with four, large , unblinking eyes .
Their heads had rotated 360 degrees .
Then they got tired of staring at me and flew off. First one , then the other , winging into the dark night .
It was a surreal and eerie . Not easily forgotten .
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Today morning I looked up in Salim Ali's book of Indian birds and discovered that they are called Spotted owlets.
It was a proper conversation with varying intonations for questions and answer , and sounded like a proper tete-a-tete. They took turns to make their points , to each other .
Then the conversation shifted to the window . the loud warbling and cooing , in turns , sounded too close for comfort.
The I lifted the curtain corner and at that witching hour , a strangest sight met my eyes . The two owls , their bodies facing outwards , were staring at me , with four, large , unblinking eyes .
Their heads had rotated 360 degrees .
Then they got tired of staring at me and flew off. First one , then the other , winging into the dark night .
It was a surreal and eerie . Not easily forgotten .
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Today morning I looked up in Salim Ali's book of Indian birds and discovered that they are called Spotted owlets.
Fancy Dress
It has been decided that the cute, tiny, three year old will be dressed as a tortoise. A basket , cane basket , is procured with much difficulty in todays , modern plastic world, covered in sheets of chart paper , cellotaped together .
Finally , painting the brown hexagons on the chart paper and drawing concentric hexagons inside each one . Fix a string to the side and tie it to the tummy of a small sleepy baby dressed in brown with a brown monkey cap .
When it was time to appear on the stage , the mother suddenly realised that she had forgotten to make the baby practice how to crawl .
The baby walks confidently onstage and begins "My name is H, I study in LkG and I have dressed up as a tortoise . " The camera wielding Mom is frantically gesturing the baby to crawl .
The baby reacts "Kya mamma ? Main kya bolun ."
The crowd erupts into laughter at this sweet display of innocence .
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Another fancy dress, another year , another baby .
She is tiny , grumpy , but agrees to wear a khadi kurta, and white tights. Chart paper comes to rescue again . A white gandhi topi , rose , plucked hastily from someone elses garden , and pinned on the chest . The three year old , like her sister , has just one dialogue -" I am chacha Nehru , and I love kids ." Shouldn't be difficult .
After dressing up the kid , it is time for the Mom to dress up , and for the life of her , she cant find a matching salwaar or dupatta.
Leaving a ransacked house in a mismatched dress , she lands up at the bakery to collect a plum cake as it is "Nehru's " birthday too . Meaning children's day , 14 th November .
At the tiny playschool , there is this upset sardar boy , whose Mom has dressed him up in a lehenga , he has cried and rubbed kajal all over his pretty face , thereby ruining his mascara and lipstick . A "Pirate ", has decided to fight all the trees lying in his path , and his cardboard sword has become limp , broken , the silver paper shredded . Another sleepy "superman " slouches in the corner .
Nehru is the only one with flawless speech delivery , and hearts swell . The sweet playschool teacher gives the plastic knife to Nehru for cake cutting and it doesn't cut .
The "Superman " alerts greedy fingers that cake "garam hai " (it is not ) , and the "Pirate " offers his cardboard sword ( hopelessly inadequate for cake cutting ), which "Nehru " snatches and whacks pirate right back with .
Minor scuffle and pandemonium later , a proper adult knife is procured , and all are seated peacefully , in various corners , relishing their cake . It is indeed , a success, after all .
Finally , painting the brown hexagons on the chart paper and drawing concentric hexagons inside each one . Fix a string to the side and tie it to the tummy of a small sleepy baby dressed in brown with a brown monkey cap .
When it was time to appear on the stage , the mother suddenly realised that she had forgotten to make the baby practice how to crawl .
The baby walks confidently onstage and begins "My name is H, I study in LkG and I have dressed up as a tortoise . " The camera wielding Mom is frantically gesturing the baby to crawl .
The baby reacts "Kya mamma ? Main kya bolun ."
The crowd erupts into laughter at this sweet display of innocence .
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Another fancy dress, another year , another baby .
She is tiny , grumpy , but agrees to wear a khadi kurta, and white tights. Chart paper comes to rescue again . A white gandhi topi , rose , plucked hastily from someone elses garden , and pinned on the chest . The three year old , like her sister , has just one dialogue -" I am chacha Nehru , and I love kids ." Shouldn't be difficult .
