The Horizon Never Ends

Now it’s all done and it’s time to go home. Time for one last look at the coconut trees from the balcony, the lonely white chapel at the end of the road, and the Aguada bay seen over the roofs of the buildings across our flat. Now, already, it’s time for missing things. Time for Toni Morrison who once said, it is sheer good fortune to miss somebody long before they leave you. And there are so many people and things to miss.

I’ll miss the excitement that I felt as we cast off from Mumbai, beginning our sail that would last eight days and cover 280 nautical miles. ‘This is it,’ I said to myself, as the main sail came up, remembering the six months of intense preparation – working out, swimming, keeping fit, eating heavy duty breakfasts, reading books on sailing and navigation, designing the special seat that would be used on the boat, and allaying Mom’s fears about the journey (No mom, I don’t think I need to take along a deep-sea diver for safety).

We were finally on the sea, on a heading of two-two-zero out of Mumbai harbour. The light was fading fast, and when I looked back, I could see a clutch of friends and relatives on the shore waving at us in the twilight, holding flags that said Bon Voyage, though I couldn’t read them from this distance. Moments earlier, Adi Godrej had looked at me as he had come to the end of his short speech at the flag-off ceremony, and had said, ‘Enjoy the sail, Salil.’ I would remember his words many times, especially when we were stuck in the sea with no breeze, waiting under the hot sun for hours for the wind to pick up.

I’ll miss that spot on the sea where I woke up the first morning. I pulled myself up from the floor of the boat on to the thwart. I rubbed my eyes and looked around and all I could see was this soft morning shade, a silvery pink. Miles and miles of it. No land, no topography, no sound, no birds, just a curvy gelatinous sea and our boat moving up and down on the silvery pink and silence, broken by the tinkle of water against the hull of the boat.

I’ll miss every evening’s routine, a little after sunset, when Umaji would open his dry sack and start wearing his cap and jacket, and tell us to dress warmly before we got cold. I’ll miss him radioing Chaitanya on the boat behind, asking him to make sure everyone was dressed warmly on his boat. In fact, I’ll miss all the radio conversations. ‘Come in Chitanya … Chaitanya come in …’ And I’ll miss that first night when we lost radio contact and kept wondering where Chaitanya’s boat was, till he crept up on us silently in the morning.

I’ll miss the suspense of the nights. The inky seas, the constant search for a reference point in the sky. Finding a star that was convenient to steer by. Flashing the torch from time to time on the compass kept along side, correcting the course of the boat till the arrow pointing north aligned itself to the red mark on the compass, then flashing the torchlight on the sail to warn others of our presence, and finally a quick look at the tell-tales to see what the wind was doing. And when there was nothing else to do, asking someone (usually Umaji) questions like, ‘What’s our speed right now?’ or, ‘How many nautical miles from shore?’ or, ‘What’s our average so far?’ Then he’d consult the GPS and provide the requested information.

I’ll miss the wait for the moon to set, so we could see clearly in the dark. I’ll miss looking up at the countless stars and the sound of the center-plate going dug-dug, dug-dug right next to my ear, as I tried to find a comfortable posture to sleep in. And I’ll miss the lifejacket under my head for a pillow.

I’ll miss all the planning that we did every day before we set sail – we head out two-four-zero for an hour and then we turn to one-eight-zero till we see the lighthouse, when we turn to one-six-zero; when we see the port we’ll jibe and a couple of tacks should take us into the jetty; we’ll be coming into the port from the northwest, so the approach should be easier, but we’ll have to go around this headland and tack and finally luff up to the jetty…

I’ll miss the sparrow that came and sat on our boat once, all exhausted, her beak wide open and panic in her eyes. I threw a slice of orange towards her but the bird just looked at it and finally flew off when she saw the hills. I’ll miss the mysterious butterflies that were out in the sea and the phosphorescence that I saw one night, along the main sail sheet that was hanging in the water.

And of course, I’ll miss the wedding anniversary we had on the sea. I’d finished my shift on the tiller and was resting on the floor of the boat. It would soon be time for me to take the tiller again. When it was past twelve, I heard my cousin on the radio with Chaitanya:

‘Come in Chaitanya … Chaitanya do you read me?’

‘I hear you, over.’

‘Is Monika awake? Over.’

‘Monika was on the deck, but she has just gone into the cabin to sleep, over.’

‘When she comes out, will you wish her a happy anniversary, over.’

‘Roger … copy that … er … will you do the same with Salil, please, over.’

‘Will do … over and out.’

Then in the morning they got the two boats together, so Monika could be transferred to my boat and we could be together on our anniversary.

I’ll miss the times around lunch hour in the boat when the conversation always turned to food as we sucked on some oranges – remember the prawn curry at Zia’s in Mumbai, or the biryani at Deogadh? The poha at Ratnagiri was something else, wasn’t it? Where exactly is the Lemon Tree restaurant in Aguada? And I’ll miss that incredible sip of Thums Up when we reached shore in the afternoon at Ratnagiri. The bottle was put to the lips and when it came down the entire contents had disappeared in one smooth gulp.

I’ll miss the dolphins, the beaches and the cliffs we saw along the coast. The windmills, the radio towers, the bridges over creeks, and the eerie dark shadows of the Vengurla rocks that we passed at night. I’ll miss the interminable wait for the three flashes of the Aguada lighthouse when we were well past Vengurla. The light was supposed to be visible 27 nautical miles away, but we never did see it because of the haze. And I’ll miss the time when we were suddenly surrounded by fishing nets. We raised the center-plate up a little so the nets wouldn’t get caught and meandered our way out.

I’ll also miss the rigging of the boat, the pulling of halyards, the unfurling of sails, inserting the sail batons, raising the anchor, lowering the centre-plate, putting in the rudder and the tiller, and UC calling out to me, ‘I’m casting off … have you planned your course, Salil?’ And as we entered a port, UC always telling me, ‘Be aware of the wind.’

I’ll miss sitting under the blazing sun, doing nothing, waiting for some breeze, wondering what had made me take up this sail. If we were lucky we’d see a sea snake or two, or a shoal of surface fish going past the boat, or a barracuda zipping over the water on its tail. Then after hours of nothing, we’d eventually see the wind on the water, and watch it make its way towards us. I won’t forget Umaji saying to me, ‘When you start off again, you’ll forget all the waiting, as if it hadn’t happened. That’s the great thing about sailing.’

I’ll miss riding the big waves. The fine art of sliding the boat down a swell to gather speed and then bringing it back on course. I’ll also miss our efforts to use every scrap of wind, every gust on the water, avoiding the holes in the wind.

I’ll miss the time when Monika and Shaunik decided to jump into the sea, when we were within striking distance of Goa. They were to be picked up by Chaitanya’s boat. They kept asking me to get into the water, but I declined.

And I’ll miss the time when we finally anchored off the Cidade beach. A few friends had sailed out to meet us. All of us on the boat shook hands and hugged each other, and suddenly there was a round of clapping on boats all around us. It lasted for about thirty seconds, but I’ll remember it for a lifetime.

I also understand now, Umaji's mysterious question, ‘Doing this is so much better than not doing this, isn’t it?’ But now, it's time to go home and miss things.

