Good Morning" friends"

 On every Android phone , except that of my nonagenarian parents , is an app called WhatsApp . 

It allows you to send and receive messages , to and fro, from " friends " , families and acquaintances . 

There are roughly 15 of these so called " contacts " , in my list. I wish them every morning , and  , am wished back , in return . That is how this works . 

This early morning exchange of digital greetings has led to very interesting observations . 

There is a friend , who , in return to my innocuous ( or so I think) , roses and posies , sends me a short homily . On how I should conduct myself  , the ways of the world , and such like , similar philosophies . The gems read " " You are punished if you have common sense . For then, you have to tolerate all those people who don't have it. " 

" All the wealth in the world cannot buy you sight , if you choose to shut your eyes. " 

Another class ,( there are a few of them) do not reply regularly . After few days, when your overtures go unanswered , you clam up . That is when they reply .  A game of digital hide and seek. Like a drop of monsoon , in a desert . Tad too late , and frankly dangerous . They are known to scrape off top soil . But I can't say that to them . 

So I answer . And the cycle repeats itself . 

Another class , over indulgent , want to share every waking moment of their lives with you . From the photo of the early morning tea , to the paintings made by their normally tantrum filled daughter , to the food cooked that day , places visited , family get togethers , birthday cakes , wall decorations , new pots and pans , everything is posted . 

Another group is the religiously - replying class . Either through words or from pictures borrowed from other inboxes , they will never fail you. 

A last group posts religious good mornings . Either Lord Krishna , Rama or Shiva grace your screen in the morning. There is no option but to fold your hands in reverence . 

Some others are fond of Gulzar , the poet . A bit too much . In fact , most non rhyming  words and ugly poems are attributed to Gulzaar. That is  leaning on the sacrilegeous , if you ask me . 

However , the conclusion is , I am the perpetrator of all these misadventures put together , hence I too am not above board . 

Hence I am my own good morning ' friend '. 

On writing a story

 Some days back , I began writing a story. 

A few characters born and christened 

Grew out of thin air , on vanity fattened 

Run amok amongst the pages 

looking for their place in the ages 

Hunting down their own history .

She , he and they , puffs of smoke , all 

God , did they make me hurry 

Behind their backsides blurry 

trailing the thread of narrative 

muddying the perspective 

sloshing through the swamp , spinning the ball 

I finally collected my own yarn 

lassoed all the  parties aberrant

bringing them to the forefront 

Tying all the loose ends 

frayed ones I did mend 

So much hard work , darn 

Weaving a tale , 

fat as a whale 

was a lesson for me 

henceforth , just tiny 

stories .teeny weeny 

Cricket Mania

 So , last month The World Cup matches were held . All in India . In a cricket mad world . Where strangers on trains will eulogise on batting techniques , run scores and fielding . Where you can make instant friends , in banks , at roadside shops , at petrol pumps , just by mentioning the score of the days’ game . The usual greeting on “match days “ is “Score kitna hai ?” (What is the score ?)

That is followed by a detailed theory on the batting techniques of Kohli versus Maxwell , or Rohit Sharma’s captaincy versus Gavaskar . The older generation will sigh and lapse into “Ahh ! Those days !”

My neighbour upstairs has a three year old daughter . During the match days , their music , karaoke ,and raucous laughter is replaced with pin drop silence . In fact , there is silence all over the jungle too . Most matches finish in the hushed darkness of early evenings . The birds too , sit quietly on the tall tree branches , cock their heads and listen to the commentary , and the noise of the crowd in the background .

The jackals don’t howl , and parents forget to take their impatient kids to the park . All sit with hands cupping the faces , meals getting cold on the laps , mesmerised with the glowing screens. Till , a wicket falls , or a six or four is hit .

Then the world erupts into joyous Stone age-ish whoops . My upstairs neighbour runs across the length of the flat , screaming his lungs . Following his heavy tread , come a pitter patter of tiny feet following the parent , mildly alarmed , and a tiny voice pipes up “ Itna chillate kyun ho Papa ?” ( Why are you screaming thus Papa ) . Someone bursts crackers leftover from Diwali , someone else blows the conch shell , and someone rushes to the puja room to prostrate in front of silent deities .  The birds fly off , and the dogs bark , the pack joins in . A fall of a wicket halfway across the nation , transforms into and  a celebration across the jungle .

We are passionate about cricket . World Cup just made us go complete nuts .

Punah Musko Bhava

("Turn into a mouse again . " -Sanskrit . ) ( This tale of timeless wisdom , is culled from the Scriptures , and is my own retelling . It may have inconsistencies when compared to the Original tale ) 

Once upon a time , in a dense forest lived a sage . He had a small hut , away from most of the civilisation , for his yogic practices , penance and prayers . He had a small , bubbly mountain stream that went past his abode .

