To try and park outside a school function venue

The venue was a marriage "resort". A large , ground with ugly structures built , with the sole intention of ensnaring the marginally well heeled . A gold and blue abomination marked the entrance . It was towering , hourglass shaped . Trying to decipher what actually it is meant to be , is enough to give you a splitting headache , waiting in the sun.

The place is packed . The cards welcomed the parents ; presuming you are in a monogamous relationship, that makes just two people. That , of course , did not stop the big indian family from descending down , in numerous, shameless, hordes . Grandparents , cousins , people even remotely related to the school going brat were there . I suspect some neighbours too, and their cars were full of people. There were cars . Whole showroom full of them . Gleaming , new ,imported sedans , SUVs ; old , tumble down worn out cars with unheard of companies that folded up in the eighties .


The esteem in front of you has decided to back , you honk , and the guy behind you honks , and you begin a chain of frenzied honking , and backing , and inching backwards , till by some miracle , the esteem stops 2mm short of your fender. You see him grinning in his rear view mirror , and homicidal thoughts make their presence seriously felt.

The esteem goes off ahead , we are asked to do the same . A uniformed , perspiring gent peers into my window and says ,"Madam , please follow that boy in blue shirt ." A sideways glance shows a pristine , manicured lawn , bearing the ignominious burden of thousands of tyre marks . Sacrilege!

I follow my man in blue through an extremely narrow , walled gully , that opens into an open air dumping ground for crumpled , discarded , vehicles , waiting to be compressed into small squares of scrap tin by wall-E. We are expected to park in this dismal  graveyard of cars. This ground gives way to a grassy plain full of gleaming , new cars with no license plates , being guarded by four blue-shirted men.  I take my chance , and roll into this vista of life , so aptly placed right next to vale of death.

One blue-shirt is mowing the lawn . All rush to me .

"You can't park here."
"Why ?"
"This is meant for new cars ."
"My car is new too." I replied petulantly .
"Yahan maruti car rehten hain ma'am ."(This enclosure is for maruti cars)
"Mera car bhi maruti hai ."I try to puff out my chest with fake pride.

They looked at me with doubtful interest , as they would a partly mad person . I was not lying . The car was new , maruti.  Only it had a license plate , unlike the virginal beauties around . I took the opportunity to lash out against traffic , school , population , God , weather etc . The men in blue shirts backed out , their worst fears were confirmed .


Four hours later, when I came back , my car was still standing there , in splendid isolation , with a thick rope tied in front , to discourage others from having similar ideas . I thanked the blue-shirts (none of them were around ) in my mind , undid the rope, and drove away .

A typical weekend in a girls' hostel

In the shower , she scrubbed and scrubbed . Her hands , face , arms , legs . It was not that she had waded through a swamp to get here , but the dirt that stuck to her was more of an invisible kind . She had grabbed strange , muscular , sweaty arms and taken bp recordings . Trying very hard not to look into those eyes. Trying not to hear the heavy , tobacco -tinted breaths. “Professionalism , professionalism , concentrate .” The wiry ma’am would scream in the classroom , when she taught catheterization of the male to a bunch of giggly , red-faced girls . She would clap sharply to break teenage reveries. 

She wished the ma’am was there, when the b.p. recordings and pulse had to be taken . Some times , her eyes would stray to the patient’s face from the watch , and she would find a pair of dark , brooding eyes staring soulfully at her . Scrub the face .Scrub .Scrub. 

M , two years senior , would start banging on the shower cubicle door -“Taking too long ,girl . Others waiting in line .”

Everyone adored her . It was strange. Any one remotely aggressive and a shade scholarly was immediately adored in the campus . Those two qualities transformed you into a demi-god . 

She would emerge dripping , in a nightie , hitched up  to the knee , wet all over , averting gazes and apologising . Lugging a heavy bucket full of washed clothes , she would make a dash for the terrace to find all lines full. "Damn, where should I dry my clothes ?" 

Sundays were bad days for washing clothes . Especially uniforms , as they could be mixed up with million white uniforms fluttering in the noon time breeze. And stockings ,caps . anything white for that matter. A lost her white hanky in a specially sweltering day in May, and discovered it in the month of July , in the kitchen , being used as a dishcloth , to wipe thousands of steel plates ,by an assiduous pantry boy called M, who had no idea how the cloth happened to be there.

Anyway, flapping in her wet nightie, she dragged two plastic chairs from the verandah and draped her wet things , still smelling of Ariel excelmatic , the only detergent made for washing machines ( as the ads claimed), and prayed that may her clothes dry in peace .

Having changed into something dry , she rushed to the dining room , where the early morning crowd had already decimated everything edible . She was left with a cup of seriously luke warm tea , two dry tenacious toasts, and a boiled egg that had exploded in the boiler , and had lost its yolk, somewhere on the way.

Library was  bereft of the weekend crowds ., except for a menacing looking senior , who gives an absent nod to her cheery greeting , and later disappears behind teetering piles of books .She saw crowds of freshly bathed people surging towards the gates , and felt grateful.

 Half an assignment later,smell of fresh pakoras hit her nostrils and , plonking down the books ,  she walked into the dining room to have a cup of really hot tea . As the hall was deserted except for two more juniors , she decided to have one more cup of tea and took one extra pakora. She might as well make up for lost yolks.The pantry boy gave her a bleary eyed look , but said nothing.She knew she was taking someone else's share , but most of those girls are already hogging dosas at Riya's on the M.G.Road , so what about it ?

