Bird brains

A pair of pigeons have been scouting my balcony for a place to make nest for the past two weeks . To discourage them , I planted petunias in my pots , and placed them directly in the path to their dreams of domestic bliss . 

I had rolled in pots inside wrought iron stands , like mounted cannons , ready for war . 

 But they out witted me . 

One night I heard lot of flurry of wings and feathers . I knew they were conducting nocturnal recon and attack stratagems . 

Next morning I found my beloved two toned petunia blossoms licking the floor , as their base had been flattened by avian diligence , splaying the green shoots , now wilted, and the purple and white fine petals , grazed the floor , pitifully . 

I removed the said pot .

The wounded warrior was replaced by a sturdy rose plant  , with little or no girth . The pot and the plant were both slim, like a ballistic missile  . The stem was sturdy , almost wooden , Trojan Horse fashion . The plant was armoured with thorns .

Hah .Beat this , birdbrains !! I exclaimed , in my mind , like a triumphant mammal  .

Next morning a flimsy , but sturdy bed of twigs emerged , balancing itself on two pots . One rose plant , two the fallen warrior , petunia . 

The twigs had been sourced from the dried branches of rose , de thorned , possibly by sharp beaks . The nest was taking shape , despite my best efforts . 

The maid refused to throw the nest and thereby " destroy someone's home " , an age old superstition in Hinduism ." Lest trouble befalls the thrower's home "

So the nest stayed . Precarious , and porous , and fragile . 

Next day  , two tiny eggs appeared .  Tiny , white , fragile hand  grenades . Not in the nest , but on the pristine , tiled , swept and mopped floor . The tiny circle of twigs had given away , under the weight of the next generation , and had parted . 

Loopholes . 

We both looked at it warily. 

My maid picked up the eggs, gingerly , and placed them gently back on the ressurected twig bed .

They promptly  fell through again , this time , with a tiny crack and splat .

The yolks run pitifully out .

The pigeon parents watched from the sunshade , red eyes locked onto the human balcony , cocking their heads , in disbelief and disappointment . 

They thought to themselves " Another one bites the dust, ehh, another one gone. " 

Together they flew away , never to appear again . At least , for now , they had surrendered . 

My maid , playing the Sherlock Holmes , rationally concluded that the eggs must have been laid on the floor itself . The twig nest having been demolished by a rival probably . 

In the end , in this war of wits , our birds had probably been betrayed by friendly fire . 

Billowing Curtains

 Billowing curtains have quite a story to tell. 

Billowing curtains  , as  my scaredy self learnt today evening , means simply , that I have left my  door open , while watering the plants outside . That the neighbour's cat has quietly slunk in through  the main door , and is busy sniffing my bedsheets in your bedroom , while my back was turned . It was a mild progression from the last time when she was found perched on my bed , licking her undersides . That , however , didn't imply that she remembers my hastily thrown bata chappal from the last time .

Billowing curtains throws me and unwary people like me , constantly , into hot water . 

I was , at a certain chaotic period of my life , constantly in and out of the house. Told a guest's wife on phone that no , he wasn't in yet . I was standing in the balcony , talking to her , happened to glance in the direction of the guest room . The curtains were , you guessed it , billowing . So , the ceiling fan had been switched on , (it was summer ) and  he was in . I told the caller so much and had to spend next half hour explaining and "apologising " for "lying " to her . She , most definitely , smelt a rat . Still does . Well , can't blame her . I would have too , in similar circumstances . The culprit , in my opinion , were the blissfully , gloriously , billowing curtains . 

On another occasion, I was video calling an elder , who saw my curtains billowing in carefree abandon of the summer breeze tempered with cool blasts from the AC . Commented on how shabby and faded and thin they looked . So , I was "gifted " a pair that has double layered protection against the sun , and has an outer layer resembling a tarp that had  been laid over a freshly cemented pathway , with workers stomping down it . Grey  ash , brown , thick and with criss cross pattern on them . They are called "Total blackout " curtains , and they do anything but billow . They now stand stolidly grey , in neat folds , staring down at me like nuns from my high school . 

In hospitals , it is a given that the wards should have cheerful cotton curtains . Cheerful , so as to cheer the inmates , who are in pain , obviously ; and cotton because of its breathable quality . So much other life saving and ailment relieving activities go on in the wards that little or no attention is paid to these linen fragments flapping pathetically , watching the ebb and flow of life from top of the window edges . 

Once upon a time , a VIP's better half fell sick . It was a minor ailment . Possibly food poisoning  at one of those gatherings , which the services are famous for . Well , a normal individual would have taken an antacid , laid in the bed , and would have gotten up ,next morning , fresh as a daisy . 