After dressing up the kid , it is time for the Mom to dress up , and for the life of her , she cant find a matching salwaar or dupatta.
Leaving a ransacked house in a mismatched dress , she lands up at the bakery to collect a plum cake as it is "Nehru's " birthday too . Meaning children's day , 14 th November .
At the tiny playschool , there is this upset sardar boy , whose Mom has dressed him up in a lehenga , he has cried and rubbed kajal all over his pretty face , thereby ruining his mascara and lipstick . A "Pirate ", has decided to fight all the trees lying in his path , and his cardboard sword has become limp , broken , the silver paper shredded . Another sleepy "superman " slouches in the corner .
Nehru is the only one with flawless speech delivery , and hearts swell . The sweet playschool teacher gives the plastic knife to Nehru for cake cutting and it doesn't cut .
The "Superman " alerts greedy fingers that cake "garam hai " (it is not ) , and the "Pirate " offers his cardboard sword ( hopelessly inadequate for cake cutting ), which "Nehru " snatches and whacks pirate right back with .
Minor scuffle and pandemonium later , a proper adult knife is procured , and all are seated peacefully , in various corners , relishing their cake . It is indeed , a success, after all .
Wednesday 10 April 2019
tempest
fierce tempest
Threshes the forest
thrashes the tree crest
Giant trees falling
slow motion
rolling , snow balling
come crashing
Winds rejoice
some more
howling
doubling
with dubious laughter
cackling of witches
throwing open latches
rain lashes
sway
this way
and that
in swaths
Threshes the forest
thrashes the tree crest
Giant trees falling
slow motion
rolling , snow balling
come crashing
Winds rejoice
some more
howling
doubling
with dubious laughter
cackling of witches
throwing open latches
rain lashes
sway
this way
and that
in swaths
Thursday 21 March 2019
Pull
It was a metal and glass door , as they are wont to nowadays .
The glass wasn’t transparent .
Large red letters asked people on the outside to “Pull”.
So , it was perplexing to see a group of people , waiting patiently outside .
He lowered his legs from the noisy bullet , and looked at himself in the mirror. Passing a hand over his slicked hair , and stood up to see all eyes staring at his golden bike. He loved it . His golden shoes and the gold spray paint all over his 350cc new Royal Enfield.
Gold chains swishing from his hip , the crowd parted as he swaggered up to the door and pulled with all his might.
The door handle , smoothly detached itself and he stood holding a steel handle , with two screws hanging morosely .
“It is locked from inside , bewakoofa( you moron !).” Someone screeched . Others sniggered and looked away.
Not done yet , he set about trying to fix the handle in place , by screwing on with the aid of his bike key . Two minutes of this jingling -jangling and the door flew open .
Our gold clad man was flung to a side and a 7 foot tall Punjab Police constable breathed fire into the crowd ” Who is breaking the door ?”
The crowd shrunk away and pointed at the gold guy , slinking in the shadow with the uprooted handle clutched dolefully in his hand .Telling all .
“When they write pull , never pull . Only knock .” he bellowed. The gigantor took the handle , and ushered everyone in ,with a nod of his mighty head.
The glass wasn’t transparent .
Large red letters asked people on the outside to “Pull”.
So , it was perplexing to see a group of people , waiting patiently outside .
He lowered his legs from the noisy bullet , and looked at himself in the mirror. Passing a hand over his slicked hair , and stood up to see all eyes staring at his golden bike. He loved it . His golden shoes and the gold spray paint all over his 350cc new Royal Enfield.
Gold chains swishing from his hip , the crowd parted as he swaggered up to the door and pulled with all his might.
The door handle , smoothly detached itself and he stood holding a steel handle , with two screws hanging morosely .
“It is locked from inside , bewakoofa( you moron !).” Someone screeched . Others sniggered and looked away.
Not done yet , he set about trying to fix the handle in place , by screwing on with the aid of his bike key . Two minutes of this jingling -jangling and the door flew open .
Our gold clad man was flung to a side and a 7 foot tall Punjab Police constable breathed fire into the crowd ” Who is breaking the door ?”
The crowd shrunk away and pointed at the gold guy , slinking in the shadow with the uprooted handle clutched dolefully in his hand .Telling all .
“When they write pull , never pull . Only knock .” he bellowed. The gigantor took the handle , and ushered everyone in ,with a nod of his mighty head.