Picture credits: Pankaj Misra

(Remembering the Godrej Brighter Horizons Sail, which Umaji Chowgule, Monika, Shaunik, Chaitanya Chowgule, I and a host of others undertook from Mumbai to Goa. The idea was to campaign for access for disabled persons in India. For coverage of the sail, please google it.)

From A Child's Eyes

This was Sudiksha’s first time in Goa, and she wasn’t too thrilled with the idea of visiting the churches of Old Goa.

“But you had promised me you’d take me to the kitties, Tauji,” she protested.

“I will,” I said, feeling a little sorry for not having fulfilled my promise.

The kitties in question were two white cats at the ayurvedic centre close to our rented accommodation in Dona Paula. Sudiksha had been mesmerized when I had told her that one of the cats had one green and one blue eye. She’d been pestering me since to take her to the kitties. But Velha Goa was part of the regular must-see places in Goa and had taken precedence over the kitties. I mean, the kitties didn’t have World Heritage status or anything.

“Will you take me to the kitties, after we go to Well Goa?” Sudiksha tried to wangle another assurance from me.

“Yes,” I promised her for the seventh time in the day. I could see there was no way I was going to fulfill the promise, though, and was already thinking up excuses.

At the Basilica of Bom Jesus, the merry gang of sight-seeing relatives got off at the entrance along with Sudiksha, and I headed for the car park. As I entered the gate of the Basilica, Sudiksha came shrieking to me.

“Salil Tauji, there are three dogs there,” she said pointing to the trees in the gardens. “Let’s go make friends with them. I want to make them my friends.”

“First let’s go and see Bom Jesus,” I said, holding her hand. “Look at that!” I tried to distract her with some architectural artifact.

“What is Bom Jesus?”

“Infant Jesus. A child like you,” I said.

“Who is Jesus?” she wanted to know next. I hurriedly looked over my shoulder to check if anyone had heard us. It felt a little embarrassing to have a four-year-old asking who Jesus was, in the compound of the oldest church in Goa.

“Jesus is Christ. You know Christ?”

“No.”

“Hmmm… he’s like… Ok let’s go in and I’ll show you.”

“Can’t we go and make friends with the dogs, pleeeeease.”

“Later, later. Let’s see the church first,” I said, dragging her along.

As we entered the Basilica, Sudiksha looked around, quite impressed by it’s size. Everyone spent time looking around, admiring the wood carvings. Sudiksha sat down on one of the benches, busying herself with a song. A little later she came up to me and tugged at my hand. She had already been instructed to speak in a whisper.

“When are they starting the phillum?” she whispered to me.

“What film?” I whispered back.

“They don’t show phillums in this hall, Tauji?”

“No, this is a church. This is a temple for Christians.”

“Who are Christians?” she wanted to know.

I looked around to make sure no one had heard that.

“Followers of Christ,” I said, but realising that she didn’t know who Christ was, or what ‘followers’ were, I decided to try another approach.

“You know Christmas?” I asked.

“Yes!”

“Good… what’s it?” I asked, knowing my task would now be easier.

“It’s a tree!” she answered brightly.

“Er… no…”

“Salil Tauji, are they going to show a phillum here or not?”

“What film would you want to see here?” I asked.

“Tell them to show a phillum on Christ.”

“No, they can’t do that.” I said.

“Okay, so let’s go and make friends with the dogs.”

I finally relented and slipped out with her and made friends with the three dogs.

A little later, everyone wanted to see the Se Cathedral. Sudiksha and I tagged along and made friends with two more dogs that were sleeping in the lawns. Tomorrow we’ll go and meet the kitties.

We did!

Bra and Boat, Panaji, Goa

Now I know your size,

But what's the colour of your eyes?

How long are your legs?

How do you wear your hair?

Do you get dimples when you smile?

I can see you are forgetful,

But did you remember to look up at the stars?

Do you remember the sound of the waves?

And the three bright flashes of the lighthouse?

Did you remember to button your blouse?

Narkasura in Goa

I am greatly impressed by the fire-resistivity of demons. I mean, we keep consigning them to flames year after year, and they keep raising their mean heads from the ashes, challenging us to extinguish them.

This time I met a demon called Narkasura in Goa. He started off as a harmless, almost comical, bundle of hay and canvas. Slowly, over about two days, he acquired a metal-wire skeleton from scrap, then cloth and hay muscles, followed by a papier-mache skin and finally a spray-painted skin texture. Strangely, the head was missing, which was the last thing to be put on.

I was going ‘What, man?’ seeing these strange creatures popping up in different locations, so Monika made some inquiries and we discovered that this was Narkasura and he would be burnt at four in the morning. That piece of information got more ‘What man? Whatsgoingon?’ responses from me. It was already evening, and the heads weren’t even in place and they were talking of burning him. I could see that many ofthem were still being worked upon. It just didn’t make any sense. Why would they create something so extravagant just for a few hours?

The only way to find out more was to go out at night. Besides, I was too hooked by now. I had to see the heads. So we went around in the Hindu lanes of Panaji. Seeing us with a camera, one gentleman gave us elaborate directions to various Narkasuras (don't miss the one near the coconut tree behind the building), and also offered to send a boy on a cycle along with us, but we declined. What we found out from two elderly ladies (smelling of sweet feni instead of perfume -- it was that kind of a delightful neighbourhood) is:

“Yeh puraane jamaane ka badmaash hai. Ladkiyon ko bahut sataata tha. Bahut saari auroton ko kidnap kiya. Krishna Kanhaiya ne isko maar daala. Wo Krishna se bahut jealousy karta tha. Krishna ko boltaa tha: Tere paas itni ladkiyan hai aur mere se sab bhagti hai. Aisa kyo? Idhar Goa mein isko jalaane se diwali shuroo ho jaata hai.”

So, well, a Happy Diwali to all of you. What's Diwali without its demons?

And finally, our personal favourite, which in our opinion is the scariest, because we had to imagine it all:

Photo credits: Monika

So, Are You Fortified?

On a rainy day

During the last heavy showers in Delhi, our beloved Champa tree took a beating. It looks like it has collapsed, but it has actually snapped from the bottom. We're trying to get it back up, so let's see...













On the happier side of green, the lemon tree gave us a bumper crop:





























The guava tree also went berserk this time, offering more than 200 guavas. We were so busy eating and distributing them that we forgot to take pictures. For the past month it has been the norm for courier guys, the milkman, electrician, dhobi, etc, to be seen walking out of our house munching guavas. The milkman asked me one morning if he could pluck "two guavas." I said, yes, ofcourse, it was my pleasure. Little did I realise that there was a tiny asterisk in his question. He meant to ask if he could pluck two guavas daily! Some days ago, a cousin heard the milkman berating the street guards early in the morning that they were plucking all the guavas, and not leaving any for him. My cousin told him that the guavas had disappeared because a bird comes every morning and takes away two ripe ones. The humour was lost on the milkman.

hooded entities, noida

yes

trees are yes
and birds are yes
your hands are yes
beach sands are yes
dolphins are yes
sailboats are yes
sea spray is yes
salt cheeks are yes
clouds are yes
raindrops are yes
earthworms are yes
and snails are yes
moments are yes
seconds are yes
and all the hours of sleep
are yes
dew drops are yes
sea waves are yes
spider webs are yes
dark caves are yes
blue is yes
and green is yes
and all the brown between
is yes!

