The Peacock visits.

The peacock has stationed itself on a branch , high up in the tree , and gives a plaintive , enquiring call , every few minutes . Amazingly , the call is answered , from distant , unseen areas ,,by distant , unseen , cousins of the bird. 

It is a huge bird . And it has a powerful call . A call for attention in the midst of all that is going on in your kitchen , or life right now . A thunderous boom that derails your chain of thoughts , with the ease of an RDX explosion . 

Then , like all tourists , you film him . In the dark , it sits patiently quiet and still . You stow away your phone and the cawing /honking and moving around begins simultaneously . After five failed attempts , you realize , it cannot be a mere coincidence . The bird is playing you up . It can see you from its perch , doing all your silly little human things . Preparing dinner , washing your china , taking a walk on the terrace . 

Your online friends are not an equanimous lot . Some one is kind enough to croon "Ooh ! So lovely . You can see him in the perch . " 

Other reactions are not so kind .

"You live in a jungle bro . " Two min later "Of course , I meant paradise." 

" I can't see anything . You have mistaken a thick clump of leaves , for a peacock. Peacock indeed !!"

"Hahaha ". From the group monkey , who( ab)uses the laugh emoji. 

Of course , you cannot stroll into the woods like he can . He has the freedom . You don't . He is not under lockdown . He probably never will . So from his high perch , he can see what you cannot . He can see your follies and foibles . Ambitions and ambiguities . 

After around 9 pm , he hides his face into his ample wing , and takes a nap . No longer calling out , no longer shuffling around . Perfectly at peace in a totally new perch . 

At around 4am , a single cry signifies bye bye . He is gone by the time I get out to the balcony . 

How are you?

It was not all a good time to receive a call . The vegetable truck has arrived , some half an hour ago . Most of the small number of buyers are content to buy bread and milk . Ignoring the leaves poking out of the plastic milk boxes .

It is my turn to step into the barely visible chalk circle . A bad knee sprain has left me limping . Now my bathroom slippers gets caught in one of the gravels . Happens all the time with an injured leg . You just end up messing it further . With shooting pain clouding the details of shopping list in my mind , the phone rang .

“Hello ! may I know who’s speaking ? ”
This question unsettles me to no end , specially from unknown numbers . After strained introduction , the person spoke his name . It was an acquaintance from a remote past . A person whom I have seen just twice in my life . Both times fleetingly , at a dear family member’s funeral . I do not recollect his face . Just some sketchy details of his life . Wife , one son , businessman , suburbs .

“How are you ?”
A bead of sweat has trickled in the furrow of my upper lip beneath the mask , begging to itch /wipe . Can’t do either .

“I am fine . How are you ?” These are just pleasantries , they do not mean anything . “We are all going to die eventually ” The doomsday predictions ring in my ear . The itch gets stronger, the vendor gestures impatiently at the spinach and radish leaves crowding his seat .

I nod , wordlessly . He fills my bag with leaves . Now a radish leaf frond scrapes against my chin . More itching . I feel a sneeze coming on .

Breakfast

It is bright and sunny . The air crisp and mildly cold . Just right for a stroll on the terrace . But don't you dare carry your breakfast with you .

 Hungry and vigilant crows swoop down , in an aggressively efficient fighter plane maneuver. They dive at your omelet and toast , and narrowly miss your scalp . It is frightening and  mildly disconcerting . You wolf down your meal and slosh burning tea in your mouth . Looking up teary eyed and defiant at a crow regarding you as an oddity. Or a long lost brother . Then it looks away , browbeaten and embarrassed , it takes off into the early morning air looking for greener and more generously forthcoming avenues.

As I would discover later , the lady downstairs leaves two or more of last nights' rotis , torn up into shreds . on a raised concrete platform in her backyard , prays to the sun , and disappears inside . It is a daily ritual .

For few minutes nothing happens . Then two mynahs march in . Not fly . March . In tandem . Like soldiers . Wearing smart yellow  boots , masks . They take their pick , eat right there , then go off to inspect the dry tap and the dry birdbath for a drop of moisture .

The moment mynahs leave , crows hop in . They fly , hop . Looking right and left . Forever alert . Then they grab their pieces and fly off, to their own perches . Unlike the mynahs , they come singly . Every crow to himself .

All this long while , this entire event is being watched by squirrels , who have positioned themselves on bark of trees , their engines revving , noses quivering . Now that the field is clear and lot of food still on the ground , The squirrels move in with lightning rapidity , grab a piece in their paws , sniff and nibble . After the bite has passed the smell and taste test , they quickly grab the grub in their mouths and crisscross their paths , climbing up into unseen tree trunk holes , to "squirrel"their stash away . They swiftly come back again , for seconds .