The sunset
The phone rang .
“Yeah , Ma.”
“Hello!1 Bubu . You sound tired . where are you ?” Unnecessary questions . She knew already what was the matter .
“How many days ?”
“What ?”
“How many days’ worth medicines are still with you ?” A sharp inhalation . Then a resigned sigh .
“How did you know ?” She sighed .
“I just know Ma .” She was already mentally calculating how many days the courier guy will take to deliver city manufactured medicines to this remote hamlet.
” Ten days’ more .”
“Ok. Plenty of time .”
“Thank you bubu. I hope this will not be too much trouble .”
“Ma!!”
“Thank you my piece of moon . I cannot thank you enough .”
After Ma had hung up , she tried visualising . Ma must be sitting on her bed , with her knitting . Baba must be in the next room , roughly , five feet away , also on his bed , all his medical books and precious english literature scattered in a million words around him , trying to make sense of all the information gathered over a lifetime . Surgical procedures , names of glaciers in Himalayas , Battles from half a century ago , Fromme , Sonne , Bulge , Siege of Leningrad or was it Stalingrad ? She couldn’t confide in her spouse , could she ? Ma had to confide in an offspring sitting 3000 kms away , in a city that spoke a language Ma could never comprehend .
She looked out of the window . A brilliant orange orb was going down. Splashing the skies in waves of yellow , red and ochre .
“Yeah , Ma.”
“Hello!1 Bubu . You sound tired . where are you ?” Unnecessary questions . She knew already what was the matter .
“How many days ?”
“What ?”
“How many days’ worth medicines are still with you ?” A sharp inhalation . Then a resigned sigh .
“How did you know ?” She sighed .
“I just know Ma .” She was already mentally calculating how many days the courier guy will take to deliver city manufactured medicines to this remote hamlet.
” Ten days’ more .”
“Ok. Plenty of time .”
“Thank you bubu. I hope this will not be too much trouble .”
“Ma!!”
“Thank you my piece of moon . I cannot thank you enough .”
After Ma had hung up , she tried visualising . Ma must be sitting on her bed , with her knitting . Baba must be in the next room , roughly , five feet away , also on his bed , all his medical books and precious english literature scattered in a million words around him , trying to make sense of all the information gathered over a lifetime . Surgical procedures , names of glaciers in Himalayas , Battles from half a century ago , Fromme , Sonne , Bulge , Siege of Leningrad or was it Stalingrad ? She couldn’t confide in her spouse , could she ? Ma had to confide in an offspring sitting 3000 kms away , in a city that spoke a language Ma could never comprehend .
She looked out of the window . A brilliant orange orb was going down. Splashing the skies in waves of yellow , red and ochre .
Admire
Yeah , I admire the way
some words you say
Some ideas bother
crawl and fester
others are flighty
butterfly beauty
some words you say
Some ideas bother
crawl and fester
others are flighty
butterfly beauty
I admire how words
sharpen into swords
capable of wounding
slicing, compounding
sharpen into swords
capable of wounding
slicing, compounding
Some quickly reach ,
the heart of the matter
some take ages ,much
like the proverbial hare
the heart of the matter
some take ages ,much
like the proverbial hare
Must admire
that even in slumber
words dont tire
never retire
that even in slumber
words dont tire
never retire
Soldier ants
astride plants
reach the sap
almost asap
astride plants
reach the sap
almost asap
Admirable
a miracle !!
a miracle !!
Saturday 16 February 2019
My favourite aunt
My favourite aunt sat on a humungous four poster bed . She had it brought all the way from her family mansion in the village and had it reassembled in the centre of her bedroom . Then , she had an assortment of mattresses placed on it . Then , came her favourite floral patterned bed sheet. Large purple flowers with a showy yellow centre . Dots for pollens , large parrot green leaves , red and pink butterflies darting in and out of this dense foliage . It was like sitting atop a jungle .
Then she had a hubble -bubble . She would shout for the boy , and he would rush in , blowing gently at red hot embers of burning cow dung cakes . He would reverentially place them in a scrubbed brass pot , and tobacco and water in other two interconnected pots . It was an intricate process, very fascinating to watch . Then he would yank a crisp hanky out of his pocket , place it gently on the mouth piece and take a gentle , a very gentle drag . Satisfied , coughing , he then would proffer her the tube . She would accept , like a high priestess , and he would bow away , his eyes streaming , red with smoke .