Remember Me As Yes

And when it is all over
Crunched, compacted, squeezed, jammed and crammed
Distilled, boiled, condensed, brewed and burnt
When my essence slips away into the great unknown
Remember me as yes.

Do you understand what it

When you look at
In a manner of
See, it’s like
Whichever way you look at
Let me tell
No, no, no, no, no
You’ve got to take into
First of
Do you really
What I was
If that’s the way you
Let’s take it from the
If you’d just listen to what
That’s like
It’s very easy to
Do you understand what it

Don't watch this video with your parents...

Watch it instead with your kids, especially if they are between five and fifteen (after that you've taught them -- or they've learnt from elsewhere -- that life is all about getting ahead, being on top, being first, being competitive, that life is all about taking care of your own self). So, sit your kids down, and watch this with them, then ask them for ideas on what to do. Share those ideas with me, if you care to. I'd love to hear. Seriously. But do watch this with them, so that when they are all grown up they don't ever turn around and say, ‘But you never told us about the important things.’

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8M5aeMpzOLU

Swimming pool, Jacuzzi, Water-slide

Swimming pool, Jacuzzi, Water-slide success
Lake, pond, stream failure
Bravery, courage, valour success
Humility, understanding, sympathy failure
Aryan, Anglo-saxon, Viking success
Maori, Masari, Warli failure
Ambition, drive, target success
Lazing, exploring, discovering failure
Steel, glass, cement success
Mud, thatch, bamboo failure
Olympics, Super-bowl, World Cup success
I Spy, Blind-man’s buff, Cutting-the-cake failure
Scotch, Bourbon, Cola success
Narangi, Mahua, Jaljeera failure
Mercedes, BMW, Humvee success
Cycle, auto, rickshaw failure
Aspirin, the Pill, antibiotic success
Churan, rasayana, murabba failure
Jaguar, Puma, Lynx success
Panda, Seal, Polar Bear failure
Manhattan, Singapore, Hong Kong success
Arctic, Amazon, Sunderbans failure
Labrador, German Shepherd, Daschund success
Moti, Kaalu, Muttoo failure

And this, just in...

It was a Friday evening and that meant the coverage would extend over the weekend. What luck, Aditya thought, as he neared home. The earthquake in China, the typhoon in Burma and the floods in Bangladesh had happened within days of each other. He loved watching coverage of natural disasters. The devastation, the raw forces of nature, the homeless, the death counts changing by the hour, the race to get supplies in, it was all very exciting. And the best part was when individual stories of suffering started emerging. As the reporters rushed into the areas, all kinds of bizarre human behaviour emerged. He had liked the New Orleans floods and the politics around it and the way black people shot helicopters that came in to rescue them. Raw. Totally raw. You had to give it to the foreign channels. They knew how to cover natural disasters with professionalism. He wasn’t so satisfied with domestic coverage. The floods that had devastated Bihar weren’t even covered for a single day by the media. No individual stories. It had been a great disappointment. But the weekend promised to be good. Aditya dialled Domino’s for a pizza. The attendant waited as Aditya thought about the flavour. “Make it a large keema,” he said.

Time, in my backyard

Time grows in my backyard...















Time flows in my backyard...















Time pumps up...














in my backyard.

Punctuation

At the School for Special Children - 7

“Come back!Stop! I'm not coming after you, Raju!” the mother shouted and collapsed on the bench. The boy continued to run around the quadrangle, shouting, “Inocoo-lashunnn, Inocoo-lashunnn.” The front of his trousers were wet.

“Is he scared of injections,” I asked the mother. She looked a little confused, then she started laughing. “Oh, no. He’s trying to say ‘Inauguration.’ See, he wets his pants very often. I always carry a change for him,” she indicated the cloth bag she was carrying. “His father jokes with him about the new trousers he gets. They are inaugurated not when he wears them but when he pees in them. Those are trousers we bought him last week and now he’s inaugurated them.”

The Hand

At the School for Special Children - 6

“She’s the wife of a police officer,” the lady said. “She took her husband’s service revolver and shot herself in the chest. But before that she shot her seven-year-old daughter. The daughter kept asking her what she was doing. ‘Close your eyes,’ she said to her daughter. Later, as they both lay in a pool of blood, the daughter kept complaining to her about unbearable heat in her chest. What do you do with a child like that, one who can’t differentiate between pain and heat?”

At the School for Special Children - 5

The little boy had a strong punch so the father held the boy's arms tightly along his sides. The boy moved his head sideways, screaming loudly. The mother sat opposite the little boy and held a small square placard under her chin. The placard had a picture of an orange on it. The mother said, “Orange,” and pointed to the image on the placard under her chin so that the boy could relate the word to the picture. The boy kicked her in the face and the mother started crying. The boy started crying, too. The father hit the boy on the head and rushed to help the mother who had her face buried in her hands. The father started crying, too.

At the School for Special Children - 4

“She is very jealous of me,” the father said. His wife nodded her head several times in agreement. The father picked up his six year old son and holding his head with both hands asked, “Who am I?” “Pa,” said the child and rolled on the bed, turning his eyes away. The father laughed. “It took us an year to get him to say it!” He looked happy. “She’s very jealous, but we’re trying to teach him to say 'Ma', now.”

At the School for Special Children - 3

The teacher aligned the child with the beer cans and placed the ball at the child’s foot. “Now pay attention,” he said. “Concentrate, and do as I did. Be a good boy.” The teacher had already spent half an hour trying to get the child to kick the ball in a straight line so that it would hit the row of empty cans. The parents looked on. “He did it yesterday,” the teacher said. “Must have been a fluke,” said the father, “He’s hopeless. He doesn’t understand a word. He is always someplace else. It’s hopeless.” The teacher encouraged the child to try again. After a few tries, the child broke away from the teacher, leaving the ball at the teacher’s feet. He went straight for the beer cans and knocked them over one by one, kicking wildly at them, sometimes having to kick two to three times before he connected with a can. The task having been accomplished, the child went and stood in a corner and started making bird-like sounds that sounded like okay kao ka, okay kao ka... it was extremely musical.

At the School for Special Children -2

“One day we will die and she must die with us,” he said as his wife played with the child. “Sometimes I catch myself thinking that maybe I should take poison and kill us all. Grandmother was right when she said, Even beggars are better off. At least a beggar knows how to ask for food. But she doesn’t even know how to do that. She can only steal food and will wind up being beaten.”

The mother’s excited shouts interrupted his thoughts. “She is using both hands!” the mother screamed. “Go Anushka, Anushka, go!” Little Anushka held the ball over her head and ran with it. The mother was training her to put it into a basket kept in the centre of the courtyard. Anushka ran past the basket and didn’t know how to stop, she was so engrossed in keeping the ball above her head. The father looked on. “She’s improving,” the mother said as she caught Anushka. The girl lifted her skirt and the mother started rubbing her tummy. The girl squealed with pleasure.