Reentering the library , only sound would be that of furious scratching of pen. After a little while , she feels the intense gaze on her . A pair of glasses on top of a now shortened pile , would be staring at her. Peering closely , she saw the rest of the tousled head and eyes, "Is there some tea left for me ?" She looks guiltily around . She should have said-"Go and see for yourself ." But that would have been denounced as cheekiness and in subordination . She dumbly nodded and went back to her book.

Afternoon , 3pm , having finished two and a half assignment , and having stuffed oneself with vast amounts of chicken biryani (No crowds , hence picked all the chicken pieces off the 'parat')

She would be out till 5pm. She would have napped further, hadn't it been for her noisy roommates coming breathlessly in ,hysterically discussing the movie they had just seen , in loud shrill voice , and  showing off the clothes /shoes bought.A carelessly thrown sandal rolls over to her and deposits generous amount of mud on the stone floor . 

Evening dinnertime , the shoppers would be in a state of panic . Unfinished assignments , uncleaned uniforms and unswept rooms would pile up. Shouting matches broke out . 

Then she would remember her uniform . racing to the terrace , find her uniforms had been sat upon , as callous sitters do , and was crumpled . Partially wet too. For ironing your clothes , you stand in a queue. You stand in a queue for practically everything. Her turn came , she pressed her uniform , and one set of coloured clothes , put them out to dry by her bedside chair and raced to the kitchen , to catch a bite . There , some one will offer half their burger -king burger , in exchange for letting them copy your assignment .

Finish a letter to your mother which you began last friday , seal it and try not to crumple the uniform drying on your chair-back.

She takes out her best bedsheets and counterpane ( a new word , meaning a bed-cover ,not related to the windowpanes , by the way ), folds them , trying to make them look new . Her fiesty room -mate is painting her presentation charts , so naturally , she sprays watercolour onto her pristine white bedsheet . 

Another  girl ,in a frenzy of unfinished assignments ,  leaves her felt pen sets , markers, half finished chart papers and books , open on the bed , and saunters off to the next building ,to chat about movie stars and gobbledygooks till kingdom come . Nightfall , she would still be missing , and her felt pens would be drying on her bed.

Morning , she would be ready before others , bathed , resplendently white, in a borrowed uniform , and spreads an expensive , white embroidered counterpane on her still open and drying felt pens . The result appears as if some one has tried to cover a scale model of himalayas with a pretty fabric.Eight hours later , all the himalayan peaks have assumed multicoloured hues from open felt tip pens .

Room inspection on Monday morning. Iron boxes , and all even remotely electrical gadgets are concealed with care . In bulging suitcases, on cupboard tops , where they are less likely to be bayoneted by prying eyes of nosy "room inspectors". Hoards of magazines , novels , foodstuff, anything out of the ordinary , is "suspect" and likely to be confiscated . Even letters from home are not spared . In some cases, they are read , re-read, layers of hitherto concealed meanings discovered , and again confiscated. Nothing is sacred or private . This is police state, and the "big brother "is forever  watching you.

In a haze of perfumes, talcums , and "ariel excelmatics", roll calls are conducted , and all sigh. Thinking of carefree walks on promenades , movies and burgers. Looking forward to another weekend .

Retire

When do you retire?

Tonight , when you tire ?
Staring into the fire

Or a decade later
when you wonder
About this mire
Rather  dire

Two weeks hence
when the kids are
gone , across the fence
your eyes mist over


Are you ready
Eyes  are beady
thoughts  heady
 heart greedy

bodily frail
organs fail
won't you tire
when will you retire?


Is there
still fire
in your heart?
play your part

and begone
why prolong
you're not alone
we suffer along


My child
I am old
I done lots
washed pots

Ran along
sang songs
In  drumming rain
in  throbbing pain

Planted crops ,seeds
harvested bounty, kids
Thru laughter
and tears

I built an empire
How can I tire?

Even raging fires
die into embers
all that is born
has to begone
 sooner
or later
all matter
ceases
its chatter

I too will,one day find
a way out of the grind
I will rise like a phantom
my self reduced to atom

till then I will breathe , respire
the heart will beat , not tire
Tell me , my dear,
How do I retire?

Ishwar

The worst part of cycling back home , on a dark night , are the dangers you might find therein.

Sudden rain , which may compel you to stop beneath a haunted tamarind tree , in which case , one may be compelled to recite the hanuman chalisa.

 Sudden fog , which may make you lose your way.

 Thirdly and most importantly,  robbers.

 The last is the  deadliest. For one is alone , it is conveniently dark , and you are certain to carry some or the other form of wealth , money or gold jewellery , on your person. You could easily get killed if you resisted , and be tossed into the swollen monsoon rivers ,never to be found . Second reason , is that , it involves , greedy and desperate human beings. Experience teaches one that there is nothing more dangerous than a human  desperately in need of some cash.

Ishwar , used to cycle back home every day. All of 15kms. He used to start at 1600 hrs, after the last bale of hay had been placed in the haystack, and the last cow had mooed in .

Even at a moderate clip, his was a daunting terrain. He had to cross two rivers and several stretches in the road , that badly needed repairs. Potholes were many , so were lurching , swaying , trucks and buses , driven mostly by reckless people , in varying stages of inebriation ( what do you expect at this time of the night ? saints on the road?)

So it was , that one evening : or shall we call it night , as darkness swiftly descends in a village , and the stars were out:Ishwar was riding in the dark , when he espied what seemed like fuzzy bundles of whitish cloths at some distance . To his consternation, these bundles began moving at the sight of him and quickly metamorphosed into masked , dhoti ,kurta and turban clad dacoits.. Before his reflexes could kick in , he found a lathi jammed into the spokes of his rear wheel , which rendered any movement impossible . He alighted with a thudding heart.