There was a rumour that this aunt was a" begum "of sorts , in her village . No one knew for sure . It was Kolkata , the metropolis , and a great leveller. Others said she was just a rich heiress. Either way , we knew she had migrated from Bangladesh . She spoke fondly of her village "haveli" , and stories of fabulous wealth .
She had a shrine to her selection of Gods and godmen installed in her room . A huge bunch of thick handmade incense sticks would burn at this altar , all the day long . That made her room real smoky . The Hookah and the altar .
I have vivid memories of entering her room , and seeing her sitting atop that mound of a bed , cross legged,black curly hair open , clad in a handloom saree , wreathed in smoke . She reminded me of the character absolem created by lewis caroll
Then there was the steady stream of tea and snacks . Her kitchen was like a factory , manned by her ageing , widowed sister. There would be smells of mustard oil tadka, fish being fried and rice boiling , sounds of hissing , crackling and cookers whistling all the time .
Millions of rosogolla , kachagolla and myriad varieties of sondeshes found their way into the house. As if that was not enough , visitors from the villages brought naadus and joynogorer moas.
Crabs crawl desultorily inside buckets.
Then she had a hubble -bubble . She would shout for the boy , and he would rush in , blowing gently at red hot embers of burning cow dung cakes . He would reverentially place them in a scrubbed brass pot , and tobacco and water in other two interconnected pots . It was an intricate process, very fascinating to watch . Then he would yank a crisp hanky out of his pocket , place it gently on the mouth piece and take a gentle , a very gentle drag . Satisfied , coughing , he then would proffer her the tube . She would accept , like a high priestess , and he would bow away , his eyes streaming , red with smoke .
There was a rumour that this aunt was a" begum "of sorts , in her village . No one knew for sure . It was Kolkata , the metropolis , and a great leveller. Others said she was just a rich heiress. Either way , we knew she had migrated from Bangladesh . She spoke fondly of her village "haveli" , and stories of fabulous wealth .
She had a shrine to her selection of Gods and godmen installed in her room . A huge bunch of thick handmade incense sticks would burn at this altar , all the day long . That made her room real smoky . The Hookah and the altar .
I have vivid memories of entering her room , and seeing her sitting atop that mound of a bed , cross legged,black curly hair open , clad in a handloom saree , wreathed in smoke . She reminded me of the character absolem created by lewis caroll
Then there was the steady stream of tea and snacks . Her kitchen was like a factory , manned by her ageing , widowed sister. There would be smells of mustard oil tadka, fish being fried and rice boiling , sounds of hissing , crackling and cookers whistling all the time .
Millions of rosogolla , kachagolla and myriad varieties of sondeshes found their way into the house. As if that was not enough , visitors from the villages brought naadus and joynogorer moas.
Crabs crawl desultorily inside buckets.
When papa comes home
when papa comes home
Maa sings in the shower
When papa comes home
delicious smells emanate
when papa comes home
long rides are taken
when papa comes home
grandpa comes over
when papa comes home
we race in the garden
when papa comes home
we play hide and seek
when papa comes home
we paint the cycle
when papa comes home
we play ball , dawn to dusk
Maa sings in the shower
When papa comes home
delicious smells emanate
when papa comes home
long rides are taken
when papa comes home
grandpa comes over
when papa comes home
we race in the garden
when papa comes home
we play hide and seek
when papa comes home
we paint the cycle
when papa comes home
we play ball , dawn to dusk
Saturday 26 January 2019
Anuttarit sawalein.
उस दिन भी किसीने पुछा था
"फिर ?"
पंजाबी में पूछते हैं
"होर ?"
एक और कहानी को
शुरू करने का
आमंत्रण
उछली गेंद को
न पकड़ी जाये
तो अच्छा
हर बॉल कैच
करना हर किसी के बस में
नहीं
कई बॉल
मिटटी में
दफ़न होते हैं
ये तो मेंढक भी नहीं
कि बारिश में
ज़िंदा हो
टर्राने लगें।
मेरे आंगन की धरती
ऐसे कितने सवालों
से पाटी हुई है।
"फिर ?"
पंजाबी में पूछते हैं
"होर ?"