At the School for Special Children - 1

“When I see normal children in the street I can’t bear to look,” she said. She was sitting with her son on the edge of the fountain. The son had been eating candyfloss and his face was covered with bits of it as if he had candyfloss pox. The sound of the water in the fountain mingled with the bubbling laughter and cheerful shrieks of the children in the quadrangle. “Other people have healthy children, but not me. Once you have a child like ours you have to give up your dreams,” she said. “He will make progress only if you dedicate yourself entirely. If I am successful in life and he deteriorates, I will feel guilty. Look at him, he is not the same as them. When we walk down the street people stare oddly at us.” I looked at the child.

Saliluku 8

Traffic jams,
Undiscovered roads,
Valleys of billboards,
Winding black rivers leading to nowhere.

Saliluku 7

Fulfilled I feel in
Great Silences.
How much we speak!

The details, please

Where will he begin from, Kiran (sleepy-not-in-the-mood-Kiran)?
From between the shoulder blades working down the spine,
Or along the rib-cage, carving an outline?
Maybe from the armpits down the flanks,
But most likely straight from the navel and then working up the shanks.
And what about the digits? Will he do the hands first or the feet?
Will he be counting off every stroke in lazy pleasure or working at a frenetic pace, crazed by the meat. Will he stop for breath at the wrist? And the eyes, ears, tongue, the cheeks… it’s a long list. And what will his technique be at the thigh? A left, a right, or sweetly, by and by. The calves I’m assuming will be split in halves. No, not until every dangerous Muslim toe is accounted for in their election manifesto. Till then I absolutely refuse to vote for his party or Mr Varun Gandhi. Till then, Om Shantih.

Bapu is Back

Vijay Mallya has purchased Gandhiji's belongings for $1.8 million and saved the nation from shame. Here's my tribute:

चप्पल चश्मे घड़ी लोटा थाली

पैर में पड़ जाते हैं इनके तुंरत छाले
पहनते हैं तभी रीबोक के जूते साले
देश की धूल, देश की पगडंडी से इन्हें क्या मतलब
सूखते गाँवों, पिघलती आशाओं से इन्हे क्या मतलब
एम् एन सी के पीछे भागते हैं धक्कम-धप्पल
चाहते हैं गाँधी के चश्मे घड़ी लोटा थाली चप्पल

नज़र नहीं आता पेड़ से टंगता किसान
जिसके पास माल नहीं वो नहीं इंसान
दीखता तो है इनको गाड़ी से भिखारी
पर गरीबी तो है एक किस्म की बिमारी
मंडराती है इनकी ज़िन्दगी बस अपने ही यश में
चाहते हैं गाँधी की घड़ी लोटा थाली चप्पल चश्मे

महीनों से इनको आया नहीं पसीना
खून कर के संसद में चौड़ा करते हैं सीना
SATYAM को उल्टा कर के कहते हैं MAYTAS
क्रेडिट कार्ड से इनके बटुए रहते हैं लैस
झुग्गियों पे इनकी नज़र एक पल न पड़ी
चाहते हैं गाँधी का लोटा थाली चप्पल चश्मे घड़ी

हर चीज़ इनके लिए बन गई है ज़रिया
अपने मकानों के लिए इकठ्ठा करते हैं सरिया
इनके शरीर में चुभता है रूखा खद्दर
बहुत बड़ी फैलाते हैं यह अपनी चद्दर
सारा विश्व भी इनकी भूख के लिए है छोटा
चाहते हैं गाँधी की थाली चप्पल चश्मे घड़ी लोटा

क्या होता है सरल जीवन, क्या होते हैं उच्च विचार
इनकी पेट भर बातों के लिए तो यह धारणाएं हैं अचार
'हरिजन' एक शब्द है जिसका मतलब है 'चमार'
अपनी ही जाती को पकड़ते हैं बार-बार
गाँधी इनके जीवन से है खाली
चाहते हैं गाँधी की चप्पल चश्मे घड़ी लोटा थाली

Recessionary Garden

Monika has done it again. This year there are 17 kinds of flowers in our garden, the recession not withstanding. And while the government has revised the expected growth rate of the economy from 8 to 7 to about 5 point something, the tree in our garden has not heard about any such revisions. Its sprouting new leaves after a winter of bare branches. Soon, the mauve, sweet-smelling flowers should also be making their appearance.

Saroj

That's Saroj in our kitchen, heating some milk. She's been working for us for the past year or so. She's quiet and efficient but slightly hard of hearing. At least that's what I suspect, because I have to constantly repeat things to her.

Anyway, yesterday, as she was leaving, she asked me for a bottle of beer. Seeing my expression, she was quick to clarify that she needed an empty bottle of beer. “Will you be selling it to the kabaadiwallah?” I asked as I went into the store room to get the bottle. Her answer was intriguing. She told me she needed the bottle to make a cooking stove. She then went on to explain the process f making the stove but I couldn’t make head or tail of it so I asked her to show it to me when she was done with it.

Of course, Saroj knows how to operate a gas stove. As you've already guessed from the picture right in the beginning of this post, that’s her, in our kitchen, on our gas stove, heating milk.

This is Saroj with her own stove. It’s a recycled paint box (probably Asian Paints) with a hole cut out at the bottom. The beer bottle is placed in the centre of the box and then wood shavings are packed tightly all around it. Since Saroj’s husband works as a labourer in a house that is being constructed nearby, there is a constant supply of wood shavings. When the wood havings are packed tight, the beer bottle is taken out carefully, leaving a neat hole and that's about it. The stove is ready.

Saroj says she can make one whole meal for her family on this stove, which would be dal, rice and about ten chapattis (she calls them 'rotis'). Then she’ll make the stove all over again. The paint box will remain the same. And I guess the beer bottle too, until it breaks.

That's Saroj wth her kids, preparing to heat some water on the stove, right outside thier hut, which is barely a hundred feet away from our house.Saroj said that tomorrow she would get me some dal made on her stove. I'm looking forward to it. The beer bottle, by the way, was Kingfisher's. Hey, Happy Republic Day to Indians everywhere.

An Educated Response

Govindji comes to our place between 7 and 7.30 in the morning. He never comes in. He stands at the door, in his trademark white stubble and ready grin, waiting for me to bring out the milk container into which he empties one litre of milk. That’s our daily connection. One litre of milk. And a bit of chit-chat. How are the cows? Everything alright at home? How are the daughters (five of them, about whom he is perpetually worried)?

So this morning when he failed to smile, I assumed it was the daughters he was preoccupied with. I thought it wise not to probe and took the milk. He just stood there. I waited, rubbed my eyes and coughed. He turned away, and then turned back, facing me, hesitation in his eyes and entire body.

“Everything okay?” I asked him.

“Is it important to know English to be educated?” he asked me.

The answer was easy for me, but why he was asking me the question, early in the morning, was a mystery. “No, it’s not,” I said. “What happened?”

