Austerity

The longest , prettiest tresses , ever seen on the planet were those that  were never seen . It belonged to nuns who taught me in my primary and high school , and kept it all neatly pinned into obedient buns , unseen , hidden behind a veil . That was one of the first lessons in contradictions of our life for me .

Another event that shaped my opinion was the day we were asked to collect colourful sarees for a cultural event . The sarees , tagged , numbered , were lying in a heap on the table . A gaggle of nuns entered the classroom , and excitedly talking in their native tongue , shifted through the colourful fabrics . Bright eyed and loquacious , one of them went ahead and wrapped one of the best , zari-bordered one , around her waist . There was a stunned silence . The nun , fed up of the  mono chromatic existence , had given in to the lure of colour . Unforgivable! The nun in question saw the look on her fellow nuns' faces , and slowly unwrapped and folded the saree , replacing it on the table  .  The rest of the class continued to do what they did best , make noise , and not take notice . The nuns resumed chattering , as if nothing had happened.

There was another pretty nun, a teacher of ours , of course , who used to wield tremendous power. She had complete sway over all the official decisions taken by the principal , a father. This was greatly resented by other , more senior teachers   . Only now , in retrospect , I realise that the influence must not be without its very human failings . Even priests are known to be swayed  in presence of gorgeous physical beauty , how much ever  cloaked in the mono chromatic religious colour /fervour that is visible to the outsiders like us .

Another sister (nun) once slit her wrists , and we were told an elaborate story about broken window panes and storms etc.
While this particular nun was known to be high strung and temperamental , the other nun who committed suicide by jumping into a well , was  of milk complexion, had a very sweet disposition and round black eyes . Again we were told a story of accidental fall .

Now , as I have grown up , and can see things from a  different perspective (and height) , the pain , isolation and human agony that these fine human beings underwent , is all the more palpable. The prison-like rigid world of archaic austerity which they are subjected to , or subject themselves to , seems agonising and unnecessary.

Riding my activa

( A scooter frees you , unlike a car , that enslaves you , imprisoning  you in a tin box. To the man who taught me this simple mantra of happiness and freedom , sincere and humble thanks)


The moment you take off
You know you are a show off
The machine knows you
and  minutely obeys you

Your arms are caressed
by the breeze
Your nose has started
to freeze

The chill bites
into your knuckles
The sun fights
outdoing your chuckles

You live in glee
You are totally free
for few precious minutes
flying without chutes

You breathe in grass
flowers and dung
In a life that is a farce
and high strung

there are pleasures few
that present to you
one of them, by far
is riding the "activa"

Come on in

Some how she always came to know, before hand , that we are about to pay a visit . In retrospect , I think Baba(my father) rang her up to tell that he is descending on her small flat with his ample brood . 

She stood on the narrow , dimly lit staircase , with a broad grin , and said “come on in .” Then each of us would be hugged , in turns , and commented upon our height and girth , before ascending the steps. Her flat was close to a Britannia biscuit factory . It was redolent with the smell of caramelised sugar , roasted coconut and baking cookies . The factory specialised in “Nice” biscuits ,containing coconut and with a sprinkling of sugar on top . Heavenly !! 

She kept her small red Godrej fridge stocked with pastries and sweetmeats . Lots of delicious aromas arose from her tiny kitchen as she cooked vast amounts of other-worldly chicken curry , fried fish and biryani for us . 

That was the only place on earth we could stuff ourselves silly , and then roll off to sleep on mats in her tiny balconies (she had three of them , each leading from a bed room ). 

I am yet to meet a person residing in such a miniscule flat as hers, but in possession of such a voluminous heart.

Auntie

My aunt drove in her enormous , air conditioned SUV , roaring through dust and potholes , to meet us . Or rather , meet my grandparents . As we lived with our grandparents , she had to meet us too , no escaping . She was rich and snooty . Everything about her dripped with opulence , making us feel like threadbare beggars in contrast .

She would come with a retinue of servants . One to fetch her stuff from the car , heat her bathwater , massage her feet , and the other to drive her beastly vehicle . She used air conditioning at a time when we had just about memorised its spelling . Everything about her was mesmerisingly foreign , and otherworldly . She used a vanity case to get dressed . We had definitely heard of one , but never seen one being used . She used innumerable lotions and powders on her pretty face , lipstick and lipgloss , mascara and other foreign -sounding things . She smelt heavenly ,like a God . We thought she floated on air.