Every tree in the vicinity , I suspect must have their cavities stuffed with molding bread , several weeks' worth .

The squirrels polish off most of the large pieces .

 The pigeons move in now . In groups . Wearing a weary air about them , that masks all the attentiveness . They show meagre respect to the stale bread . Actually , stamping on them their dirty claws .

Two small stray monkeys come , by around ten . One of them , obviously not hungry , is more interested in terrifying the staid mynahs , out of their perches on window ledges . The other , more practical or hungrier , stuffs his mouth , snarls at the smaller one , stuffs some more , looking elsewhere , picking up pieces of plaster , in haste ( so much human like ) . Drops , comes back for some tasty looking grains here and there , then lops off . The baby is by now , dangling playfully from an overhanging branch , by its tail , staring disinterestedly , at its mother .

By mid morning . the ants have sent in their troops . Battalions fan out . Methodically , picking , carrying , ferrying out  , in neat , parade worthy , single files . Unhurried , resolute march .

Sometime around this time , a stray dog comes . Not to eat , but to sniff out the ants and harry them . One large black ant decides to teach him a lesson , and rides on its snout , biting it with all its might . The puppy scoots , howling in pain .

By noon , the concrete patch is clear . Spotlessly cleaned by non human occupants of planet earth . Waiting for a refill , tomorrow morning . 

Short thoughts

The hairs on the forearm
flatten
with a blast of the hand
dryer


Like the standing crops in a field
flattening against
a blast from the rotor blades
of copter

                                                    &&&&&&&

My headlamps shone as
an aberrant daytime flash
caught in the rear
of the car ahead

In others eyes
I realize
the errors
and follies
Of my making


                                      &&&&&&&&&&&&&

She smiled
and grimaced
both at the
same time

Unwilling
to cut up
a conversation
with someone
she once loved

                                      &&&&&&&&&&&&&&

When the pain was over
relief flooded her
like monsoon
after a scorching summer

                                       &&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Fake Vacation

It was quiet in the jungle , as we climbed . The sun was almost obliterated , by the dense foliage . Sundry birds made strange , chirping sounds . We couldn’t see them . They could definitely see us . The chirping and gurgling stopped when someone stepped on a twig . The snap silenced the cicadas too. For a moment . Only the hum could be heard . A hum one hears in the forest , which comprises of , as the folklore goes , trees talking to each other , insects on the prowl , and sap running up gigantic silver oaks . It could be the grassy moss under your feet ,which you bruise at every step , robbing them of the protective nutrition of whitish dew . 

It smelt musty , and mossy . There were rotting leaves in pools of water , gathered from two days’ prior rain . There were cavities in narrow , precarious steps , that wound around the hill . Those stone steps laid thousands of years ago , by buddhist monks . Worn out , into smooth cavities , like molars of an old person . Some places the stones had fallen off , leaving gaps .

Some trees didn’t want us there . So they sent their branches to scrape on our bare , city arms . But mostly , they saw us and kept a silent watch. 

At a bend , the tree cover opened up . All stood silenced by what we saw . Someone gasped . There were caves methodically cut into the rock face of the mountain standing on the other side of the valley. The cicadas became louder , and so did the hum . 

The caves were rectangular in shape , with stone pillars . There are world famous carvings on the ceilings , and murals on the walls .There are stupas , viharas , and numerous statues of Buddha . There are vivid paintings of the Jataka tales , from the Ramayana and the Mahabharata , and from the tripathikas . It was discovered by a tiger chasing British official , in the 1900s , after having lain buried in deep jungles , on this inaccessible mountain range for thousands of years . 

For long moments , no one spoke . The early morning sun bathed the glory of the caves , in its fierce golden light . The interiors of course , from this distance remained , dark and mysterious .

That was when the bell rang , and Mom shut the pages of the album . There were groans of protest . One sprightly young girl asked ” But who built these caves ? And how ? Why ?” 

” Go and google Ajanta caves , Stop bothering me , now who is that at the door ?”

Owls , old souls

1. 
   