“Arre, tell me truthfully, have I caused you any harm?” he asked. I could see it was a rhetorical question, so I let it pass. Then he related to me how he had been harangued by a man the previous evening as he was bringing his buffaloes and cows back after grazing them. The man was driving a ‘long car’ and too fast for his own good, too. The buffaloes were crossing the road and the man had to brake hard to avoid a collision. Even so, he hit one of the buffalo calves which now had a fracture. The man had got off the car, and examining the damage to the bumper, had cussed and fumed, calling Govindji names, some of which he understood. “Idiot,” was one of them. Govindji had been unable to sleep and had thought about the whole episode overnight and was ready with his argument. Having no one to tell it, he decided to tell me. Perhaps he felt I, too, harboured the same opinions about cattle on the road.

I grew up in the village, he said. There was nothing here. By and by the city was built around it, and it engulfed us. Now the village is surrounded by the city and the city-dwellers think that they have the right of way. Don’t they know it is they who have encroached my land. They are the trespassers. How do I take my cattle out to graze without going through the streets? You tell me.

I had no ready answer.

The White Smile

The orange-soft ends its bounce,
Hurried feathers to their hollows dart.
A white-fluff takes a last colourfill.
And a green-brown holds its breath,
As the ink spreads across the sky.
An eared-beak hoots a greeting,
To the white-smile rising high.

The Nature of Things

Let’s talk
about
the nature of things,
Of the source
from where
it all springs.

Let’s talk
about things apparent,
and opaque
and transparent.

And of things
that lie behind
delicate veils,
Or should we talk
of slugs and snails?

Should we talk
of grass and leaves,
or would you rather
discuss beliefs?

Should we talk
of shrubs and trees?
Tell of butterflies, birds
and the breeze.
Speak the sounds
that creatures make,
that break the silences
around the lake.

And speak of things
with His signature,
Oh yes, let’s talk
about things of nature!
Or shall we talk
about
the nature of things?
Of the source
from where
it all springs?

The Lord's Vessel

I've lived
in the shallows
too long,
O Lord,
deepen me.

Make me
your vessel,
make me strong,
and you decide
what you keep in me.

The Juice of Dawn

The round-yellow begins its bounce,
Stuck in thin tentacly browns,
Cradled in green veined fingers.

A laughing-feather turns purple
and a slant-beak punctures the morning
Spilling the juice of dawn.

The Grave of Two Friends

It’s an awfully
large tombstone,

for a tree so small
and the little bird’s call,

so big,
this mall.

Why I Love To Read

A THOUSAND WRINKLES

I don’t suppose you’ve met Nyima. But then, by a crazy accident, perhaps you have. Strange coincidences do happen in this world. Perhaps you took a holiday to Ladakh and bumped into her. In which case, you would have met Urghyen, her father, too. You must have seen the way his face shows a thousand wrinkles when he smiles. And you would have met her shaggy dog and seen how Urghyen immobilises him by putting his forepaws into his collar so he does not bother people.

You would have seen Nyima milking the goats and picking up their droppings which her family uses for fuel to survive the biting winter. And perhaps Nyima took you to the Hanle monastery where she prays for the goats and yaks of her tribe, the Changpas. Nyima must definitely have shown you her father’s rebo (the traditional Changpa tent). Perhaps Urghyen greeted you: Julley! Namaste! And perhaps, you commented on the hard life they lead and Urghyen told you, too, “The grass grows by itself, the goats and yak eat them, reproduce and stay healthy all by themselves. We get whatever we want – milk, meat, clothes – from them. We do nothing, and you call this a hard life?”

Did Nyima’s uncle Lobsang give you a ride on one of his horses? And did he feed you any of those dried and salted meat preparations? While you were in Changtang (I am sure Nyima told you it means ‘the vast nothingness’ in her language) did you look up at the sky and see the cauliflower clouds?

How lucky you are. I wish I had been to Ladakh and met Nyima and her family, especially her dog. I read about them in a travelogue by Sankar Sridhar who spent time with the Changpas. They even gave him a Changpa name while he was there. Thamo (the thin one), they called him.

That is why I read, to meet people like Nyima and Urghyen, to go to different cultures and places and to understand different ways of being. That is why when, as a child, I would go to my cousin’s house, while everyone else would be playing in the park, I would be hidden under the bed (where no one could find me), with his collection of comics and encyclopaedias, reading about far-off places and people.

Now, please excuse me while I imagine what a face with a thousand wrinkles looks like.

***
Recently, I was asked by Scholastic India to write a short piece (not more than 500 words) on the topic, 'Why I Love To Read.' This is to be a part of a collection of such pieces on the theme and will be distributed in book form to kids. I enjoyed doing the piece and felt that you could also write in about why you like to read. I'd love to hear.

Bandu in Mandu

“You are here at the best time,” was a constant refrain on our recent trip to Mandu. The driver, the guides, the guesthouse staff, all had the same thing to say. And they were right. Mandu is magical in the monsoons. But strangely, after getting back, the strongest memory I have is of Bandu.

Sure, I’ll never forget the green roads from Indore to Omkareshwar. There was new-green, tall-green, wet-green, far-green, hill-green, shadow-green, tilted-green, wild-green, cultivated-green, endless-green. And at Maheshwar, where we stayed in tents on the banks of the Narmada, as I stood looking out at the wide and flowing river, all I felt was waves of damp joy. The grey clouds hung low, highlighting the vibrant green all around and the Narmada flowed, and flowed. The boat ride on the curious shaped boats found in these parts lasted about an hour but it will remain etched in my mind for a long time. From the boat I could see large egrets, common coots, cormorants and pheasant-tailed jacanas frolicking in the weeds. It seemed to me that they knew more about life than I did.

Then at Mandu, in the midst of Mughal history and the impressive baobabs (which go by the name of Afghan Imli), as the car was driving up to Roopmati’s Mahal, the driver switched on the FM radio. “Khwaja mere khwaja, dil me samaja,” the radio was playing. I wondered how much one could carry in one’s heart. Later, I came across Bandu at the hotel. He was standing in front of the reception, his eyes all wet. He had this expression of calmness mixed with a quiet friendliness. “Hello, there,” I said to him and he walked towards me. I could tell he was quite old. I petted his damp fur and he leaned against me and started grunting. When I removed my hand, he put all his weight on me, rubbing his sides on my trousers, accompanied with deep grunts. “He’s been here the longest,” said a guesthouse employee. “All the other dogs around here are his offspring, and now they bully him, but he doesn’t mind it too much. He has the nature of a sage. He understands everything we say to him.” “Well, now, do you Bandu?” I asked him. To my surprise, he looked at me with his ten-year-old droopy eyes, waved his cut tail a couple of times and responded with a low grunt which sounded like “Hmmm…”

Visit Mandu during the monsoons, they’ll tell you. But do say a quiet hello to Bandu on my behalf while you are there. He lives at Hotel Malwa Resort. His real name is Bandya.

A Walk with Krishen and Josie

Perhaps because of the rain the park was empty. “Not many people turn up at this time of the day,” Krishen said. He was suddenly pulled off the path by Josie, the nine-month old forever-curious Beagle. Josie was after some birds that had settled under a frangipani tree. Krishen let the leash pull out and then, with great skill, reeled her in. “It’s like flying a kite,” I said. He chuckled in agreement and held the leash high above his head so I could wheel through under it. The cemented path was just wide enough for my wheelchair and well, a dog. Josie walked along me while Krishen walked slightly behind us. I concentrated on the path and Josie concentrated on the birds and other dogs. Krishen concentrated on Josie and the trees, the trees being his specialty.