She would make us feel wretched for days on end .We would take roughly a week to recover from her whistle stop visits (always unannounced), some of us would even miss school. My mother would mope around with a dazed look , embittered to the core.

Aunt was her sister-in-law , and it didn't help . Ma too had come from a similar  background of unbridled consumerism , and she was hit hard by my grandparents' parsimonious ways , and general austere outlook to life.

Remarks like "even Monu (the foot-massager) won't eat this stuff ", would cut her to the quick . Her wounds were deep , and never healed . We would go back to school , talk to classmates , make fun of Aunt , and get her out of our systems . Ma couldn't . Aunt was , all said and done , my grandparents' daughter . All that resentment kept sitting inside Ma , going bad .

Till one day , my grandmother found some of her own daughter's remarks very funny. We came back from school one day , and were surprised to see Ma and grandma , laughing their hearts out. It was a rare sound . In our tightlipped household , open laughter was welcome like the first rain of  monsoons . Ma was in good mood for a long time later , I remember . 

One of a kind

(People are wont to ask why I am not nattily dressed up , as they do ; and , out of kindness of heart , gift me their old but gaudy clothes. They also think that I am probably too poor to buy new clothes.)


life is lived
measured
in doses
aliquots

breathe carefully
measure and tally
each word each breath
i lost track of worth

in infinitesimal
calculations
lost amid infernal
speculations

Heck , I  even wear
clothes faded
 with a tear
lying un mended

My well wishers think
I am about to sink
in some depressive stupor
Or I am exceedingly poor

carelessly I abandon
the rules tight and wanton
let me breathe fully
break free of the gully

dont fit me in a rut
not your monkey to strut
no I am not one to bind
for I am ,truly, one of a kind  

प्रातः

भोर                                  
सवेरा
आया
अपनी
पीली
धुप के पहले
हलकी सी ठंडी
हवा वाली
रौशनी
फैलाई
जिसने
रात की स्याही
मिटाकर
सूरज
का रास्ता
साफ़ किया।

दिन चढ़ने से
पहले
स्कूली
बच्चों
की
तरह
चिड़ियों
ने समूह
गीत गया।

इतनी मेहनतों
के बाद
दिन चढ़ा
है
चकाचौंध
धूप  वाली
दोपहर
होते होते
सुबह
अधेड़ हो जाती
है
चौखट पर बैठकर
बड़ी बड़ी हाँकने
वाले
चौधरी की तरह।

ओ सूर्य देवता
मूछों पर ताव
देना
बंद  करो ,
अब तो
बस
लजाती
शर्माती
सांवली
शाम का इंतज़ार
है।

Bongwa

My cousin was adept at fart jokes and at poking fun at fat people, or imitating people with lisps. He would elicit uproarious laughter, and be smug in his contentment. But somewhere deep down , it was an exercise in distaste. We , even as kids, could feel it. 

There was a fancy dress competition. I dressed up as the local tramp , and was practicing his trembly lisp and wild gait (result of a childhood polio attack). My mother stopped me . She didn’t explain much. She just said it didn’t seem right, to make fun of a poor , unprivileged soul. I would have elicited laughs , no doubt . May be a prize too . But I listened to her. The tramp used to hang around the school. Sometimes helping in the hosing down of the buses. 

All the difficult and dangerous tasks , like climbing on the sloping shingled roof to retrieve last years flag , was done by him . He did it with his strange lisping-sobbing laughter , which sounded more like hiccups. He was probably unaware of the dangers , and no one had bothered to educate him. 

Then one day , my cousin was in dire straits. His pocket had been picked at the bus-stop , and he had to reach this neighbouring town , 15 miles away , at any cost . He had to attend an important job interview next day. Dusk had fallen , the bus conductor of the last bus had just refused his watch, as a surety. He was desperate. Help came from a very unexpected quarter. 

The conductor had boarded the bus . The driver was revving the rattletrap contraption . My cousin stood at the entrance , chafing his hands, when a lisping sobbing hiccup was heard . The tramp limped into view , grinning hard. 

The driver braked . 

"Arrey , tu bongwa?" Bongwa , or the dumb, was a common term for everyone who had any speech  impediment.