एक और कहानी को
शुरू करने का
आमंत्रण
उछली गेंद को
न पकड़ी जाये
तो अच्छा
हर बॉल कैच
करना हर किसी के बस में
नहीं
कई बॉल
मिटटी में
दफ़न होते हैं
ये तो मेंढक भी नहीं
कि बारिश में
ज़िंदा हो
टर्राने लगें।
मेरे आंगन की धरती
ऐसे कितने सवालों
से पाटी हुई है।
safar
या तो आँख में किर्च थी
या शीशा गन्दा
मिटटी की लकीर थी
या रेंगता परिंदा
मुझे कुछ दिखा न था
पर फिर भी समझ थी
कितने समझ को हम
सन्नाटे में समेट लेते हैं
उबलते सवालों को धैर्य का
गिलाफ ओढ़ा देते हैं
सुबह कब शाम हो जाती है
और शाम रात में तब्दील
जो बहार से देख रहे होते हैं
उन्हें लगता है , बस यही है
हस्र , इन्तेक़ाम , मामला
दफन हो गया ,
हर सन्नाटा शांति नहीं होती
यह समझ कुछ के पल्ले
पड़ती है
बाकी आगे बढ़ जाते हैं
बेफिक्री की मोटर पर
मगर सड़क जब मर्ज़ी
सोये भूत की तरह
जाग सकती है
अपने किये का शीशा दिखा
सकती है
पासा जो पलटा
रूख जो उल्टा
तो रिवर्स कैसे करोगे
बीते समय को ?
या शीशा गन्दा
मिटटी की लकीर थी
या रेंगता परिंदा
मुझे कुछ दिखा न था
पर फिर भी समझ थी
कितने समझ को हम
सन्नाटे में समेट लेते हैं
उबलते सवालों को धैर्य का
गिलाफ ओढ़ा देते हैं
सुबह कब शाम हो जाती है
और शाम रात में तब्दील
जो बहार से देख रहे होते हैं
उन्हें लगता है , बस यही है
हस्र , इन्तेक़ाम , मामला
दफन हो गया ,
हर सन्नाटा शांति नहीं होती
यह समझ कुछ के पल्ले
पड़ती है
बाकी आगे बढ़ जाते हैं
बेफिक्री की मोटर पर
मगर सड़क जब मर्ज़ी
सोये भूत की तरह
जाग सकती है
अपने किये का शीशा दिखा
सकती है
पासा जो पलटा
रूख जो उल्टा
तो रिवर्स कैसे करोगे
बीते समय को ?
Run for your life
Set conditions ,
rules and regulations
thermostat corrections
So many aberrations
How can the day be beautiful
If you dont allow it to be ?
Thinking of how things are
and how they could be
If we are so preoccupied
With correcting
checking and rechecking
If your brain is high wired
Things become deep fried
Even last night you cried
In your sleep
misery seeps
Creeping underneath
your skin as you unsheath
all rotten-ness , each breath
in screams wreathed
How did I reach this desolation
Such depredation
Terrifying isolation
You are in suspension
The only solution
my dear , is to run
No , not for fun
For dear life , one
Till the clouds are gone
The blanket has lifted
The sun has shifted
sunshine soaks you to the bone
don't stop , till then
run, just run
rules and regulations
thermostat corrections
So many aberrations
How can the day be beautiful
If you dont allow it to be ?
Thinking of how things are
and how they could be
If we are so preoccupied
With correcting
checking and rechecking
If your brain is high wired
Things become deep fried
Even last night you cried
In your sleep
misery seeps
Creeping underneath
your skin as you unsheath
all rotten-ness , each breath
in screams wreathed
How did I reach this desolation
Such depredation
Terrifying isolation
You are in suspension
The only solution
my dear , is to run
No , not for fun
For dear life , one
Till the clouds are gone
The blanket has lifted
The sun has shifted
sunshine soaks you to the bone
don't stop , till then
run, just run
Monday 21 January 2019
In the wink of an eye
In the wink of an eye ,
My daughter
is older
and smarter
In the wink of an eye
I am greyer
heavier
and older
In the wink of an eye
fles by an year
with its fears
and feathers
In the wink of an eye
you lose an elder
and subdue your
laughter
In the wink of an eye
seasons change
ailments emerge
companies merge
In the wink of an eye
A youngster
Priya warrier
becomes a star
Bus ride in a fauji bus
The bus coughs , shudders and after a couple of metallic sneezes , settles down into a warm , feline purr. Everyone , who had braced themselves , settle down into their seats , warm sun on their faces . People talking , snacking , and staring out of the window, and waiting .