A quick search revealed that Ishwar was carrying 750 ml of buffalo milk , on the verge of curdling , in a foul smelling aluminium vessel , and Rs. 27 in cash . Cash he was quickly divested of . Milk was drunk with impunity , shared amongst all the thugs (they has to remove their masks in this process , but that did not seem to bother them at all ). It may well be noted that this was a warm , summery night .

They also took away keys to the landlord's house , and some important court papers. Now , this is a sticky bit , we will come to later.


The landlord lived in the town , and had kept Ishwar , a poor , unemployed relative , as a caretaker of sorts . He used to go to the village and supervise planting of crops, harvesting , distribution of money and grains to workers , who called him "Ishwar babu " and had no problems with the arrangement.
Over few years , the landlord grew old and infirm , his wife , passed away after a brief illness. In a matter of months , the landlord himself passed away , and the house in the town was locked up by the son , who lived in a huge metropolis, 1530 kms away .

One day, after some years, when the landlord's son, decided to reclaim his property,he found himself locked out . The key , he was told, was with Ishwar. The harvest , went to Ishwar's home, the revenue,was collected , by Ishwar . He had employed people under him. He was the boss. When the son approached  the courts  for justice , he was told that the papers were all in order , and all proved that Ishwar was the legal heir  and owner , not he .

If there was ever a peaceful , bloodless coup ,it was this.

When this happened , it ignited a great deal of debate . About what was right or wrong ?About who was the right owner , etc. It is generally believed that the keys and papers were usurped(If Ishwar can be called that , after all the slogging he did , looking after that land) that night , when the rest of the world was made to believe that he was mugged . There seems to be some truth in this theory , as the battered aluminium milk vessel ,still moldy , was discovered lying in the village house , unused , in some room , and not by the roadside , as claimed by Ishwar.

The sudden , unexpected appearance of the son did create some waves , as a faction of the farm workers , still loyal to the old landlord , sided with him . Things took an ugly turn when the son threatened to sell the house (of which the papers lay with him , still), Ishwar went ballistic.

A team of electricians , movers were called in , and the house stripped bare . The light fixtures , furnitures , utensils , clothes , beddings , everything , that could be sold was sold . Even the wooden door and window frames were not spared .

After a fortnight , when the son arrived with real estate agents , a bombed out house greeted him , with eyeless sockets of window and door holes, and crumbling walls, caved in roof. Heartbroken , he never returned.

Ironies of life

Since morning
the firmament
seems to be in
a state of ferment

to rain
or  refrain
is the great
debate

there are
breezy ,onerous
propositions
followed
by thunderous
loud,oppositions

Despite
the fight
we still gain
plentiful rain



Prem Gully
washes cars down
Occasionally
he mows the lawn

Rain and slush
create grass plush
mowing forever
In sun and in rain
Prem forgets the car
nothing to lose/gain

An umbrella
bright and new
carried by my belle
found lying askew

underneath the bed
the day it has rained
carried everyday
forgotten (only) today
that's what i am told
and today is wet and cold

On my sodden bed I lie
and wonder on irony
which is far from over
As i sit and write here

My mom-in-law wonders
"What do you write , eh ?"
"Mainu  kadi dikha diya kar"
( Show it also  to me)

You know I was an English teacher
But now I talk in vernacular

I get up and carry
do not at all tarry
umbrella in squelch
to avoid being drench(ed)

Guess what! the rain's gone
Out comes the bright sun
They say a mum's a seer
Me a fool without peer

Thakurji

It was dark midnight , in fact way past midnight.
The house slumbered . It was a large house . The servants slept on the roof , and in a room next to the barn . The night was full of the dreamless sleep and gentle snores of the bone -weary. 

Three dark figures stole their way across, flopped down into their beds in the room-next to barn , and promptly went to sleep, except one . He drank some water from a pitcher, fanned himself with gamcha , and came out on his nightly rounds. He held a kerosene lantern in his hand , and was silently accompanied by the family dog , who had roused himself from his slumber at the gate, stretched his limbs and come to the man for a pat on the head and a drink of water . It was a hot and humid night . 

As he walked beneath a shuttered window, the slats clicked open and an eager feminine voice enquired -"Psst!! Thakurji, how was the movie ?" 

Thakurji jumped out of his skin . "Babyji !Don't startle me ." Then continued , darkly,
"Rotten bastards, dragging me to cinema -vinema , when there is so much to be done here."
 The disembodied voice of babyji continued , eagerly -" Leave that , tell me the name of the movie , the hero -heroine ?" 
"I don't know , babyji , go back to sleep." 

"Thakurji , you have wasted your ticket money ," 

"It was their idea and money , serves them right , stupid carcasses. You should see how they sleep !With their mouths open, flies flying in and out with every snore." Thakurji continued into the darkness of the night , muttering angrily as he climbed the rickety bamboo ladder to the roof. Babyji softly clicked the slats shut and ,probably , went back to bed with her queries unanswered. 

The vast roof was half full of corn cobs laid out to dry. The other half was full of slumbering forms of farm workers.The lantern threw a pale yellow light on them , the cobs glistened with night dew , the workers faces with sweat. 

Thakurji tut-tutted softly and withdrew. It is all that Budhia's fault. Dragging me away, when the corn should have been shucked , bagged and stored . Now it is all wet again .With dew. It might rain too,he thought , looking up at the dark sky .

Thakurji returned back to his bed , with serious worries . A dried crop was about to be drenched. How could he sleep ?