Bongwa had endeared himself all over the town , due to his helpful and risk taking behaviour. A homeless man with an entire town for friends , one of the many inexplicable truths of life.

"Kahin jana hai ka, be ?" ( Do you have to go anywhere , you rascal?) He asked , and gestured impatiently for him to climb aboard.

The tramp limped laboriously up the footboard , in the darkness. Then , from the top , he gestured my cousin to follow. My cousin hesitated, and the driver gestured , a nod with his head , to step up . My cousin was at the first step, and the impatient driver , roared away , already late . The bus lurched violently , and my cousin teetered . Some one in the dark confusion , grabbed his hand  , and pulled him to safety. 

It was the tramp. The bongwa. The butt of all my cousin's jokes . That was the last time my cousin ever made fun of him .

बेबसी 




हर वक़्त
अपने आप
काल्पनिक
चिंताओं
से इतने
बुरी तरह
ग्रसित
किसी इंसान
को बहुत
कम
देखा है।

दुःस्वप्नों
से घिरे
किसी
आत्मा
को बेवजह
तड़पते
बहुत कम
जाना है।

सदियों पुरानी
यादों के
बवंडर में
खोये
किसी
मन को
आज तक
बिलखते
बहुत कम
देखा है।

अपने मन
के खाई
के अँधेरे
में
अपने आप
का गला
घोटते
दम घुटते
बहुत कम
देखा
है।

खुद के लिए
इतनी
मानसिक
यातनाएं
रचते
हुए
किसी को
बहुत कम
देखा
है।

खुद
में इतना
विलुप्त
होकर भी
खुद से इतनी
नफरत
बहुत कम
देखा है।

बारिश

कल शाम
बहुत देर तक
काफी बारिश
हुई
ओले भी पड़े
पर मजाल
है कि 
हम  छतरी
लगायें
क्योंकि
हमने तय
कर लिया
था
की इस बार
हम छलनी
नहीं
होंगे।
हमें नाज़
है
अपनी मोटी
चमड़ी पर।
सब झेल
गए
हम मानों
घास हों
बिछी
धरती पर।

Pile of dead leaves

My grandad was seriously against people ( read, children ) diving into crunchy piles of dead leaves. He would narrate horror stories of them concealing deadly snakes and deadlier scorpions. Till date , piles of dead leaves evoke pictures of fear . I have often stopped kids from playing in them , but now I hold my tongue , seeing how much fun they have . 

In fact , I nurture this secret desire to be able to dive into a pile of leaves myself , one of these days . I might produce some strange looks , and people might whisper behind my back , addressing me as _”that crackpot old lady , who thinks she is a child.”. I can imagine the look on people’s faces , when they say that.

Salt

“I have eaten your salt . ” is an idiom preceding oath of loyalty.
Once you have partaken “someone’s salt”, meaning shared a meal , you are friends for life . The hindi term “namak ” stands for salt , and it is synonymous with honour , friendship , loyalty for life . I think salt must have been a precious commodity at one point of time , hence the importance attached to it .
There is a story where a king asks his three daughters to quantify their love for him . The eldest one says that she loves him as she would the precious jewels . The second , not to be outdone , says that her love for him ranks amid the love for precious metals , viz., gold , silver etc. Only the third and the youngest says that her love for him , rivals that of her love of salt. 

The king reacted as kings are wont to , by jumping to conclusions , getting his elder daughters married to princes , and the youngest princess to a pauper. As she climbed into her plain palanquin , as against her sisters’ bejewelled ones, the youngest princess called the palace cook aside and whispered something into his ears.

Thereafter , all the meals in the royal household were bereft of taste. So bland were they , that the king was compelled , eventually , to send for the royal cook and ask him what was the cause . He then replied -"Your majesty! It was the youngest princess parting wish to have salt excluded from all your meals , till you called for her . " 

The King realised his error , and importance of salt , in one stroke. He , of course , called for his daughter , showered riches on her and begged  for her forgiveness .

The Angelina Jolie film "S.A.L.T " also has undercurrents of loyalty for one's country , and how far you could go , in order to prove it. 