Not for our protagonist here . She had to be admitted into the hospital and all the big wigs ,came to see her , read her case sheet , fussed around  , and declared her gravely ill . Everyone took turns to take care of the lady , to their best possible ability , and servile subordinates slipped in and out of the room , bearing trays of succour . Looking grave and unctuous . 

The lady , during a gap  in her incredible and ceaseless care , took a breather and looked up . Possibly heavenwards . 

Somewhere in between the pristinely painted white clinical ceilings and the glory of a manicured garden, outside, lay a vast expanse of a fabric . A fabric that was possibly , as old as the hospital . The large maroon roses had turned an evil shade of brown and the fabric , almost threadbare , let in sunlight from in between its fibres . The thin , almost translucent cloth moved , and dust motes danced gleefully in the stream of a sunbeam cast upon crinkly white , new bedsheets on the bed . Someone had hastily pulled the curtain , that was so unused to being pulled , that it had practically disintegrated . One sunbeam danced on the patient's hastily moved legs and another smote her directly in the left eye , blinding her for an instant . A scream followed a madly ringing bedside bell , and an army of nursing staff raced to address whatever emergency lay unfolding in the VIP Room . 

Needless to say , the offending curtains were removed , trashed , replaced pronto , by grey and brown "total blackout " double layered curtains, that added to the grim efficiency of the hospital. They also blocked any cheerful view of the garden outside  . They didn't billow anymore . 

The tiny stone temple

 The wind felt chill , almost immediately as the sun dipped. 

Standing on the terrace, looking out at the erstwhile green expanse , shrouded in darkness and mystery now. 

It was the same , just a few trees that dotted the fields had disappeared. It was just another expanse of flat land , made easier for combine harvesters . Earlier ,the land border demarcating each field would be a hard ridge, grassless from being  pounded  by so many bare feet. Hard worked souls rested beneath trees to  catch their breath, drink water, eat frugal meals, catch a nap . 

I looked out towards the house. The golden tips of trees from the fading sun melted swiftly into the darkness of the sudden night you witness only in villages.  Air becomes crisp and cold, a soft breeze blows , softening the heat of the day , and crickets come out . 

The well , at the back , now with plaster cracked at several places, even the chunks falling in , barely standing. The stone temple , dark and mysterious , beyond the wall . 

I remembered the day the wall was erected. Hastily, irreverently, angrily. Grandma had cradled her in her lap and had wept . 

Her bony knees poking through the pale whitish saree she always wore . The smell of cardamoms and cloves emanating from her . I remember looking up at her face and hating the person who made her grandmother weep . 

I  had barely seen this person . But I  had promised herself that l would hate this faceless person, and I had held onto the hatred, like a comforting thought. 

Everything that lay beyond that short wall was hateful . 

Except for the dark stone temple which was in the family for generations . 

I remembered my grandmother telling me that it was the most ancient thing in the family . Made of a black stone, with a tiny window, and large iron door .  The room was ritually purified , cleaned up and pooja performed every year during Durga Puja . 

Once the ten days were over , it was locked and we went back home walking on a tiny stone path , carefully closing the wicket gate behind us . It was this wicket gate that was removed and a brick wall built hastily to stop us from " trespassing" into his home. The nerve. It didn't help that he was the son of my grandfathers younger brother , my father's cousin , and would have to , perforce, come and touch my grandparents feet at every vijayadashami evening.

We kids were herded into rooms , while these deplorable people were being served tea and sweets. Ladoo and khaja from my grandma's secret larder . Stone faced , head covered , she would hover in the kitchen. She remained stone faced even when the young upstarts came to touch her feet. 

My grandfather did all the small talk . Grandma watched the charade from the distant safety of her kitchen . We just heard snippets of conversation from faceless voices , locked up in our rooms . 

Outraged and afraid that they would eat up all our beloved pooja sweets , we would emerge an hour later to find a relieved grandma smiling. 

We were given sweets too . Plenty were made during the pooja. 

A ritual that she never missed was the evening aarti . Standing at the well , behind the wall, a flickering ghee lamp would be waved in the direction of the temple and chants murmured . A head covered in white saree pallu , bowed in reverence, eyes closed , sandalwood smoke rising fragrant from her brass pooja thali . 

A flickering beacon of hope in a sea of darkness, a firefly, an act of defiance. 

That is when I saw her . 

At the well . Behind the wall . A ghee diya flickered. A head bowed. A pale white saree. A tiny sphere of unsteady light that attempted to fight the growing darkness. 