It could have been my current interest in Indian taals, or perhaps it was the surreal rain-drenched light that made me see the connection, but as Josie ambled alongside I could identify the rhythms that her feet were beating out on the pathway. Right now she was walking a brisk Kaharwa (dhaa ge na ti na ka dhi na; dhaa ge na ti na ka dhi na).

“Oh look, that’s a Krishna-kadamb,” Krishen was pointing to a tree that had small ball-shaped flowers. “The stamens are sticky and the ball is actually made up of hundreds of flowers, if you look carefully,” he said, handing me a field magnifying glass that he fished out from his pocket. Josie went off to the right after a large Labrador in a rapid Khemata (dhage dhin gin, taage tin kin). I examined the kadamba flower under the magnifying glass and felt the stickiness of the stamens. “Why the Krishna-kadamb?” I asked when Krishen returned with Josie. “Because this is the one associated with Krishna in Brindavan. But it’s actually the Kaim – Mitragyna parviflora.” “So, what about the other one?” I asked. “Well, that has a larger ball of flowers and different leaves too, but it’s native to the forests of the North-east. It gets mistaken for the kadamb of Krishna.” Ten minutes into the walk and one mystery had been solved. Just the previous week my mother-in-law had been complaining how everything had changed since she was a child. The vegetables didn’t taste the same anymore and even the kadamb’s flowers didn’t grow to the size she remembered. Obviously, what she remembered from her childhood was a different kadamb.

We walked along in silence. Josie was straining at the leash, pulling it with a stretched Dadra (dhaa dhi na, dhaa ti na; dhaa dhi na, dhaa ti na). “Look, here is a Krishna-siris. Doesn’t it look beautiful?” Krishen was now pointing to a tree that had a feathery canopy. Its round, yellow flowers glittered like jewels in the rain-washed sunlight. He picked up a few flowers. “Do they smell as good as the Siris?” I asked. "Here." I brought the flowers close to my nose. The flowers were much smaller than the Siris and their smell also had a diminutive quality. Josie had meanwhile found something of interest and had led Krishen towards a clump of trees with a bouncy Rupak (tee tee na, dhi na, dhi na).

After about an hour of walking, as I was getting into my car, I mumbled my thanks, “That was a great walk, especially...” before I could finish Krishen squinted his eyes, looked over my shoulder and walked into some bushes in the car parking area, “Hey, there's a Crysptostegia Grandiflora! It’s an African vine that was brought to India for rubber, but it turned out to be no good. It’s called rabad ki bel, and grows wild in the Delhi ridge now.” He emerged from the bushes and handed me a light blue flower. The trumpet-shaped flower had a remarkable springy quality and I pressed it all the way on my drive back home. The flower didn't last a day, but the walk will remain fresh in the garden of my memories, as will Josie’s rhythms.

But I’m On A Wheelchair!

There was so much I wanted to say to her but all that came out was a shaky ‘So?’

I wanted to tell her about how I had represented India for Wheelchair Tennis in the Australian Open in Melbourne and in Isuka, Japan. I wanted to tell her that I recently acted in a play directed by Feisal Alkazi. I wanted to tell her that sometimes children (the little angels) come up to me at airports or on the Delhi Metro or in malls, and ask me, their eyes brimming with excitement: “Are you Jugadoo?” That’s the character I play in Galli Galli Sim Sim, the Indian adaptation of Sesame Street. I wanted to tell her about my poetry that was published in a Hindi literary journal called Tadbhav. I wanted to tell her that I won a short story award this year, held by Unisun Publishing in association with the British Council. I wanted to tell her why I was flying to Chennai – to be part of a core group that is to decide the curriculum for Telecentre operators all over rural India who would like to do the course through IGNOU. I wanted to tell her that she was hurting me and breaking my spirit, but all could manage was a befuddled stammer and a ‘S...S...So?’

It was a clinching argument, as far as she was concerned. “But you are on a wheelchair, aren’t you?” she had said. Since I was on a wheelchair, I was a sick person and I would have to sign the form that was meant to be signed by ‘sick’ people when they boarded a plane. “But I’m not sick,” I said. “See, I’m traveling independently.” “But what are you sitting on? A wheelchair!” she said triumphantly.

The face of the Brigadier flashed through my mind. “You’re still around,” I thought to myself. After all these years, you’re still around. You’re dressed as ground staff of SpiceJet, you’ve changed your gender and you’ve changed your age, but you’re still around. The retired Brigadier had been working at the Delhi Lawn Tennis Association (DLTA), then. I was going to Melbourne to represent my country for wheelchair tennis and I had had to raise funds on my own for the trip. I had made a presentation to Muktesh Pant, who used to be the CEO of Reebok at that time. He had been excited about the tournament and had decided to pay for the airfare and to kit the two-member team. We had received track suits, two pairs of shoes (tennis shoes and jogging shoes), and Reebok had put in place a reward scheme if we managed to reach the quarters, the semis or the finals. Muktesh had taken me around the Reebok facility in Kapasehra, his chest filled with pride. After the tour he wished me luck and then someone from Reebok told me what the kit would contain. The kit was sent directly to DLTA and when we received them I found that the jogging shoes were missing. I asked the Brigadier about them. He was surprised that I knew the contents of the kit. “But you are on a wheelchair!” he said. “You won’t need to jog, since you are on a wheelchair.” I had reasoned that, in that case, I didn’t need to wear the tennis shoes either, because my feet wouldn’t touch the court at all. But since I would wear the tennis shoe while playing my matches, I would like to wear the jogging shoes when I went for my morning warm up ‘run’ on the wheelchair. We got the jogging shoes finally, but we also got an education in sports management in India. And it had hurt then, too, for someone to look you straight in the eye and say you were lesser because you were on a wheelchair.

Back to the SpiceJet counter at Delhi airport. Since I insisted on not signing the form, the lady went to her senior, a young ‘sardarji’ who spoke to me like someone speaks to a child. “You will not board the flight if you don’t sign this form,” he said. “Why don’t you just sign this? It’s only a signature and we can’t use it against you.” Here I was, parked in a corner behind the desk, the other passengers wondering about by stubbornness, the airline staff reminding me that I was different because I was on a wheelchair. I felt everyone was against me. The whole damn system was singling me out. I finally wrote in large letters, my hands shaking uncontrollably. I wrote, “Mai Bimaaar Nahin Hoon,” and I refused to sign.

On the way back from Chennai, it was nicer, but only for a while. I didn’t have to sign any form and the ground staff gave me a window seat as I had requested. The supervisor, on his own initiative, kept the seat next to me empty so I could put my legs up if I wanted to get more comfortable. I was reminded of the friendly flight steward of Qantas who had come up to me and had offered a beer. “This is on me myte (mate),” he had said. “This is Foster’s, better than Haywards!”. And then he had sat next to me and had discussed my game and playing style. I was also reminded of the young British coach who had taught me how to serve with a snap in the wrists so the serve was flat and cocked up. He used to play the ATP circuit and had volunteered his time with the British team as a coach. He had told me how he used to spend six hours on a wheelchair every week, playing the game from that perspective so he could train sportspersons on a wheelchair. Perhaps this flight will be different I thought. But things changed when it was time to board the plane. I had insisted that they board me before other passengers, as was the international norm. But they didn’t do that and I was carried in the aisle by two untrained porters who carried me like a sack of potatoes while I tried to keep my trousers from slipping and closed my eyes to save myself from the embarrassment as all passengers turned their heads to look at me.