Look Look

I live in a bird-watchers paradise .
Everyday some new species of bird is spotted on the window rails, on the porch pecking last nights insects, hopping around in the car park .
One day it is Eurasian pied starling , another day it is the white wagtail . The kids are quite used to my “look, look” , as I stare out of the balcony , at my usual lookout place for the school bus. The kids’ are in a hurried frenzy , combing hair , tightening shoe-laces , and I force them to look at a sunbird in the pomegranate bush , or a Montague’s Harrier circling overhead .
They are unimpressed . I may have been gifted a Salim Ali book by an indulgent spouse , but they have more pressing things to do , like rubbing a white stain of still warm milk down a white shirt front , while cribbing about being force fed.
Or last minute cramming the details of The Boston Tea Party and its effect on American Politics.
They have no time to stare up a silver oak and marvel at the weavers birds’ nest full of gaping holes and wonder how the eggs remain secure ? It is more remarkable given the tiny size of the bird that weaves these marvels.
By the way , there is a water hen quietly making its way away from the lantana bush . Did you see ? “Look, look, right there.”

तथागत 

सब पार
कर
चुके जो

दरियाओं
का सीना
चीर
चुके जो

हर
ग़लती को सही
करता है
जो

हर शोर
पर
सन्नाटे
की मुहर
लगाए
जो

हर
फड़फड़ाती
तमन्ना
तमाम
कर दे
जो

जीने की जल्दी 


कहीं तो
रुक
जाओ
ओ
द्रुतगमन
वाले
पथिक

हर
किसी
की
रफ़्तार
तुम्हारी सी
 नहीं होती

कहीं तो
जाकर
थकोगे
कहीं तो
जाकर
थमोगे

इस बात
को गौर कर
लो
कि
हर जगह
ठौर
नहीं होती।

नींद 


देर हो गयी है
अब सोना चाहिए
यह कैसे समझायें
उनको
 जिन्होंने
नींद गिरवी रख दी
मुहब्बत
के घर में।

कल की
 दिवाली
खुशहाली
की उम्मीद
कर के बैठे हैं
आज
अमावस की रात
है , और
एकमात्र
जलता दीपक
चैन का
हम
बुझा आये हैं.
बड़े
कंजूस हैं हम।

बड़ी देर की
 तमन्ना थी
की सुबह
उठें
और सूरज
को
प्रणाम करें।
अब रोज़
सुबह
सूरज हमें
पूछता है
क्यों ?
कल रात भी
नहीं सोये ?


पथरा गयी
नज़र
क्यों करते
हो इंतज़ार
ख़ामख़ा
इस बार
तो वो
भी
तुम्हें
पहचान न
पाएंगे
रास्ते का पत्थर
समझकर

Rocking chair

Every night without fail,
She got up at two in the morning
Padded softly around the house
Stole a look at the sky that slept
Opened the door softly
and shut it behind her
so that slumber
stayed in
and carried her pain(s)
to the patio
to her rocking chair
where she sat and rocked
herself back and forth
She didn't sleep
neither did she weep
but the rocking chair
heard her out
every single word
in utter silence

The Clairvoyant

It was early autumn.
A nip in the air , and the old neighbour , who moved in last week , came out of the door . He didn't bother to lock the door behind, as someone lurked in the shadows. Despite the darkness inside , Mrs.Khurana could make out the crumpled cotton nightie of  Mrs. Sehgal .

Mrs. Khurana was a certified busy body , she took insane  and immense pride in knowing each and every details about happenings in all the households in the colony . It was her hobby . Like others paint , read , write , or travel . She poked her nose into other people's affairs , homes , and kitchens , and didn't stop at that . She liked what she saw , heard and deduced . She knew of Mrs. Sehgal's nightly enemas , of young Baweja's secret heartthrob (s), of Suri's mighty struggle (behind closed doors , of course ) with the bottle , and her own nighttime visions .


Of these , the last were most disturbing to Mrs. Khurana , and she lay awake , many a night , seeing these "visions" as she called them , as Mr. Khurana , after a day spent usefully in gardening , and yoga , snored peacefully , next to her.

In her "visions", she saw sickness, death , adultery and elopement.
 All the elements of her favourite soap. Only the characters were real . They also had a prophetic quality about them .

 She had dreamt that Vinod, the plumber's favourite cat is going to be crushed under the wheels of a gigantic truck . She spoke her fears to the gardener, Ajay, as he hunched on her begonias , next morning , uprooting doob grass by the fistfuls , and he had snorted into the grass. He was happy to hear that the black cat who crossed his path every morning , and sat cleaning itself on his parapet , like an evil omen , was about to die . But it was far from the reality .