A thin face pokes out of a neighbouring bush , face still contorted from some painful conversation , ear still glued to the distant voice of a loved one . The eyes wear exceedingly dark glasses . The driver waves her back into the bush , laughing -"Hee, heee, madam thinks we are leaving. " Then turns back and supplies obvious information " Madam has undergone an eye surgery , talking to husband posted in Leh " .
I am sitting in a "fauji " bus taking me to a place 90 km away , where my husband is posted , and I haven't even undergone an eye surgery . Makes me feel trifle guilty and gratified that I do not have to conduct private conversations in the privacy of a dried prickly bush. Not that it is actually necessary , given the fact that the conversation is being carried out in chaste "Ahomiya" (Assamese), not particularly comprehensible to a busload of predominantly Punjabis and Himachalis.
A middle aged woman rants about the latecomers . She has the veritable list of them , and whereabouts too. A malayali soldier defiantly gets down , and bellows to the driver "Main chai pi ke aata", with the characteristic shake of the head . He takes a deep breath and pulls up his trousers , and the old lady bellows "Where are you off to now ? We will drive off without you !"
He grins and waves to her , and walks off. The old lady , mutters punjabi curses under her breath , reserved for young boys and certain canines.
The driver has plugged his ears and is shaking his head to some violent rhythm . The old lady lets loose a volley of complaints . It begins with today's youth, the weather , her ailment , non availability of her choicest soft drink in the csd, more family diseases , her disobedient 'bahu', her incorrigible in-laws , and settles down at the hardness of the bus seat she is sitting on .
She is about to take on a legion of negligent army doctors , when the bus driver , his ear piece still stuck to his voluminous turban , bellows "Seargent Mohit Singh " , a timid female voice answers from the back of the bus "Haanji". He is calling out the name of the soldier , not the dependant he is ferrying today , but everyone dutifully answers .
Roll call over , except for two absentees , and the tea drinker , the driver goes back to his rocking. There is still 2 min to go .
The dark glassed madam has emerged from the bushes at sharp 2. Taken her seat next to the complaining sardarni , who now , glad to have a focussed audience , directs her tirade against tardy youngsters . A moment later , the Malyali boy returns and en route to his seat , pats the old woman on her shoulder . Melting instantly against this gesture of affection , she stops snarling , and grinning, croons "Aa gaya mera puttar."
The two absentees are still in "queue", one at the dispensary to collect his medicines , other at MRI centre to collect his report . The driver has spoken into the phone loud enough for all to hear , specially the old woman .
A young bride , dressed in red , sitting quietly hitherto , is alerted by sudden Hanuman Chalisa ringing from her bag . Even the phone is bedazzled, in red and gold . She answers , and shrieks " What? I am in the wrong bus ? " She turns to me and asks " This bus is not going to A?" I nod affirmative , and someone sniggers from behind . The Malyali tells her the real destination , and the bride , stands up suddenly , spilling the contents of her small bag .Crawling on all fours , still pleading on the phone " Don't shout I am coming , I am getting out ".
Once outside the bus , she assumes a strident voice . "What do you mean I should have read carefully ? It is all your fault . You should have called up earlier . I would have reached H , then what ? " She passed by beneath the window , where in the side of the bus , was written in dark, bold, huge letters , the name of the destination.
While the phone altercation is on , a bus trundles past , slowly gathering momentum , as it goes round the bend , disappearing from view , another "fauji " bus with A written in dark huge letters.
"Dont shout ! Tell me what the bus looks like ?" The new bride was lost in the centre of the Cantonment road .
The old lady clucks in sympathy . The driver sighs "Oh Boy!" The Malyali boy , and the Assamese madam together alight , inform her of the bus she had narrowly missed , and how to catch a civil bus from the bus-stop . They manage to bundle her into an auto rickshaw to take her to the bus stop. The bride is near hysterical , partly due to her misfortune , partly due to gratitude .
It is 215 , and the MRI guy has returned , his report duly signed , stamped , and initialled by a battalion of doctors . The Dispensary chap is still missing .