I braced myself as the aircraft lined itself for landing at the Delhi airport. I asked the air-hostess to make sure that my wheelchair was taken out of the hold and brought to the aircraft so I could sit on it directly. But the wheelchair was taken to arrivals and I spent an hour waiting for it to arrive. It was midnight and I was feeling exhausted, but the body pumped in some adrenalin to wake me up. The flight steward shook his head at my stubbornness. “Why can’t you use the airline chair?” he asked me. “It’s against the rules to give your chair from the hold.” That was a new one for me. How could I tell this clean-shaven, smart, cheerful young man that a wheelchair is not a wheelchair is not a wheelchair. Every wheelchair is different as is every person on a wheelchair. He wouldn’t understand how I had spent the last two months recovering from a fall at the Bombay airport because I was on an airline wheelchair. He wouldn’t understand how I had spent the flight to Chennai covering up the wetness on my trouser and hoping no one would be able to smell the pee. He wouldn’t understand that just because they were not trained properly, the porters had lifted at the wrong places and the tube to my urine bag had been pulled off. After sometime he came to me and said, a polite smirk on his face, “It’s late and I am leaving now. The security will take care of things from here on.” The security was busy telling me how it was impossible to get the chair back from arrivals. During the flight I had been re-reading Ben Okri’s ‘Songs of Enchantment’ and had spent most of my flight mulling over one line that had sprung up from the page, had wrapped itself around my being and had taken my mind on a fascinating journey. “Love is the real power,” Azarro’s father says to him in the novel. It had held me in trance because of the magical way the line had been set up in the novel. I asked Ben Okri, as I waited in the aircraft for over an hour for my wheelchair, security staff and flight attendants irritated by my insistence, “How does one love all this, Ben?”

I thought about Monika waiting for me at the arrival for the past two hours. For no reason I suddenly recalled how she stood on top of the bed so I could reach the end of her saree and adjust it for her. And I felt relieved and smiled to myself. Love, indeed, is the real power that guides us through our lives. SpiceJet needs to learn how to love. So what, if I’m on a wheelchair.

When the chair finally arrived and I was taken out of the aircraft, I was offered a can of Coke. I knew none of the staff would understand that I had stopped drinking Coke (even in my rum) since the Plachimada incident. Not wanting to hurt their sensibilities, I took a sip from the can and threw the rest of it when they weren’t looking. By this time Monika was with me and I was feeling loved and complete again.

Yeh Ajab Tamasha Ped Ka –The Working Trees of Delhi

Jeete ped, marte ped, yeh ajab tamashaa ped ka, tells me Ombir Singh, a kabaadi-wallah who operates his ramshackle junk shop from under a young peepul tree.

Not sure about my Hindi credentials, he translates with a touching indulgence that “one needs trees while living for various things, and when one is dead one needs the help of a tree for the onward journey (the funeral pyre); this then is the strange spectacle of a tree.”

Being evidently literarily inclined -- I stumbled upon him as he was reading the morning newspaper with friends discussing a new train which would ferry people from Delhi to Kanpur in three hours flat -- he exhorts me to use the proverb as the title for an article, sweeping his thumb and forefinger with a flourish to denote the headline.

It’s befitting that as one of the greenest capital cities in the world, Delhi has, juxtaposed with its swanky offices, expensive cars, trendy pubs, malls and cineplexes, a thriving ‘treeconomy’ that sustains thousands of people like Ombir. These ‘tree-shops’ give the term ‘branch office’ a completely new dimension.

Like a giant swiss-knife, the tree, in urban Delhi, is put to work in various ways: as a billboard – advertising anything from homeopathic medicines, soft drinks, car insurance, fashion boutiques, veterinary services to real estate and bank loans – as a closet from which to hang clothes and tools; a display window; a supporting beam; a gigantic umbrella, a bus-stop. In fact, the tree can effortlessly, even magically, morph into a garage, godown, shoe-shop, café, shed, eatery or a temple.

There are many takers for the tree – small entrepreneurs, multinational corporates, government departments, housing societies, professionals of all hues, the police, can all be found having some sort of relationship with the tree. So much so that I’ve come to identify many trees not through their species but with the names and professions of the people who are associated with them. So, there is Munnalal’s chaat-bargad, Harish’s samosa-keekar, Jagdish’s mochi-neem, several species in the service of Dr Kapil’s Dog clinic, and so on.

One morning, while shooting these working trees, I had an overpowering vision of their roots stretching underground from Delhi to countless smaller towns (Malda, Jalpaigudi, Meerut, Jhansi), touching the lives of families left behind while the earning family member toils under their shade.

I can’t help but wonder, in this urban landscape, to whom does the tree belong? To the government that plants them? To the intended beneficiary: the citizen of the city? Or to the tinker or tailor who sets up shop under it? I wonder what the tree would have to say about it.

But Shakeel, a key-maker who spends his entire day under a neem tree has a point of view: “Ped to sarkari hai, par ise paala humne hai.” [The tree is of the government, but we have brought it up.]

Springing a surprise

It's the spring quarter of the Indian financial year and a busy time for the bees in our garden. They're trying frantically to meet their production targets. And there are lots of them...busy all the time.

Meanwhile, A turtle dove and a prinia family have nested in the bougainvilleas and I'm looking forward to seeing the young ones, especially the prinias; this will be the third generation of prinias that are born in our garden!

Back to the bees from the birds: I followed some of them around while they were at work. Even moved around a few pots to see what happens if a flower is moved. Perhaps one of them will be inspired to do a bee-version of 'Who Moved My Honey?'



Also, the guavas are flowering and there are already lots of small fruit. This is what a guava flower looks up close. No wonder the fruit has so many seeds!


(You can click on the photos to view them large).

An April Garden

Here are some pictures of our garden. Thought I'd click some before the flowers went out completely and the garden took on a more sedate summer look. What we like to do is just strew some flower seeds around and then wait to watch what emerges. So there's no real planning of what area gets what flowers apart from the basic -- tall flowers at the back, short in the front. Combined with the previous year's seeds that are in the soil, sometimes we get interesting flower cocktails, like the petunia that is growing through the tulsi. Anyway, take a look:









Ummm...just in case I've somehow given the impression that I'm involved in the gardening: I contribute some of the ideas, but Monika makes it happen. She has green thumbs (all five of them) and plants love her, as do I.