 Even today ,Ajay had to rush in back , sprinkle ganga-jal , and recite hanuman chalisa , all the way to work , because , this woe-begone cat had stretched , leapt and landed itself right in Ajay's path to work , unfazed by curses and stoned whizzing past its fur , it coolly marched across the road , tail high up in the air.

It happened , right that afternoon. Only  difference being , it was a tractor , the brick guy . He drove recklessly , and played loud bhangra , which blared above the rattletrap din of the tractor , driving humans crazy with noise , and freezing black cats , in their tracks , with the sudden explosion of noise . Vinod made a huge fuss. The driver , his god-damned song still blaring , just shrugged and said -"I thought it was a black stone . "

"Any way , she should have moved away , with all the din . " People nodded and sided with the driver . Notching up the music , further high , he drove away , with cat fur and blood , clinging to his tyres.

Vinod wanted a day-off, but the builders would have nothing of it .
"It was a black cat , after all , a bad omen !" That is what all said .
He was distraught , and buried the remains  behind the compound walls , right outside Mrs.Khurana's garden . It was a coincidence , not a pleasant one . It rattled Ajay.

Ajay found his voice , cleared his throat, next day , when Mrs. K appeared holding his tea , and said -"I can't work any more . "

For weeks after that , Mrs.K found , unpleasantly enough , people whispering behind her backs.
She thought people would find her clairvoyance exciting . She thought she was finally going to hit the jackpot , she had dreamt all her life of . She would imagine people touching her feet , showering gold coins . Instead , she found herself ostracized .

Even Mr.K called her a "fool" (one of his strongest expletives ) , to go and "blabber" to illiterate gardeners .

Since then , Mrs.K kept her "visions " to herself , and suffered , in silence . Watching begonias begone was painful enough , swallowed by weeds and neglect .

Like a scientific mind , Mrs.K thought a lot about this incident. It seemed to replay in her minds' eye , again and again , like a movie rerun . Why were the tyres  so big ? Why was the fear so overpowering ?,"Paralysing fear ", in my vision ? Mrs. K concluded that she , or her mind was with the cat , when it was crushed . It was not a pleasant conclusion .Mrs. K drove it from her mind , employed a mali , who was luckily a muslim , and got the drying begonias and weeds uprooted from her garden .

She had bought gladioli seedlings , and they contentedly wallowed in a plastic tub of water , waiting to be planted , as Mrs. K sipped her morning green tea , on her porch , when the sudden searing heat and intense sharp pain of a bite, with a pronounced perception of pitch-darkness , in the early morning sun , made itself known to her .

She stopped , mid -sip , and spoke in a frozen, stern voice to Mr.Sehgal , now battling with the doors of his car "You shouldn't leave her behind . "

Mr. Sehgal, was a retired colonel. In his heyday , he was posted to the Arabian desert, during the Operation Desert Storm. He had been sent back with PTSD to his unit shortly afterwards. This permanently left him with a nervous predisposition . Small , unexpected sounds make him start.

The unexpected , robot-like voice of Mrs. K had a similar reaction on him . He froze, and dropped his keys to the ground. His eyes bulged and mouth fell open.

"It is dark in there, and the lawn is overgrown." The robot voice continued.

Mr.Khurana was tied up in an intricate yoga asana. He watched from his living room window, the unfolding of events. He quickly disentangled himself , and with amazing speed, rushed out . With one brush of his hand , he "woke" his wife up. Startled, she dropped green tea onto her lap , scalded herself, and jumped up. Simultaneously, a piercing scream ensued from the darkened room of Mrs.Sehgal.

Ten minutes later , Mrs. K was supporting the lolling  head of Mrs.Sehgal , as Mr.K drove the tin box rattling old car of Mr. S, while Mr.S sat next to him chafing his hands , muttering strange words. Mrs.S was speaking incoherently, and frothing from the corner of her mouth . The froth was diligently wiped by a continuously apologetic Mrs. K , with the corner of her pale green gown , stained with green tea , down the front.

Due to the alacrity and presence of the mind of their neighbours, Mrs.S was saved . It was widely seen as a conclusion to the clairvoyant abilities of Mrs.K. It was a small but deadly snake  , commonly known as krait.