Often , he would be found half submerged in these freezing mountain waters , clad in nothing but a tiny loincloth , muttering prayers , facing the sun .

Once , while the sage was thus engaged , a bird of prey flew across the skies , overhead and dropped something into the Sage’s cupped palms , facing heavenward , in supplication .

The “thing “ squirmed , was bruised from being held in the talons of the eagle , and sneezed from cold . The sage , being a kind hearted individual , took the mouse indoors , and tended to its wounds . By the by , he became intensely attached to the rodent . Craving human company , as we all do , the sage , with his magical tantric and yogic powers , transformed the mouse into a lovely baby girl . He looked after her , like his own daughter , and taught her all the wisdom he had learnt from the universe . She grew up into a beautiful maiden with all the wisdom and manners of a Princess .

When she “came of age “ , she was asked by her doting father , the sage , as to who she would like to marry ? After giving it much studied thought , the young woman replied , “Father i would like to marry the one , who is most powerful of all .”

The sage , now a father , set out to fulfil his dear daughter’s desire .

He went to the Sun , the one who shines upon the entire earth , nourishing its soil , the harbinger of life and joy , the begin and the end of the day .

“O Sun !” the sage asked with folded hands , “You are the most powerful of all , please accept my daughter’s hand in matrimony .”

The Sun frowned ,”Who told you I am the most powerful in the land ? “
”Why , of course , you are . You are the reason for all life on earth . “

“No , I am not . Just look at this . “ At that very moment , a large black cloud moved across , infront of the sun , and blotted all sunshine from the earth . The world went silent in anticipation of a rain or storm , in the absence of the sun . Stillness and darkness and wintry cold , quickly descended on the sunless earth .

“I get what you said .” Shouted the sage , at the sun , who murmured a muffled acknowledgement behind the bank of cloud .

Then , he ran behind the racing cloud .

“Oh Cloud ! I can see how almighty you are ! You bring rain , hope and crops to feed the millions . You are the sower of seeds , nourisher of grains , can you please accept my daughter’s hand in marriage ? “

The cloud stood still for a moment , and turned its dark visage to the Sage .

“You are mistaken , O Sage , I am not the all powerful . You think I am running across the skies , of my own accord , no I am not ! The wind buffets me , here and there , everywhere . I am just following the diktats of his whim . I am nothing but just a puff of smoke . “

The Sage went chasing the wind , and found him chasing the clouds of sand in the desert .

“Oh wind ! I have heard you are the most powerful of all . You move the enormous clouds , making him weep and rain , in places you deem fit . “

“Who told you that ? The clouds ?”

The wind whistled a horrid chuckle , and sped to the northernmost corner of the enormous desert .

The Sage , having mastered the magic of Teleportation , caught up with the wind in no time .

“Sire , I have come to believe , you are the prime mover on this planet . You make things happen . You are the strongest of them all . Please accept my daughter’s hand in marriage . “

The wind stopped in its tracks , and looked back at the Sage .” I agree , Oh Brahmin ! your daughter is the comeliest maiden I have ever laid eyes on . But there is one who is mightier and loftier than me . He stops me in my tracks and is completely unmoved by me .”

“Who is he , Oh wind ? The sage cried .

“He lives right next to your hut O Sage . It is the Giriraj , the mountain .”

“Oh I see !” Exclaimed the sage as he sped back to his hut on the mountain side .

“ Oh Seer of all the worlds ! Great preserver of the Snow world , the shadow of the Universe . Please accept my daughter’s hand in marriage.”

“No, You don’t see , do you ? “

“See what my Lord ?”

“See , right now , on my right flank , away from the eyes of the populace , hidden in a corner , beneath a bush someone is consistently burrowing a hole into my side. I can feel the pain , but I can’t do anything about it . “

“Who is that Sire ? Please tell me ! I will burn him to ashes with my tantric powers . “ The Sage shouted , enraged .

The Mountain laughed . “ You are not getting my point. “

The Rishi stood perplexed .

“This is one entity more powerful than me . And the rightful claimant to your daughter’s hand . “

With a whoosh of air , The sage transported himself to the point the mountain indicated .

To his utter surprise , it was a tiny mouse , diligently , burrowing into the side of the mighty monarch the Mountain , in an innocuous clatter of pebbles , absorbed , single mindedly , in his task .

“Holy Seer , it is a mere mouse !” Exclaimed the sage .