Then slowly, the light caved in and all encompassing darkness rushed in . A gust of wind blew away the lamp . Just the sandalwood fragrance lingered onto the air . 

I drew my shawl around me. Shivering . A faint smell of cloves in the air .

A voice shouted at me from the stairs , holding aloft a kerosene lantern. "Beware , the steps are broken."

"The deed is ready for you to sign " . "Buyers will come tomorrow, again."

" You are not staying the night are you? The car is waiting." 

I shook my head in negative. Not trusting to speak 

The  caretaker took a look at me and said " what? You saw her too ? Yeah. She comes very often at the well" . 

What is that white powder

 The burden of forgetfulness, which we often blame on genes, are , in all genuineness, an indicator of age . 

In good humour, it is just TMI . Overloading your brain with too much information. Like cramming your shopping cart with numerous useless items, and forgetting a really important stuff . 

The other day , I was unpacking my card board packages ,packed  a few months ago. Having lived a transferrable life , packing and unpacking seem as normal as having your early morning tea in the balcony . 

We are forever traveling, on the move, on the go . Though it may seem a headache to most people, and to even us , it becomes fun after some time. You stop crying buckets over broken crystal ware , fragile items or missing things . 

Going back to that day , I came across a medium sized , transparent plastic box containing a white powder . For the life of me , I couldn't remember what it was.

It could be spare from a packet of salt I bought to keep in its designated container.

It could be white watercolor paint which had dried up in its tube and I like a good Asian/ Indian, decided to rip the tube , scrape the paint and store it elsewhere.

It could be the white rangoli powder borrowed from my generous neighbour, on a haphazard diwali evening.

It could be bleaching powder which my maid had been requesting to be sprinkled over the open drain that led away from the kitchen and attracted arthropods of five different species .

It could be white cement that was leftover after filling millions of nail holes that the previous occupant of this house had hammered on the walls , crucifying his / her artwork on the walls . 

It could be white chalk powder.

It could be maida . Leftover after baking my last chocolate cake in a pressure cooker, whose bottom half got burnt and stuck . Thereafter eliciting promises of " never again" . 

It could be rice powder. Left from the time I befriended a Tamilian and she pointed out the inarguable importance of this vital ingredient in one's kitchen. I said " achcha?"to myself and thoughtlessly blinkit- ed a packet , only to realise the futility of the purchase. Lending it once to a Bengali relative to make alponas .

It could be atta . From the last packet of Aashirvaad. Its position having been forgetfully usurped by a new 5 kg  packet of Pillsbury. 

It could be dry dosa batter . Instant. Ready to use. As advertised on WhatsApp. Replicated in a moment of inspiration and almost instantly forgotten. Because someone bought a packet of MTR mix for me.

It could be glucose powder. Enriched with vitamin d. Taken from a cracking vessel and stored here.

It could be baking soda, baking powder . From the time I gave up baking. Turning up like bad coin , to remind me that my kids are going to be home shortly, and that I need to start baking. Again. 

Finally it was time to subject it to tests. Sniff test . No result. Finally taste test . 

The white powder clung to a few of my granulated tissue on the tongue and set it in fire . I spat it out instantly and rinsed my mouth, several times . 

Limestone powder!! Or chuna.

For the life of me I cannot remember when or why I bought it, or it was a simple case of " chuna lagana" ( cheating )

On buying eggs . During Navaratri .

It is eleven in the morning, sun is beating down, bright and hot. 

The vicinity of the milk shop always stinks of sour curd, despite all supplies arriving in sterile, leak proof , brightly coloured plastic pouches . 

When I ask for a tray of eggs , she winces, as if I had asked a wrong item. I notice that the heap has dwindled from when last seen. Then I realise that fresh supplies have been 

 stopped for Navaratri. 

I wonder if they are ok to eat. But I know the answer already if I voice my doubts, so I accept my eggs quietly.

Next on my list was a picture of the Goddess for my quasi devout Mom. She just wanted a picture to look at while she recites her prayers ( very audibly) every morning after bathing. My mother is 81 plus and is mostly stationary. She cannot indulge in the calisthenics involved in offering incense and flowers .

Hence liberating herself from the performance of rituals involved.

Lo behold. Right opposite the milk shop was a tiny shop which had put out a bench onto the street, arrayed with the pictures of the Goddess.  It is a framing shop , as I can tell . The framed white horses , splashing in pristine surf , jostle for space with the various Gods and Goddesses of the Hindu Pantheon . There are large Radha and Krishna paintings /prints , framed in gilt , and tinier Durga , astride the lion , wielding all weapons in a kind of halo . I have been asked to get one picture of the Goddess by my ageing mother. 