Mrs. K's clairvoyance became the talk of the town . People , out of curiosity and journalists thronged her home front . She could no longer sit on her favourite arm chair , in her lime green night gown and sip green tea. Mr.K could no longer practise his two hour long yoga asanas in peace.Their immaculate lawn was trampled upon and the gladioli never took off.

While Mrs.K stopped having visions ,and slept like a log , lolling head , salivating mouth kind of a sleep, Mr.K kept awake the nights , as he was deprived of his yoga-routine. It made him irritable and ruined the fragile balance of peace in the K household.

Eventually , Mrs.K put her foot down , and stopped seeing the early morning visitors , who would force sweet-dabbas into her hands and ask if she has had any visions about pappu passing class ten , by any chance , hainji?

She had started putting on lipstick and wooden heels and pressed , perfumed clothes , early in the morning . (which she said made her feel very uncomfortable). She stopped this practise forthwith , and went back to her gown - and green tea routine .They employed two nasty looking , baton wielding security guards who would sit at the gate , driving sweet-dabba-wallahs away.

In absence of any further visions , the crowd thinned and eventually disappeared.

Mr. K could now , peacefully practise his yoga .

All was well .

Yesterday , the muslim gardener of Mrs.K came to borrow a trowel , and furtively looking everywhere , asked me if I knew something about a black cat ? Upon asking why , he replied ,with great deal of reluctance " I have been seeing this cat coming under a truck's wheels , in my nighttime visions."

Phone

You spoke words
of comfort
I pull them
around me
like a
snug
blanket
the warmth
of those
words
across miles
keeps me alive
in this
wintry chill
of life

Autumn leaves

Boys lean on the rake
taking a break
Sharing a smoke
and a lewd joke 

Mellow weather
the leaves wither
turn orange and red
paths strewn with fire

Swallows fly in
A- visiting

The swifts, wagtail

cuckoo , the quail 

waiting for winter

the wait is over 

for winter 

is here.

Marie

Marie flounced into our lives one fine day , wearing cheap sunglasses , and a multicoloured floozy skirt. She talked animatedly , her hands weaving patterns into the air , and the goggles slipped off her nose bridge . She folded it up and pushed one of the stems down her ample cleavage. Her bosoms were a landscape in their own right . Huge , bouncy , vibrant . Just like her . I remember seeing her from the perch of my mother’s arms . She appeared mountainous. 

She was offered a drink , which she didn’t so much drink , as tipped into the vast pit of her mouth . We gaped . She asked for more . She , at the point of leaving , had emptied my mother’s meagre stores of orange and lemon squash . My siblings still remember , bitterly , that squashless summer .” Marie ne maar daala “, (marie has killed us all ) was the general refrain . 

At one point she plucked me and tried to smother me amongst her vast globes . I let out a howl of protest . Her cleavage smelt of perfume mixed with sweat . It was a formidable odour .

She wore high heeled wooden shoes , like the Bulgarian peasant -women we had seen on "magyar" postage stamps .Her steps would go clackity -clack , and set one's teeth on edge .  She was like one of those pictures come alive .Papa said her father was a Bulgarian . Her skin was as warm olive as any Indian. It was her stubbornly distinct clothing , that set her apart.   Complete with her bandana covered head and accent- ridden english . Not to be left behind, she spoke  hindi with an incomprehensible accent , in high -pitched urgent tones . The urgency and the accent , both left the listener flummoxed. 

 On one occasion , she had shouted , red-faced, screaming at a flustered ward-boy , asking him to fetch something . He nodded furiously and run off in the direction of the stores . Marie beat her forehead , in a very oriental gesture of exasperation , and fetched the item herself. Later , we were told , she wanted "ball of cotton ", and the boy had returned , two hours later, his arms full of " old curtains". 

She was the head nurse of the Cardiology ward , and had decided to take us earthlings , under her ample wings . She would drop in , with strange gifts. She brought my sister , a fur stole . It was draped around her favourite flower vase , for years, before some one told my grandmother that it was rabbit fur . Nothing so remotely violent , however pretty , was allowed in our household. It was summarily thrown out , despite my sister's teary entreaties.