“Indeed , it is . This tiny creature has the power and right by nature to burrow into my body , and I can’t do anything about it Hence , he is stronger than me . “

The Sage closed his eyes and muttering mantras , summoned his daughter next to him , and told her his entire adventure . Beginning from the sun , and ending in the mouse .

The daughter , contrary to the Sage’s belief , clapped her hands in joy, and shrieked “Father , I want to marry this mouse . Please turn me into a mouse . Please ,father , please . “

With a relieved and a heavy heart , at the same time , the Sage said “Punah Musko Bhava “ ( May you turn into a mouse again ) 

Kakima

( Kakima is the name given to the younger uncle's wife . Or the wife of the younger brother of one's father . Subsequently , over the years , it is a generic term meant for elderly neighbours  and relatives too far removed to defy any nomenclature ) 

 " She is a recluse . How much trouble can she be ?" 

That is what we were told . Like all fake reassurances before an ensuing storm , this too proved as much of a falsification , as it could . 

Kakima apparated  one fine afternoon , when the kids returned from the school . 

The astha channel had usurped the TV and the study room was occupied . The kids had to study on their beds or on the dining table . It was a no brainer . Geometrical instruments do not work on the 'electromagnetic magical 'surface of the kids beds , which is cushy enough to send most conscientious kids into the realm of sleep , in the midst of toughest trignometric sums . Horrors ! Un homeworked kids march like little criminals into the penitentiary of the school . 

Never happened before .

Lot of things never happened before . 

Fish curry was banished to a small shy side table , where the flesh eaters had to depart to season their mounds of rice , while Kakima ate sparingly on the table , a hanky on her nose , of vegetarian food , certainly "contaminated " in the kitchen by fishy utensils . 

Next day , a small bucket with terracotta mounds was bought , from a forgotten bazaar . A tidy heap of twigs was burnt for Kakima to brew her "satvic "(Pure ) Khichdi on  "pure "terracotta utensils . 

Maa rolled her eyes more frequently , and Baba took semi permanent residence in his office . 

As gullible youngsters salivated at  the delicious aroma of the ghee laced khichdi ( elder sister said, with dramatically dilated pupils for good effect ) in rhymes " A witches brew , to entice you ."

A parallel kitchen grew outside the wire mesh door of our kitchen , and the outside wall blackened with the rising soot . Baba sighed , and departed to the "Office " quickly . 

No one can say for sure , how we were related to her . Except that , like monsoon , Kakima arrived with unfailing regularity , once in a year , unannounced , to turn our household , topsy turvy. 

More fruits , than necessary , were bought , and  eaten . Apples and bananas wormed their way into our tiffin boxes as Maa would be busy participating  the elaborate puja rituals that came along with kakima . The smoky fragrance of incense emanated along with tinkle of bells and muttered mantras . Kids tip toed their way past the erstwhile study rooms , in their school socks , carrying their uniform shoes ("contaminated " ) in their hands . 

Baba was called to school office as complaints against aberrant children piled up in "unfinished homework " category . Baba sighed and reassured the teachers that , "It was just a matter of one more week " . 

Sometimes kakima would perceive the disaster brought upon by her arrival and pack up her bags early . 

Everyone would heave a sigh of relief and the study room would be repopulated by Godless kids , tramping about in shoes on holy surface . 

Chairs , tables would be dragged back in , backyard walls would be whitewashed and the tiny fish curry table would disappear . Terracotta pots , pans , along with twigs and the bucket stove would disappear into the shed , and remain there for a year . 

Amazingly , the fragrance of incense sticks would linger on in the passageway , for a long time , and astha channel would unerringly pop up , while looking for AXN . 

Time

Time is the only God 

The only cattle prod 

The one true master 

The  eternal  blaster 

Nothing else 

Comes close 

They, You and I 

Will close our eye(s) 

Time shall keep a watch 

Ironical, what a catch !! 

It will tell the universe 

Of our follies and worse 

Our weak knees , our foibles

Our undoing , barren crucibles 

How we ruined the span 

Granted to us , Oh man !! 

We were so dumb 

Hearts so very numb 

What heights we were 

Given ? We walked mere

Plains , earth , the sea

What you could see !! 

What you chose to be 

What sorrow, land bare 

Like a fallow land in meadows

Barren dead tree in dense woods 

Lost the chance, missed the goods

Time stands tall , as it should 

Judging me / our lives 

Petty , piffles , hives 

Aimless ,pointless 

Alas we,wee wasted isles. 