Around 2a.m.,Thakurji's sharp ears picked up the dreadful but soft pit-pat of the first rain drops .

With a roar and a shout , the room and roof was simultaneously roused . Tens of lit torches and lanterns raced with Thakurji to the roof . A giant tarpaulin was dragged over the crop, pinned down in the corners with bricks , as the raindrops gathered momentum.

Morning , the rain stopped and bright sunshine broke through. Thakurji stripped to his dhoti , and set to work . Separating the dry from the wet .

Getting the wet ones to dry ,setting people to work  on dry cobs ,shucking , weighing, bagging, labelling.

Still stripped, he came down at breakfast time . Malkain greeted him . He quickly threw his gamcha , sodden with sweat and rainwater over his bare torso. 

"Thakurji, Ratan baba is coming today afternoon ."

"Achcha bibiji , ask Neeraj to soak chana right now , it shall be ready when Ratan baba alights from the train ." 

Thakurji's chana was legendary. Whenever the family got together , as this time , for the poojas , chana masala was always cooked by thakurji. Ratan always looked forward to Thakurji's fabled dish.


Noon time found thakurji stirring vast pots on wood fire, sweating , and red-eyed from smoke . 

"No need to add salt , thakurji, your sweat has all dripped into the chana."
A cheerful baritone breathed fresh life into the home .

"Ratan baba!" With a huge grin displaying all his paan-stained , rotten teeth, Thakurji would greet this huge man in three-piece suit, a boy whom he had bounced on his shoulders , across flooded fields.

Ratan too, dutifully , bent his gigantic, gym-shaped, Versace clad frame to touch Thakurji's feet. 


His eyes moist, Thakurjis vision would cloud over, and he stirred dal with the rice ladle . Babyji  silently came to his rescue, handing him correct ladles, and brought a dry gamcha to him. Then she pointed to his face .

"Wipe your face " She would whisper, then quickly snatch the gamcha away and put it in the wash tub , to go for wash , before she was chided for giving a family member's gamcha to Thakurji.


Malkain, if she saw this act of sacrilege, would turn a blind eye, for wasn't thakurji a brahmin , after all. Impoverished , but great. 



Twenty years later, Malkain and Malik were long dead. Ratan baba settled abroad , never to come back .Babyji cried her heart away as she boarded the train to her "sasuraal.", never to return back.


Thakurji took permanent residence in one of the outhouses, even as the rambling house fell to disuse and disrepair.Too old , toothless , diabetic and ageing , he had nowhere to go.

One by one , the landholdings were grabbed , or sold off, with Thakurji , being a mute spectator.Most of the dealings were done in Ratan's name , and Thakurji had no way of verifying their authenticity.

The kitchen having long shut off, thakurji survived on kindness of the villagers like Budhia, who used to take turns to feed him. 


That day saw Thakurji holding conversation with babyji beneath a window , which was bereft of woodwork now.The shutters and wooden slats were all gone now, but he wouldn't stop, talking, till he was gently led away by Budhia and his wife .

That night , was hot and humid and clouds were gathering. Thakurji was missing from his bed . Budhia knew where to find him . He slowly climbed up the now rotting bamboo stairs , dangerously sagging , and found Thakurji curled up on the roof , with a rain drenched , kerosene lamp next to him. 

For days in delirious fever , he would chide Budhia to save the corn , and to promise him , never to go to see "night show Movie", as  Budhia and his wife took teary turns to wipe his fevered brow. 

Finally , on third day , he got up , went out of the door , staggered and fell in the mud , screaming hoarsely, "Ratan baba, Ratan baba, Your chana is ready." 

Budhia picked his frail frame gently , and was about to tell him that there was no one out there, when he saw a shadow , Versace clad , grey-haired, pot -bellied fall across the doorway. It was Ratan baba , indeed. 

Speechlessly, Budhia could make out the silhouette of a bulldozer standing behind him.

Take a right turn to sunrise

“Tell me am I going right?”

She grunted in reply.
“Is this the right turn ?” He was a shade hysterical now . He hated not being in charge of the direction , and having to depend on a temperamental sister, who was taciturn , now.
“I said yes. Sheesh , can’t even hear!”
Both went for some distance in sullen silence . Traffic honked and swerved, racing past them. They were slow, hugging the kerb.

This was Papa's old scooter, his heartthrob still, and he had reluctantly handed over the keys to his progenies , shaking many a fist and word as to the "care " they needed to exercise , while driving his precious , ancient mobile , which he wont use anyway. That was half the problem . It sputtered to start after many a furious ,expletive aided kick, coasted till the gates , before shutting down again. He rolled it to the nearest petrol pump, where they squinted at the maddeningly fast digital face of the refuelling pump. it seemed as if it took precisely two seconds to whirr from 0 to 100.That was the amount Papa would trust them with. Sister was12 years , he all of 10, both were still "too young " and "raw" etc. But all agreed, the boy drove better. Hence, he was in charge, not she . 

The beast kicked in after 5 attempts , and now the sister clammed up. 

They cruised to a stop , near a paperwala, and the boy got down . Sister kept sitting on the pillion. Still protesting . They were siblings, afterall, dammit. And she was a head taller than this dimwit. She was older too, and knew the way. She looked balefully at the boy, when he held the scooter key , in truce , in his outstretched palm , snatching it up quickly , before he changed his mind. 

"Here to home , all yours'." Sister nodded , happily scooting ahead to the driver's seat.

Misgivings writ large on his boyish face , the boy turned to buy some stationery.

The scooter revved up , the boy snapped his head back ,startled . For an instant , their eyes met , his startled , scared , hers with a manic gleam . Next moment the scooter flew, like a bullet.The boy screamed something , before the scooter crashed in a haze of smoke and flying papers , into the back of a smallish van , downloading papers. 