Not one to refuse demands from the elderly , I find myself trying to adjust the egg tray , on one corner of the bench , which is completely God free . A hysterical cry springs from the dark , hitherto , unmanned bellies of the shop . 

"Usko wahan mat rakhiye . " ( Don't keep it there ) , too scandalised to even name the eggs . I quickly pick up my offending item . This time I decide to hold it aloft , away from the human touch , like a shrine . 

An indignant face appears , smeared on the forehead with the tell tale red tikka , of the devout . 

One look at my trousered legs , and shorn locks , and he has already concluded my religious affiliation . Possibly christian , he is thinking . 

"Aap Hindu nahin hain ?" ( Aren't you a Hindu ?" 

"Bilkul hain ." I answer quickly . Why else would I be buying pictures of the Goddess , in the festive season ? 

"Isko yahan par mat rakhiye , I have to supply the gift wrapping papers to the temple . " He offered as a means of explanantion .

"I have to buy eggs for elderly at home . " I too , offered as an explanation . The same elderly , who has sent me on this ironical errand . I wanted to add , but refrained .

"Oho ? I see . Anyway , these ( pointing to the eggs ) are not fertilised anyways , so it is veg only . " He laughed , I could see two rows of paan stained teeth .

I laughed back in relief . 

Carrying the bag containing the goddess in my right hand and eggs held aloft in my left hand , I have actually run out of holding spaces .

Next stop , a bindi shop . For the very same elderly . By now , people have started avoiding coming closer to me . Women deflect the upper half of their body , so as to not be defiled in the presence of such an obnoxious item in my hand . 

I create a minor commotion in the bindi shop , which is narrow and crowded . Everyone skirts around my egg tray , and I have been asked not to enter the shop . 

After fifteen minutes of pointing at "Yeh wala " , "Nahin woh wala "  (this one , no , that one ) ,

I give up . 

The sales girl is new and she can't find any thing . Besides , the pooja rush ensures a thick stream of ladies asking for cosmetics , combs and other items , not only for the Goddess ka shringar , but for themselves as well . It is hopeless .

People are giving me disgusted and frankly angry looks . "Look at his woman , can't survive without eating eggs for even ten days , shame on her . " I can hear them think . 

On my way back , I enter a grocery shop . To buy flour , again , for the very same elderly . People look at me askance , wondering "What is wrong with her ?" 

There is an empty stool by the door . I ask the shopkeeper if it is ok to keep the eggs there . The shopkeeper , a fat Pickwickian personality breaks into guffaws . He nods , then offers me frozen chicken from his freezer .

"No , I just want a kilo of atta . " 

"Rice ?" 

"No." 

"Dry fruits ?" 

"No. Doctor has forbidden us from having dry fruits . " I try to joke .

"I eat medicines , and continue to eat dry fruits . A car needs petrol . We need fuel . " 

He is either a non believer , or a very good salesman . But I am thankful for him to have accepted my eggy presence . The atta arrives , I pay , and leave . 

Now , I have to walk with atta sitting on top of the egg tray in my left , and Goddess in my right . I have arms splayed , almost like the Goddess herself . Perhaps , in a twisted sense , I am carrying weapons . 

I make a beeline to the car . still holding my offensive cargo aloft , and people scatter .

I might as well be carrying grenades . 

 

A bump and a car(ess)

 So , an absent spouse , a posting in the remotest island , and a car that is greying around the temples , falls under my care . I had serious doubts about my own abilities , not to mention the colour of my own hair , which , just like the car , is greying around the temples . 

The car and I went along pretty well for a few weeks after the departure of the husband to far off isles . Sharing jetty walkway  with seagulls  , he posts breathtaking pictures upon pics , of pink , mauve and orange -yellow sunsets  and ships both moored  in  the harbour and adrift at the sea  . Red crabs and tetrapods . Coconut trees and dense forests . 

Back here on mainland  , car and I carried on well for some time , before the car realised that it was being driven up the precipitous slopes of flyovers of  state roads and National Highways by an imposter . A usurper , who looked and smelt different from its earlier , more  caring  and pampering owner . 

The car broke out in a series of psychosomatic disorders . 

One fine summer morning , it refused to start . As I cranked the key again and again ,  a friendly , familiar face poked in on the window . He took the steering wheel , sliding his slight frame into the cavernous dent in the seat ( left "behind " by my better half and me ) and "jump started " the car . Meaning , whipped the reluctant car into starting . 

Taking care not to switch off the ignition , anywhere on the way , I reached my destination . I switched off the ignition , out of sheer habit . The car , on the way back , stubbornly , refused to budge . Again , an enterprising gent got the car to start , forcibly . The car reached back home , as the battery shop was closed . 