Another middle aged woman pokes her head at the door " This bus is going to L ?" The bus driver , impatient , and totally unhelpful, directs her elsewhere . Not to be fobbed off so easily , the old woman walks around to the back of the bus , where she is informed that this bus , indeed , will go en route to L . She bides her time , and boards the bus when the driver is looking away , settling into some hidden corner .
At sharp 2, the bus comes to life and rolls away , slowly , looking out for the missing guy . Suddenly someone espies him emerging from the canteen , tell -tale bag of groceries clutched in his hands .
"See , I told you , he had gone to the canteen , Liar ". The old lady was beside herself . Luckily she chose to keep quiet when the guy heaved in ,with his groceries and medicines .
Two hours later we have reached the city and the malayali boy suddenly rushes to the front . "Please stop , I need to go ."
"All that tea !!" A voice quips from back . The driver obliges and the bus stands at a busy kerb , shivering and shuddering , waiting .
"Will he come ?" Someone impatiently asks the driver . "He will . sometime ."
A moment later , the boy sprints in .
My friend from afar, whom I have been chatting with on whatsapp , insists on a video chat .
"This is a fauji bus you are in ,isn't it ? " She cackles with merriment , and others stiffen with rectitude . Embarrassed , I lower the volume . Soon we become inaudible to each other and hang up . I sigh in relief .
Carts full of three heaps of colourful fruits are on display on the roadside , red apples , green guavas , orange shiny kinu , a local citrus .
We pass by numerous marriage halls . All occupado , decorated , bands playing , wedding in progress. It is the wedding season .
Before the sun could set on a beautiful field of green baby paddy shoots , the bus reaches its destination .
A thin face pokes out of a neighbouring bush , face still contorted from some painful conversation , ear still glued to the distant voice of a loved one . The eyes wear exceedingly dark glasses . The driver waves her back into the bush , laughing -"Hee, heee, madam thinks we are leaving. " Then turns back and supplies obvious information " Madam has undergone an eye surgery , talking to husband posted in Leh " .
I am sitting in a "fauji " bus taking me to a place 90 km away , where my husband is posted , and I haven't even undergone an eye surgery . Makes me feel trifle guilty and gratified that I do not have to conduct private conversations in the privacy of a dried prickly bush. Not that it is actually necessary , given the fact that the conversation is being carried out in chaste "Ahomiya" (Assamese), not particularly comprehensible to a busload of predominantly Punjabis and Himachalis.
A middle aged woman rants about the latecomers . She has the veritable list of them , and whereabouts too. A malayali soldier defiantly gets down , and bellows to the driver "Main chai pi ke aata", with the characteristic shake of the head . He takes a deep breath and pulls up his trousers , and the old lady bellows "Where are you off to now ? We will drive off without you !"
He grins and waves to her , and walks off. The old lady , mutters punjabi curses under her breath , reserved for young boys and certain canines.
The driver has plugged his ears and is shaking his head to some violent rhythm . The old lady lets loose a volley of complaints . It begins with today's youth, the weather , her ailment , non availability of her choicest soft drink in the csd, more family diseases , her disobedient 'bahu', her incorrigible in-laws , and settles down at the hardness of the bus seat she is sitting on .
She is about to take on a legion of negligent army doctors , when the bus driver , his ear piece still stuck to his voluminous turban , bellows "Seargent Mohit Singh " , a timid female voice answers from the back of the bus "Haanji". He is calling out the name of the soldier , not the dependant he is ferrying today , but everyone dutifully answers .
Roll call over , except for two absentees , and the tea drinker , the driver goes back to his rocking. There is still 2 min to go .
The dark glassed madam has emerged from the bushes at sharp 2. Taken her seat next to the complaining sardarni , who now , glad to have a focussed audience , directs her tirade against tardy youngsters . A moment later , the Malyali boy returns and en route to his seat , pats the old woman on her shoulder . Melting instantly against this gesture of affection , she stops snarling , and grinning, croons "Aa gaya mera puttar."
The two absentees are still in "queue", one at the dispensary to collect his medicines , other at MRI centre to collect his report . The driver has spoken into the phone loud enough for all to hear , specially the old woman .