The girl lay crumpled on the asphalt, sobbing hysterically.

After the neck was encased in an orthopaedic collar, the facial lacerations bandaged ,Papa summoned the duo into garage, put the scooter key into an old tin biscuit box , and standing on his ladder, put it away into a remote corner of the topmost shelf,behind fused LED lights , and broken handle of their childhood tricycle . Impossible to retrieve. Scooter was covered in tarpaulin and forgotten in a corner , where it stood, till next summer holidays.


Next year, new neighbours moved in. The boy had a friend in the next house . Another boy, same age, same crazy hairdo, same giggly interests. The girl was forgotten . She was too much trouble , the boy decided. During the holidays, he managed to weasel out the key from father . 

One day, when the insects hum in your ears, and the road ahead shimmers in the haze of heat, the girl found herself in the garage, the tarpaulin thrown away, the biscuit tin open , the scooter gone , and the boys' laughter hanging in the air , like a lingering aftershave.

Tears stung her eyes . Brushing them aside , she stood out waiting for a rickshaw ride to classes during summer holidays. Then she did an extraordinary thing . She brushed her tears, and replaced it with a steely resolve.Then asked the Rickshaw wala to take her to her class.

That evening , at dinner table , the boy broke the news first. 
"I saw her driving ." He leaned and whispered into his mother's ears,gesturing towards her, as a dal-ladle stopped midair."Driving a car !" 
Ma turned towards her .
"Dreaming." She offered a muffled explanation, through the thick of masticated roti.
"I was not dreaming . Even Sonu saw her , ask Sonu." The boy was livid , so was the mother . With one severe slant -eyed look, she silenced him , and the rest of the meal was conducted in the silent unease of an hung question. The boy squirmed , and opened his mouth several times ,but closed it , like a fish gulping air.


Six months later, father was gone on a business trip , night meal was over , and Sonu rang the bell. He was literally screaming when the boy opened the door. Soon , the entire household  was roused . Everyone night gowned , and sleepy eyed, gathered in Sonu's driveway. Sonu's father had severe chest pain , possibly heart attack, and he had to be taken to hospital. No taxis at this hour.Father was away . A sudden movement in the garage , and their car came to life .Reversing it slowly out , was didi, calmly handling the steering wheel.

"Load up Uncle , I will take him to hospital." 
Grateful Sonu ran away to do the bidding.
"But ,beta , how did you ?" Mother stammered when they had come onto the highway , and cold night air started whipping their nightclothes .

She didn't answer. Once Sonu's father  had been admitted, formalities done ,then ,on their way back , with the sun glowing orange red in the horizon , heralding a glorious day ,the girl spoke -" Your son was right . He saw me when I was learning how to drive ."

Sweetie

People keep calling their friends or class mates “sweetie” on the whatsapp, facebook or whatever way one meets them. Personally ,it sets my teeth on edge . Not only does it sound condescending, also a touch of “holier than thou “. Or “see, I have grown up , and you are right there , you retard.” Or maybe it doesn’t mean any thing , and I am overreacting . It should be considered one of those meaningless noises like “Oh”, or , “Ha”, “Ah”, that one makes when encountered by more intelligent beings .
I can’t stop my friend from calling me sweetie, but I can definitely stop reacting to it with an attack of hives. I can ,conversely, think of her as the one “who never grew beyond the sweetie stage”. Or a person with a seriously limited vocabulary , in so far as the greetings go .
“Sweetie , indeed.”

WORDS

Words are bull

there is no time 

to sit and mull

but write 

get over with it

Nice and full

Words are not 

 sharp or short

they are woolly 

and fuzzy

not clear at all

but balls 

of sheer gall

To tame 

them 

you pin

and rein in 

wild bulls 

held by horn  

grab and pull

of strength shorn 

Devoid of vile

force evil

they plough

and though

brute

are adroit

 bear fruit

relief 

follows suit.

Beautiful

My child waving at me
before boarding the bus ,
He remembering to greet
, even in the morning rush
Nodding in the early breeze
Rusty leaves and tiny buds
Cleaners sweeping streets
even in afternoon hush
A chilled glass of water-ice
In the heat ,daze and flush
All things that one prize(s)
are beautiful and mush…

The curious case of Mrs.Pant

Mrs. Pushpa Pant was a self respecting , hard working , middle aged woman , more or less in charge of her body, thoughts and emotions , till one day , the Ladies Welfare Society, of which , unfortunately ,she was the officiating secretary(the real secretary holidaying in France), thrust her into the midst of a very sorry adventure of the medical kind.
Mrs. Pant  had grey hair and occasional dandruff. She worried about her two sons who lived abroad. All her medical illnesses  could be put down to those two very serious conditions.Hence, when a medical camp("free of cost")was organised for the society ladies, she politely declined.
Consequently, the attendance was poor . The medical personnel , turning out in their workaday best, were seen swatting flies in the empty stands under an impressive shamiana , eating samosas , whatsapping and throwing paper planes at their uniformed colleagues who hurried to and fro, and who had more urgent /important things to do. This augured unwell for the boss's promotional prospects, not in the least "sullying the image of a hardworking  department".
Mrs. Pant was called to the air -conditioned office of the President (who also happened to be the boss's wife ) of the said society, made to sit on a chair with a rexine cover that froze at indoors temperature of 15 degrees,and breathe in wintry  air  which promptly condensed into anxious glittering drops on her freshly conditioned hair.The Lady President herself sat in a  white starched saree, eyeing her as a polar bear does baby seal.After 15 minutes , Mrs. Pant emerged into the sweltering sun of a tropical summer, wreathed in the fog of wanton waste of government power and arctic guilt. She was sneezing, and  constantly blowing her nose. In view of the scant attendance of the medical camp ("free of cost"), she was strongly recommended to "get herself checked up " and thereby "lead the masses " as befits a hard -working , sincere secretary. In other words, she was asked to present herself as a guinea pig for the newly passed out medical interns and post graduates. First in a line of many other guinea pigs as a matter of fact.