Goras , goats and itchy throats

 ( Foreword: Elephant foot yam or Suran or Ole is a large rhizome which is grown and eaten in West Bengal and Bihar . It is peeled , sliced ,salted and kept in the sun for leaching and drying of the juices. Thereafter , it is boiled, deep fried , cooked in a gravy heavily laced with either tamarind paste or lemon juice . Suffice to say, this extensive process is performed in order to kill one terrible property of the Yam . It itches , and how!! Hence, though it might have the pink and juicy appearance of a sweet fruit , it is to be never, never eaten raw. The reaction of the buccal mucosa is to precipitate an itchiness of ungodly proportions . It might be even called mild  anaphylaxis ) 

"Aeeeeyyaaah "  Someone screamed in the far distance . 

In a village , distance is measured in terms of visibility . If you are not visible, you are very far off . Simple .

The screamer , however , turned round the corner of a hut , holding a tiny goat kid , writhing and bleating , in his arms . 

This was serious .

The goat parent, an elderly farmer , well into his fifties , worry , care and hard work etched into each of his wrinkles and lines on the face , trying very hard to keep the squirming  kid above ground. The bleats were fast turning into moans .

It was the farmer who screamed.  

The goat kid was guilty of eating raw elephant foot yam pieces , which sliced and salted, were kept in the sun to leach out the moisture .

The goat kid had been seen munching on the freshly cut juicy pieces by mischievous members of the family who made no attempt to stop him . Rather catching the sides of their tummies, were seen rolling in the dust, with laughter at the apparent agony of the goat kid 

A pet is a member of the family . It's agony was palpable on the face of the farmer . 

A stern look from my grandfather  stopped all jolliness even in our mirth prone home , as the misery was well audible . A goat's incessant bleats can be heart rending , almost sounding like a human cry . A helpless , non stop sobbing for help. 

My grandfather was a homeopathic doctor. He had none of the verve and instant cures of allopathy . All he could offer by means of treatment was a large bag of sugary granules to be dissolved in water and fed to the goat ,along with a mild sleeping agent to tide over the agony filled hours , till the effect of yam or ole wore off. 

The goat recovered. Next morning , the farmer brought a great jute bag of freshly harvested corn cobs as a token of gratitude and payment . 

It was accepted . 

For the rest of the days , and so long as the corn lasted , " the goat who ate ole", sparked several similar stories , but mostly with human players . Equally riveting. One of the stories, recounted by my grandfather stood out. 

A gullible British officer was passing by the village . Some sixty years ago. Clad in a stiff red and black uniform , with an unbending spine , a tall red hat,  astride a majestic horse .

It was noon time. Approaching lunch time. Numerous housewives had taken the advantage of the autumnal harvest of ole and had sliced , salted their rhizomes , spreading them out to dry in the sun .

The "Tommy" was thirsty and possibly a bit hungry . 

And he stopped at the sight of this wondrous and unfamiliar fruit / vegetable. 

He asked a passing group of teenagers. "Is it good to eat ?".

The teenagers , being teenagers , replied in unison . 

"Yes, yes , very good to eat. Very sweet and juicy." 

," Yeah . It definitely looks juicy and pink." 

He alighted , ordered a homeowner to pack him a kilo in a clean cloth bundle. 

In the British times , if a "gora sahib" asked you for something, you gave it . No questions asked. 

The homeowner , with a conscience and fear , said  meekly "It is raw ."

"Never mind" . Laughed the gora. "I believe it is sweet. It looks sweet alright. And juicy. I am really thirsty." The Tommy pointed at his open mouth "Bhooka hai " . ( thinking , all the while, "bloody dumb Indians ")

And the teenagers thought "Bloody dumb Angrez" 

At this , the peasant had no choice but to pack it . The teenagers , held their breath and giggles , waiting to take a flight at a moments notice .

At the same time, the spectacle was going to be too good to miss. 

After the payment was made , the homeowner repaired quickly in , locked his gates and was heard shouting at his womenfolk " Jaldi , bhago ."

A confusion of alarmed shouts and suppressed giggles ensued from the farmer's home. 

The Tommy , took a bite of one juicy pink square and stuffed the rest into the horse's frothing mouth .

The teenagers' collective mouth fell open . They had no time to wait  or guffaw. Pell mell they ran to the fields , where the slippery , narrow paths would be impossible for either the Brit or the horse to give chase . 

The agonised screams and curses of the Brit and incessant neighing of the afflicted horse could be heard all over the terror stricken village. 

It is learnt later that the homeowner who sold him the ole was brave enough to feed large quantities of nimbu Paani to the human and salted water to the horse to kill the after effects of the raw yam . 

The teenagers retired to the safety and anonymity of rooftops to watch "tamasha" .

The incident  quietly entered the legion of " legendary stories to be told to the grandchildren" .