   The air is crisp and cold ,
   a fresh iceberg lettuce fold
   You can bite into it

   frozen teeth , white

   wispy , clouds of exhalation
   evanescent winter exaltation

   two dark shapes shifting
   In the dark , staring
   Four eyes , almond shaped
   relentlessly following , 

   Your movements, being watched
   Someone wheezily screeched
   You turn and see , head swivelled ,
   looking right at you , unblinking
   Boring their eyes into you 

   For a long moment , you stare back ,
   mesmerised , then a distant bark
   and wings stretch and flutter
   other of the pair , mutter 

   Another warning screech
   and they have flown
   out of my reach
   Into a grey sky , dawn

   A witching hour they say
   when ghouls
   old souls
   prowl and prey 

   Not today .
   I just made friends
   with two acquaintance(s)
   Made my day 

   They live in a hole
   In my outer wall
   With their voices of concern
   mimicking my conscience 

   They fly , plummet
   screech , skyrocket
   all the moves
   all my loves

   As I sit on my porch
   and watch
   Like a dream peddler
   In a wheelchair 

   I sell my dreams
   to the skies
   and watch the realms
   rent asunder with pleas 

   whoops and shrieks
   couple of lovable freaks
   My birds , my owls
   Ghouls , old souls .

Complete and utter chaos

0812 hrs .The bus was late . It always was , in winter . The day was foggy too . Dense and impenetrable . When I descended the steps , to wait for the school bus , I knew it would be delayed . It was stuck at the railway crossing . I could hear the train whistle , a prolonged honking , almost pleading unseen trespassers , to clear the path . Cold , damp air slapped my cheeks the moment I descended . I hate taking the lift . What if there is a power failure ? Plus today is my computer test . I might as well look up my notes .

Three boys came chasing each other up , on the colony road . Scuffing of school shoes , Joyous shouts and mindless panting . Can’t they sit quietly and revise ? No, even on this important day , they have to make a fool of themselves ,sniggering at others who are absorbed in their books (me ) , and peer through the window of a newly arrived Toyota MUV, parked on the sidewalk . 

0815 hrs Pramod was assiduously washing cars . Armed with a rag ,he would dip it in a dirty bucket , then swish the wet rag all over . As it is , the fog was supplying plentiful moisture on the wind shields . All he had to do was join the dots . Some of the moisture from the rag flew off towards the boys . 

“hey ! watch it !” Screamed one of them . Pramod paused . In that split second , several things happened simultaneously . 

The bus lurched from around the corner . I got up from the stone bench , and turned to put the book into my bag . The boys rushed to fetch theirs with shouts of glee . And a small white desire suddenly came round the corner , bumping into the bus . The slow , rumbling bus gave a jolt forward and stopped . Pramod gave a shout , and the kids watched in horror , as the car swerved from behind the bus , with its dented hood , smoking and clattering , rode the sidewalk , almost missing the boys , and Toyota , sent Pramod’s bucket flying and bumped into the front of the bus . 

Then it lurched to a drunken stop , across . Blocking the road . Smoke and shouts everywhere . A girl in the bus was hysterically screaming , non stop . The boys , stood on the footstep , puzzled . They were pulled in by the conductor , impatient to shout some profanities . I boarded in the same breath , and sat next to Sameera, the screaming girl . She saw me , hugged me tight and buried her face in my blazer . I patted her head. At least it shut her up .

The bus conductor , Pramod , and the owner of the Toyota were shouting at the driver who got out wobbly , opened his door , which was festooned with Pramod’s dripping rags , and in a grotesque slow motion slumped to the ground . I recognised him immediately , as the neighbouring uncle , who drops his wife to a faraway school , every morning. Then returns , readies himself and drives to work himself . That day , he had decided to have one too many pegs . Early in the morning . Confirmed alcoholic dependance syndrome , my father would say . 

He slumped to the ground , groaning and dazed , jerked and vomited . Vomit running down his jacket front . People started helping him up . Pramod and others held his arms , some others held his leg , they managed to sway him to the side walk . 

Our bus driver kept waving his fist , and swearing angrily , honking by turns . Preetam ma’am , at her usual seat behind the the driver, was craning her neck outside the window , so were some other inquisitive kids . Girls , including Sameera, found this opportunity , a Godsend reprieve, to revise through tricky portions of Python and Java. My mom was leaning out of her balcony , and shouting instructions .I ,instinctively , ducked . Preetam ma’am turned back , and asked me , “you know this man ?” 

“No , ma’am !” I lied . Quickly returning back to the book . The driver managed to manoeuvre the huge rumbling bus , out of the chaotic mess . As we swerved past , I saw Pramod wiping the driver’s vomit smeared jacket front with one of his rags .Ewwww! I don’t think I will be ever able to get rid of that image .