Then , one day , Marie disappeared. Not just from the ward , or the hospital , or the town , but from the face of the earth , so it seemed . Poof . Just like that . A missing person's case was registered in the police station . Ponds dredged , numerous colleagues questioned . Nothing turned up . The case was closed , her flat sealed . It was a strange end to a strange personality. 

Years later , my niece went to a metropolis to finish a course in fashion -designing .One day , she opened her laptop , to share various photographs of celebrities , when my mother exclaimed as if she had seen a ghost . There, next to a nubile actress , reclining on a leather couch , studded with diamonds , was the corpulent vision of Marie. A quick search revealed her to be a different person altogether , different name , background . But my mother swore it was her . The same , enigmatic , enormous,  Marie of the clackety-clack heels echoing down white hospital corridors. 

aadi-ant

शुरुआत हुई है
यहाँ से
तो शायद
ख़त्म
भी होगी
यहीं कहीं।
हर ज़िन्दगी
का पल
ज्यों  रेलगाड़ी
हो
शुरू भी वहीँ से
हो
और ख़त्म
भी
वहीँ पर।
घूम फिर कर
बात वहीँ
पर आ टिकती
है।
यह धुरी है
बाकी
साया
बछड़ा
भी शाम को घर लौट
आया। 

Scenic route

First thing you notice is how close you are from the precipice. Every turn , every bend in the road is fraught with danger . There are concrete railings , usual rad markers and special cautionary messages .
The air becomes rapidly rarefied. Cool , clean and crisp.

The vales are full of greenery . Fir , pine , birch , silver oak , who's who of mountainous  flora. Brits revelled here. Poor chaps . It reminded them of home .  Moss clings to rocky hillsides , in large velvety swathes . Unseen birds chirp. Swooping in and out of the dense foliage  . Larks , swifts , martins .

Some where a mountain stream gurgles onto the road . Clear glacier water, running over cobblestones , falling  down in a gay abandon of watery spray, trickling between gigantic moss covered  trunks .

Years later , I would recount this scenic route to a person from that place , a local , under very different circumstances. I would be the patient , he , the attendant .

He would nod smilingly , then add- "do you know , at this place , you can have the first pick of strawberries for free , at so-and -so time of the year ?"

And I , wide eyed , would say -"No, I didn't know that ."

 Trying in vain to recall , which season we paid a visit .  

Back-route

Disaster.

A large truck full of gravel ("Bajri") , has over turned right at the crossing .

"What do we do now ?" She  always went into this sweaty -palmed , frozen state when something untoward  happens .  Some one has to take charge. So the young gent sitting in the backseat , nose-picking , galvanises into action .

"We still have time . 20 minutes . There is no one behind us . Ghooma lo (take a u-turn )" .

She  gingerly crosses over to the other side , mentally asking God and government for forgiveness , and takes the back route . She checks in the rear -view mirror, and is relieved to see several cars following her lead . The back route takes 10 minutes longer , but is mostly free at this time of the morning .

The young gent is silent now . Hands behind the head , he has gone off to sleep . Snoring occasionally . So much like the father . She would think as she saw in the rear view mirror.

When she slows down at the school , He  wakes up ,stretches , grabs his bag , slings it on the shoulder , and waves bye . Hesitating at the sight of his parent trying to form words resembling gratitude , he walks off with a casual -"Chill Mom ."

She loves driving the back -route.

Mauj

सवालों का सैलाब
बहा
और हम गए
नहा
क्यों , कब , कैसे
किसलिए ,वैसे
कई प्रश्नों
को
हमने
पल्लू से
झटकार
दिया
कई दुविधाओं
को बालू
सा
झाड़ दिया
समंदर में गोते
खाने
की किस्मत
हर
किसी की
होती कहाँ
सूखे साफ़ सुथरे
कपडे वालों
को
मौज
दिखती कहाँ 

Female Montague's Harrier

The kite flies in
an exclusive zone
completely alone
not trying to fit in

the book instils fear
gives a name
Montague's Harrier
sounds like a dame

She was injured
piteously fluttered
but a predator
is a predator forever.

not to be trusted
the pigeons rose
in a body,en masse
as a carpet dusted

The lone kite
slipped on slopes
as if learning ropes
always flying high

Never ever landed
A lesson learnt
every one is upended
To bear the  brunt

Of fate and destiny
disease and ignominy