Mrs . Pant , wife of a God and Boss -fearing (in that order) 2I/C, made her appearance at the said shamiyana, at 0930 hrs , where , at the sight of her, the patient -starved interns , grinned and licked their chops, like hungry hyenas , and set to work on her.

When they had finished with her , two months later, Mrs.Pant looked haggard, had lost 25kgs , and had a constantly hunted look about her .Her hair (not conditioned anymore), stood on its end, and she talked in hoarse whispers . Her "case-sheet" looked like the who's who , or rather "what's what " of the illnesses, mild and grave , in a middle aged, Indian housewife. She was diagnosed to have an untreated lump ("Of possibly malignant nature ") in her left breast. Upon protests that she always had the lump, and it never gave her any trouble , the smart lady intern ("Looked like my daughter's age , if I had one ", Mrs Pant would confide in a moment of motherly forgiveness) tut-tutted, looked at her breast from every angle, adjusted the lighting overhead , with her gloved hand , shouted at the orderly outside behind closed door,to "A/C chalao ",and pronounced in frosty tones-"Today it looks innocuous, ma'am, tomorrow it could turn malignant, better get rid of it at the earliest." She might as well be talking of Mrs.Pant's labrador.( Mrs.Pant visualised Tommy being put to sleep, and shuddered)

The said intern also discovered" incipient hypertension" , "primordial diabetes", and "possible cardiac infarct" in her hitherto disease-free system.She discovered patches "possibly tuberculosis(old)" in her clear lungs and fluid in her perfectly working vertebral joints ("possibly due to metastasized  malignancy")
 It was , as if, like Columbus, the Intern had discovered the Americas , and was not content till she pushed into Klondike and found gold there.She had most definitely "fine -tooth -combed " Mrs. Pant's case , as it began to be called.She was lauded by her superiors and rumours of a commendation began making rounds.

The pristine white , unsullied medical records of Mrs. Pant , now bore numerous unintelligible squiggles in blue and red , starting to look like the log-book of a chronically defaulting soldier, A deserter. She began carrying armloads of pills home each evening , and a book full of newer  , more unpronounceable blood,sputum,tests, biopsies and XRays, and MRIs. Her stout heart kept sinking further and further , inching towards her boots.

Mrs . Pant became the mascot or the "poster-girl" of the medical camp.People took her name in hushed , reverent whispers. The Lady President even wrote a short obituary and saved it in her reminders file of the i-pad. Her name was used to threaten unwilling housewives into having unnecessary tests conducted. Blood withdrawn, chests bared(for Xrays and mammography), and various other unnamable parts of human anatomy , examined , recorded, scanned for irregularities and re -examined. The interns had their hands full. They were busier than the regular specialists and , in a short time , became stars themselves , fully competent in discovering aberrations where there were none ,not unlike discovering oil-wells in the aridity of vast deserts.

There was one sturdy voice of skepticism in this babel of medically sound sounds. That was Mr. Pant himself. Having known doctors and their shenanigans himself , he put his foot down , and insisted that Mrs.Pant take a "second Opinion", Which in medical lingo means " I do-not -trust -you -and -am -going -elsewhere-so -f*** you ". He was tired of trashing Mrs. Pant's medicines and rocking a jittery and teary Mrs.Pant to sleep every night , like a baby.

They went to a big city, and a busy hospital. A place where real cases arrived in car loads, and one needn't "create "cases  , out of thin air , to satisfy false egos/hopes. The head oncologist had been a classmate of Mr.Pant . He , God bless his soul, took one look at the voluminous file and right in front of their astonished eyes chucked it into the dustbin. On Mrs. Pant's insistence , he examined her and declared her disease-free,hale and hearty, and ordered greasy sweets and salted snacks , her favourites  banned for a short tumultuous while in her otherwise staid life.

Jubilant in their newfound freedom from disease, the Pants came back waving the letter written by their friend , the oncologist , who had seen so many real carcinomas , in his line of work , that like a connoisseur ,he could tell the real from fake.

Last heard , the Lady President was "unavailable for comments" .The lady intern , her prospects of a medal , turned to dust; on the contrary faced a real threat of court of inquiry , and a posting to Siachen. Mrs. Pant gave up her secretaryship, and refuses to emerge from the refuge of the bathroom , where she repairs to , whenever a person of a faded shade of medical nature , deigns to pay a visit.

Autobiography

Take the sheaf out 

shake the leaves out

Read the letter

or still better

 

do not read 

do not bleed

not any worth

sans all mirth

poetry is/was

all vomitus

excretion 

masquerading

as creation

fooling 

generation(s)

what goes out 

comes back in 

people stout 

inside thin

reeds that float 

eventually bloat

 lack of purpose

made up by adipose

steady depletion

of remuneration

you earn /sweat

I buy /spend

Life of a parasite

shaken by might 

of inevitable doom 

 make more room 

for annihilation 

of all ambition

The news

The news of rain
sacks of grain
will soak and rot
No food in the pot

Crops flattened
news real and bad
Morales battered
outright sad

On the other hand
News of copious rain
farmers till the land
plant new grain 

harvest plentiful
crops bountiful
news is good
lots of food

What is that smell?