A young bride , dressed in red , sitting quietly hitherto , is alerted by sudden Hanuman Chalisa ringing from her bag . Even the phone is bedazzled, in red and gold . She answers , and shrieks " What? I am in the wrong bus ? " She turns to me and asks " This bus is not going to A?" I nod affirmative , and someone sniggers from behind . The Malyali tells her the real destination , and the bride , stands up suddenly , spilling the contents of her small bag .Crawling on all fours , still pleading on the phone " Don't shout I am coming , I am getting out ".
Once outside the bus , she assumes a strident voice . "What do you mean I should have read carefully ? It is all your fault . You should have called up earlier . I would have reached H , then what ? " She passed by beneath the window , where in the side of the bus , was written in dark, bold, huge letters , the name of the destination.
While the phone altercation is on , a bus trundles past , slowly gathering momentum , as it goes round the bend , disappearing from view , another "fauji " bus with A written in dark huge letters.
"Dont shout ! Tell me what the bus looks like ?" The new bride was lost in the centre of the Cantonment road .
The old lady clucks in sympathy . The driver sighs "Oh Boy!" The Malyali boy , and the Assamese madam together alight , inform her of the bus she had narrowly missed , and how to catch a civil bus from the bus-stop . They manage to bundle her into an auto rickshaw to take her to the bus stop. The bride is near hysterical , partly due to her misfortune , partly due to gratitude .
It is 215 , and the MRI guy has returned , his report duly signed , stamped , and initialled by a battalion of doctors . The Dispensary chap is still missing .
Another middle aged woman pokes her head at the door " This bus is going to L ?" The bus driver , impatient , and totally unhelpful, directs her elsewhere . Not to be fobbed off so easily , the old woman walks around to the back of the bus , where she is informed that this bus , indeed , will go en route to L . She bides her time , and boards the bus when the driver is looking away , settling into some hidden corner .
At sharp 2, the bus comes to life and rolls away , slowly , looking out for the missing guy . Suddenly someone espies him emerging from the canteen , tell -tale bag of groceries clutched in his hands .
"See , I told you , he had gone to the canteen , Liar ". The old lady was beside herself . Luckily she chose to keep quiet when the guy heaved in ,with his groceries and medicines .
Two hours later we have reached the city and the malayali boy suddenly rushes to the front . "Please stop , I need to go ."
"All that tea !!" A voice quips from back . The driver obliges and the bus stands at a busy kerb , shivering and shuddering , waiting .
"Will he come ?" Someone impatiently asks the driver . "He will . sometime ."
A moment later , the boy sprints in .
My friend from afar, whom I have been chatting with on whatsapp , insists on a video chat .
"This is a fauji bus you are in ,isn't it ? " She cackles with merriment , and others stiffen with rectitude . Embarrassed , I lower the volume . Soon we become inaudible to each other and hang up . I sigh in relief .
Carts full of three heaps of colourful fruits are on display on the roadside , red apples , green guavas , orange shiny kinu , a local citrus .
We pass by numerous marriage halls . All occupado , decorated , bands playing , wedding in progress. It is the wedding season .
Before the sun could set on a beautiful field of green baby paddy shoots , the bus reaches its destination .
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The boss swept in , holding a packet of streamers in her right hand , aloft ,like a torch . Statue of liberty . A very pissed off statue . Bathed , perfumed, in a cloud of aromatic efficiency .
“I thought the meet was tomorrow.” Anu wasn’t going to let go an opportunity at self-flagellation .
“Sadist!!” hissed Sujata , seated at her desk.
“No, masochist”, corrected Ashok , “self- hate” explained Murthy.
Sujata rolled her eyes . She always rolled her eyes .
“Yes Ma’am ?” Eager -to -please Anu .
“Here , hold these .” Boss handed her over the files , streamers , buntings , all that had adorned her , hitherto.
Anu disappeared under all the streamers , with gratitude. Boss, freed from all that paraphernalia , swept her mascaraed eyes over the entire floor.
Everyone else pretended to be busy , very busy . Clickety clack , went everyone’s keyboards .
“Okay!! Everyone , listen up !! Did anyone “Think” That the meet was tomorrow . ” The boss meant Anu , and Anu flushed .
The white buntings turned pink with her shame .
There was a moment of silence . The type at funerals , for the departed soul , etc etc .
“The meet is TODAY” , The boss thundered , and everyone , on cue , jumped to their feet .
Everyone bustled around .