A friendly neighbour sent his driver and car for the purchase of the new battery . Thereafter , I triumphantly drove the car to be" inspected " by the battery wala .  The owner , helpfully , advised me to get the water levels of the battery checked after three months . 

The new battery was bought in the month of May , I reported in September duly, for the checking up . All ok . 

My both visits to this battery seller , resulted in my sitting in the air conditioned office with a polite "Madam ,please sit inside " . I was plied with cold water and engaging small talk by the owner in chaste english . I was highly impressed with the service . 

Shortly after this visit to the battery guy , the car stalled again . This time it couldn't be jump started too . 

The car was stuck . Company service guys arrived in their van and opened the bonnet with complete confidence and fanfare . 

The copper shaft connecting one of the battery terminals  to the rest of the engine , had come undone . That was the undoing . So much for the religious trips to the battery wala . The clamp that held the battery in place was found hanging in the forest vines of cables entangled beneath . 

It was a case of criminal negligence .  So much for the hospitality  , and "good service ." I made a mental note never to sit in any office , while my car was being tinkered with / attended to . The final glass ceiling of fake chivalry needed to break . 

A certain sized nut ( which was required to tighten the clamp ) was unavailable even in the impressively stocked company van . 

Solution ? Drive all the way to the company workshop , some 6 kms away , get the nut fixed , and pay the rescuer , 100 times the money that the nut cost . Not to mention the fuel guzzled in the process. 

 There is a row of nine  cars parked in front of our block  . Mine is the fourth. A sleepy guy opens up a hose of water and starts sprinkling the cars with water at precisely 0630 AM . Then he starts wiping the cars down with a rag . He begins from one end , and by the time I arrive at 0645 AM , he has done only the first two cars in the row . Others , dripping , await their turn . Nine times out of ten , I drive out with water streaming down my windshield , wipers on full blast , and spray slapping my right cheek , as if I have just escaped  a hurricane . 

Repeated reminders , gentle and rough , to do my car first , have fallen over deaf ears . So , now I keep a spray bottle and a rag of my own , to wipe down the remnants of the "hurricane " water spots and dust . 

And finally , today morning , I had a flat tyre , front right . Luckily , I remembered a petrol station , where I was told by the air boy that I had  punctures . Four of them . Two large and two small . 

Counting quickly on his finger tips , he said that would cost me 200 bucks . I nodded but reminded him that I will pay via UPI . I wasn't carrying any cash . The boy appeared crestfallen . However , he did his job quickly and efficiently plugging the apertures with strips of rubber and a pink glue . Hardly eighteen year old , the boy had a younger assistant of his own , who pumped in air into the tyres , cranked the jack , fetched supplies etc . 

Despite the car's repeated attempts to fall ill , the providence always put it back onto its tyres , with a pat on its back . 

In the defence of the car , a stately , white Wagon R , the apple of  one of my hubby's eye , ( the apple of the other eye belongs to his daughters ) , the real culprit is the pot holed road which I drive on daily . 

It is the potholes that jarred the battery and loosened its connections . It is the sharp edge of jagged gravel that pierced the tyre. Hence absolved , the car has grown progressively fonder of me . It even purrs , on occasion . 

A revolution

( Bloodstream is loaded  with caffeine adequately 

You have just asked a question , politely 

So I am not going to ignore ,  less likely 

Would you please repeat it ? Blimey 

Memory has nothing to do with stimulation , 

Automobile on a parallel highway , a simulation 

We watch ourselves speeding , a collision 

Possibly sparks , inspiration , an explosion )

Who'd have thought of quiet neighbourhoods 

Harbouring intense destruction under fleece hoods 

Sweep them in , don't speak , on guard they stood 

Don't think , don't write , don't sigh , don't brood 

Contained violence . What does that even mean 

So twisted , so dark , we talk in oxymorons 

Someone paints the sidewalk , blood red crayons

Someone else clings to half truths , crimson curtains 

Do not open your window , else the poison 

In the air , enters and blackens the moon 

the walls soak up prejudice and depravity 

It smells like a war , without the gravity 

All words float in the jet  black air 

Invisible , unreal , here and there 

the screams silenced in a cannon glare 

 they said it wont harm , just water 

See , it has swept us all , plywood ferries 

adrift in the blackening sea of queries 

The sky rains smoke , red hot rocks , ashes 

A volcano has just erupted , Vesuvius 

History fond of repeating itself , has bayonetted 

 Pompei , and you , and you don't even know it yet .