Some one has left the stove on,
Milk on the boil ,forgotten
Boiled milk burnt and charred
Flames smothered ,gone 

Gas leaks
with a hiss
charred milk
smells sick

What is that smell?
Forgetfulness
carelessness
perhaps all

Cloves and cinnamon

turmeric and cardamom

smells of my grandmom

select memories from

a childhood

misty and good

wherein lay

order and array

What is that smell?

Must be sweet

nostalgic fleet

pitter patter

tiny feet

raindrops scatter

Cigarette smoke 

cousins who joke

wisps of burning wood

should be good

outdoor meals

laughter peals

succulent meat

 a culinary feat 

What is that smell ?

of  adolescence

failures and survival

evanescence

Dettol and methylated spirit

scrubbing fluid and sanitiser 

bitter pills and sweaty armpit

Savlon and oxygen humidifier

Someone just came in 

with strenuous breathing 

life spirit fighting 

body ailing 

What is that smell?

Hospitals and sundry wards

sending prayers heavenwards

some live some depart

what is left afterwards?

journeys 

on gurneys

Enact 

or depart

That is the smell of life 

Of invincible hope 

and invisible rope

of terrifying scope

and numbing dope

What's on ?

What’s on the TV to watch and cheer
Whats on your mind,gossip for me to hear
whats on the stovetop, to stir and sear
whats on your report, to read and fear

Whats on your soul , so heavy and dark 

what secrets laid bare, scary and stark

Whats on your lips , the honeyed lie 

what layers the truth, till you die

Whats on the pot , simmering, in heat 

what cooks inside , vegetables or meat

What makes it so wickedly delectable

What about the chat at the table

Whats on your mind, racy stories abound 

what wouldn't you give to read aloud 

what reins in  your tongue's horses

what you read in bible's proses

What on the report , to make you quake

what on earth is strong enough to shake 

what is permitted to deal a deadly blow 

to life's foundations deep below

What gives breath and takes away life 

in the same moment of terrible strife 

the body lives , the soul dies 

What oh! what a terrible price!

 

What if ?

What if the birds could speak to us?
What if stray dogs could retort and curse?
What if the earth stopped in its axis?
What if new borns could walk and dress?
What if the rivers changed their course?
What if the winds lose their force?
What if the dead came alive ?
What if I met Robert Clive ?

What if I greet bees in their hive ?

What if Elvis comes again to jive ?

What happens if I talk to Gandhi ?

Shall I be able to look him in the eye?

What happens if I am at the Great War?

Shall I receive a medal or a battle scar?

What if I am reborn a crusade knight ?

Astride a steed with an armour bright;

And  be pursued by heathens at night, 

Shall I take fright

 and make good my flight 

Or stand by what is right 

and give a good fight?

What if, to confuse matters further

the heathens turn out to be my brother (s)

Shall I still fight the "righteous war"

Or embrace enemies and surrender.

Will I be branded a coward and stoned 

or be condemned to repent and atone

What if I am meet Queen Victoria,

And tell her the news from India,

What if she decides to come back 

and bring(s) along the Union Jack?

What if like a roll of pizza dough

the earth stretches flat through

you could live in Marlborough

and run all the way to Lucknow

What if enemy armies, neighbours

met and asked" Howdy brother(s)?

Give some rest to your firepower,

We went to the same school, remember?"

What if I sleep off one day and not wake up

What will be my status on whatsapp?

Will it be "gone to sleep in the deep"

Or  "last seen at the time alarm beep(ed)"?

Escape1

“Your name is S.”
“Yes.”
“You were away when this …. happened.” He turned ever so slightly in the direction of the neighbours door.
“Yes.”
“You did not see or hear anything unusual in the morning when you left.”
“No.”
She could have used “Sir” as she was wont to when talking to her clients . But she didn’t . Why should she ? He was just a constable , that too in a lousy uniform , that didn’t even cover his bulging belly, she noticed the buttons on the tummy stretched to the point of popping, revealing a dirty banian inside . “Must have a lousy wife ” S thought absently.
"I will come again , tomorrow morning ." he rapped the windowbars with his truncheon , with unnecessary violence .
"What for ?I have told you , I know nothing ." S pleaded .
He eyed her with narrow , yellow eyes . Said nothing . Then , waddled away, his khaki trousers stretching tight over his ample butt. S shook her head  and turned to unlock her door.And then she screamed . The fat constable ran back, looked in through the door , snatched the key from her hand . Things moved very fast after that ,S has only a faint recollection of a huge crowd at her door, Lots of policemen in khaki uniform jostling in and out of her tiny barsati. The lady police handcuffing her and dragging her away, even as she passed out and merciful darkness enveloped her .

That evening's papers read-" Body of missing thane businessman found in neighbour's home . Neighbour, a bank clerk arrested ." 
Millions of people read the paper and heaved a sigh of relief. Another crime solved .Another criminal behind bars.

S had a big bruise on her forehead and her body ached .Her throat was parched and she was disoriented . One lady constable saw her come to , and paused in mid -sip of tea to throw an expletive in her direction . Others in the group turned back to look at her and sniggered, collectively. S was behind bars, like a common thief,in the lock up. It was hot and smelt of sweat and tobacco and urine.Some kind soul had pushed a glass of lukewarm water through the bars . A fly sat on the rim. S drank the tepid water and realised she had bruised her lips too, she had no recollection how. Suddenly she remembered what had happened in the afternoon , and burst into tears.

S was a typical Indian beauty. She was dark,wispy,and sensuous. "Like Sita", her mother would explain , "Or Draupadi." Her mother always quoted the scriptures . She said S was not dark, only wheatish -complexioned.She openly chided her daughter's futile attempts at applying various fairness creams , and ayurvedic face-packs to "gain a glowing golden skin " as the TV ads claimed. Unbeknownst to her , and her skin ministrations , S had blossomed into a gorgeous beauty, of large limpid eyes, fluttering eyelashes,cascading thick locks, and comely figure . At her college, she was puzzled when people stopped in their path, gawping to look at her . She would blush and hurry away.At home , She would scan herself in the mirror, to look for any aberrations. She found none . She had perfect, flawless , swarthy skin of her ancestors . However, the TV ads continued to tell her otherwise.

This and her polite demeanour attracted great many admirers, like flies to fruit.She was ravishing , and she didn't know it . Yet. That endowed her with a child-like innocence, which made her irresistible to her suitors . Some persistent ones, including couple of gray haired professors, followed her home . One of whom was Madan Sir. A respectful teacher of science, he fell badly under the spell of S's famed beauty, and would be positively tongue tied , specially if she sat in the first row. It became a college joke. Madan sir was fond of teaching , and could not stand this powerful interruption to his scholarly pursuits. 

So it was that after tutorials one day, S found Madan Sir plonked on the broken, green reccine sofa of her grandfather, in deep conversation with her father . In other words , he had come to ask for her hand in marriage . S was shocked to say the least. What was more revolting was that her father, in all his parental wisdom, agreed. He didn't bother to ask S if she too reciprocated his affections.His argument hinged on the fact that Prof. Madan Sharma had a pensionable government job,secondly, he was smitten with S , so he would look after her, and thirdly , Madanji was a brahmin, and you never , ever, refuse a brahmin.
In his hurry to see the" apple of his eye" settled , he never bothered to check the antecedents.Neither did the glaring difference in their ages bother him. 

A week later, a very upset and sullen S found herself in the flat of Madanji, rat-infested and reeking of stale toddy, notes and papers lay in the most improbable places ,even on the top of the WC . She was to discover greater horrors in the days to come . Like stumbling upon his stash of porn magazines and deducing from his call history that he probably had a wife with grown up children concealed away somewhere ,in the village.In addition,he had stopped her education. She was to remain at home , cook, clean, and not even talk to the neighbours, whom madanji denounced as "nosey parkers".S knew that she was imprisoned.  A giant had fallen in her eyes. That a venerable teacher could be such a jerk , cheat and a liar,was totally unacceptable to S. She started plotting her escape. She was a free bird , not to be enslaved by the likes of Madanji who had no affection , but only lust for her. 

S started saving grocery money. 

In a few weeks , She had enough to buy a train ticket for herself. But where could she go ? S had a friend in Thane.She made some tentative calls and secured her address. Then one day, she booked her ticket and made good her escape. She knew, going back to her parents wont help as they would want her to go back to Madanji's dungeon.

After three years of back breaking work at a beauty parlour, and burning the midnight oil,S secured a clerical job at the local bank.She was finally at peace and was considering moving out of the one -room barsati that she lived in , when someone moved in next door . S was acquainted with the maid and had talked to her ,on few occasions . She said it was a businessman from Hardwar, who drank way too much . S was busy in her own world , when one fine day like the proverbial bad coin , Madanji turned up in her barsati, sprawled on her living room floor , frothing at the mouth and quite lifeless.

Floods

The floods came every year.
 With unfailing regularity.
 The monsoons would arrive , and it would begin pouring in this small coastal town . The oldies of the village would tell of strange tales, wherein it rained fish , or frogs or such fantastic things . I , myself never witnessed any of these, but yes , I remember the rains brought in small fry . Millions of them . Swishing amid the reeds , getting caught in the storm drain filters and gliding in and out of the rice stalks, now barely shin height.

Even as the young folks prepared makeshift bamboo fish lines to catch the bounty, the elders would prepare to leave .The arrival of the baby fish from nowhere meant we needed to go. Valuables and meagre possessions would be placed on shelves high up, near the ceiling, important documents wrapped up in plastic sheets , tin boxes full of perishables,packed days ago in readiness.

Then it would come . One evening of torrential rain , merging into inky blackness of a calamitous night. Waters, till then gently lapping the edges of rice fields, would, like a raging goddess, turn into a frothy, churning,surging, massive destroyer. The waters inside the huts swiftly,within hours , rose to armpit levels, bringing goodness-knows-what-with-it.Cattle would have been rounded up and taken up , in advance , before us.

My uncle routinely plucked snakes when they nestled between his toes and tickled his bare sole. He would laughingly wave green,writhing, harmless tree snakes , into our shrieking faces,before chucking them away into some distance . Once , legend has it , he found a cobra , whom he carefully put into the y-fork of a passing uprooted eucalyptus,so that it doesn't bite any one "Out of sheer fear".

We would camp at a highland for a couple of days , which would sometimes stretch into weeks, subsisting on rations airdropped by the army.Space was scant , and fights would break out often. It was unpleasant and scary. Thankfully, it lasted for only a few days, before the floodwaters receded.

Then we would return to our homes , mud coated, wet, slimy, and mostly destroyed.Bloated corpses of stray dogs would be stuck on roofs , tree-tops , with flies buzzing around them . Vultures had to be chased away. But it was home . So palm fronds were secured, roofs rebuilt, and silted floors sanded. What I remember , most strikingly , was the sheer lack of clean water. With all the water around us , we would sit there , thirsty.