Talking of ladies, found one of these:

The Official Restaurant In My Garden

It was suddenly cloudy in the afternoon and the smell of the Persian Lilac flowers drifted into the garage, which I use as my office. I decided to take a break from the computer and strolled out on the driveway till the gate. A surprisingly cool breeze was blowing which was a welcome thing, since the summer is already upon us. The guava tree was dancing in the breeze and I was happy to see that it was enjoying standing on its own; we had removed its support only last week. The chiku tree (which gives us one solitary chiku every year that is shared dutifully by four people), also seemed cheerful. I noticed that it had clusters of fresh leaves that stood vertically up at the edges of its branches. Just a fortnight back they had been brown and I had expected them to turn into pods but evidently I was wrong. Standing there, the cool breeze ruffling my hair, I thought that I should perhaps take a photograph of the garden and put it up on my blog. This year we've had flowers of fifteen kinds -- blue, yellow, orange, red, lilac, mauve, pink, peach and white. My favourite is the petunia which has clawed its way through the tulsi shrub. There’s a bright white petunia that peeks at us from the middle of a healthy, dark variety of tulsi.

As I was admiring all this, I saw a bright red hamburger on the lawn. I went closer and saw that there were, in fact, eight giant hamburgers – some on the driveway and some that had been swept by the breeze on to the lawn. McDonald's had visited our house, it seems, and proud of their achievement at being the official restaurant at the Beijing Olympics, had generously dropped eight or so of these burger-shaped menus which were adding to the colour of our garden. I felt happy about McDonald's achievement and wondered what would be a fitting reply to their courtesy. Perhaps I should congratulate them by driving up to their restaurants and chucking some grass and mud from our lawn as a mark of my appreciation?

When I opened the menus I found that the prices of meal combos were either Rs 119 or Rs 129. There was one Rs 109 as well. Nothing new in that. Companies do it all the time, but who do they think they are fooling? It's about time someone exposed them to be the 419s that they are, as Indians say.

How Would You Say It?

How would you say, how are you, in your language?

How do you mean?

I mean if I want to say, how are you, then what would you say?

Then I would say, I am fine, too.

No, no, I don’t mean what would you say in response to how are you. I mean how would you say it?

That’s how I would say it, I am fine, too. That’s what we generally say when you say how are you.

No, no. Okay, listen, how would you say – I am not doing too well.

I would say, maybe, have you been to a doctor.

No, listen, I am writing this story.

OK, OK.

No OK OK, just listen! I am writing this story. It’s about a man who gets trapped in the flood water and then escapes death, thanks to his pet buffalo. The story is set in your area, so, I want to bring in the flavour of your language. Now, because I don’t know it so well, I thought you could tell me how some things are said in your language.

Oh, OK. Why are you writing this story?

I don’t know I just felt that people should know about the drought. No one’s talking about them at all. So many lives have been destroyed by it. People should know.

What drought?

Drought? What drought?

You just said drought in my area. There is no drought in my area.

No, I said floods. The story is about the floods.

I thought you said drought.

No I said floods. There are floods in your area, right?

Yes, but no drought.

Fine, so its about the floods, OK?

Oh, OK, very well.

So I just have some sentences in dialogue form. If you could tell me how things are said in your language, the story will have authenticity.

Yes, very well. Will I be able to read the story?

Actually I am writing it in English, so…so, shall I start with the sentences?

Yes, but I am not a literary person.

No, that’s fine, the person who this story is about is a villager who is not very literary, so you’ll do. I mean, I think he speaks the same way as you.

OK. I just wanted you to know I am not a very literary person so I hope I can answer your queries to your satisfaction.

It’s not about my satisfaction, it’s about how things are said in your way, so don’t worry. Don’t feel pressured. Just relax and say things the way you would say them to your wife.

My wife?

Yes, just normal conversations, you know.

I don’t know what normal conversations are with a wife. I am not married yet. I mean I am married but the gahuna hasn’t taken place so I haven’t spent time with my wife. I saw her only once, though I have been married two years now.

Achcha achcha. Oh. Yes, I know about the gahuna, but I didn’t know your wife was not with you. So, you’re alone here?

I live here with my brother. Haven’t you seen him at the shop sometimes?

Yes, maybe. Who cooks, then?

My brother, or me, depending on things…

OK. So one of you stays home?

No, no. Everyone in our family has to earn. Where is the time to sit idle?

So, you work in shifts?

What’s that?

Shifts. I mean you work by turns.

Yes, by turns. He comes one day and I come the next day. I am surprised you haven’t seen him. Have you started going to another shop? You don’t come here as often as you used to.

No, no. There’s only one other shop depending on the route I take to office. Besides I am cutting down on smoking.

Speaking of office, do you think you could help my brother with a job? He is much more educated than I am. He is not like me. He is quite smart and level headed. Went to school up to class eight.

Oh, OK. I can’t promise anything but I can ask people. How old is he?

He is younger than I am but taller than me and more good-looking.

Looks don’t matter, really.

No, no. They do. He is very presentable, you know. Not like me.

What kind of work would he like to do?

Anything that comes his way. He’s not choosy. He was working in a lawyer’s office but the lawyer kept sending him to towns far from here with some papers. Then he started asking him to wash his car and the wife started using abusive language. My brother was quite disturbed. I told him to leave the job. Money is not everything. One must have respect, too. Now he helps with the shop, but if you could get him fixed somewhere in an office it would be nice.

OK, I’ll try. So, shall we start with the translations?

The what?

You know you are to tell me how some things are said in your language.

Yes, yes. The customers will start turning up soon, then it will be a problem.

OK. Let’s start: first…how are you?

I’m fine.

Caferati Contests

The Caferati Contests just announced their results. I had participated in the Flash Fiction and SMS Poetry contests. The flash fiction entry made it only past the first round and the sms poetry entry made it to the finalists list, but eventually didn't win anything. Here are my entries:

FLASH FICTION (Topic: A Tall Story)
THE SCIENCE OF THINGS

“And how did this…I mean…is it from birth?”

“No, no. An accident.”

“Oh!”

“I was studying in Switzerland… hotel management. Always been fond of adventure…love the thrill. So, I had taken to mountain climbing and skiing. I was pretty good at it. One look at a mountain and I’d know the best way to climb it. There’s something so special about heights. Even speeds. All very scientific. It’s important to understand the science of things. It’s to do with the way the body and the mind are affected by potential and kinetic energy. When you travel very fast, your body starts storing kinetic energy which affects the mind and makes you believe anything is possible. You understand? As you take the body higher in altitude, it gathers potential energy which also affects your psyche. That’s why every city that has high-rises has a high sense of energy. People living on high floors are infected with this sense of possibilities. Anyway, so I was in Switzerland, preparing for this special event. One had to climb a mountain with a parachute strapped on the back. After getting to the top, one had to put on skis and jump off the mountain with the parachute, land on a ski slope and ski to the finish line. My parachute got entangled and one of the skis came off. Anyway, I managed to land and ski’ed to the finish line on one ski. As I crossed the line, the ski caught in a rope… I crashed and fractured my spine. Since then I’ve been on a wheelchair.”

“My God! Any cure?”

“That’s another story. You see, you have to understand the science of things…”


SMS POETRY (Topic: An Anti-valentine)
She loves me not, she loves me
She loves me not, she loves me
She loves me not, she loves me
Either way,
This flower will cease to be.

For the winning entries, please go to: http://www.caferati.com/kgaf/category/contests/

ऐ दिल है मुश्किल

अरे राज !
यार तुम बहुत ढीले हो !
वहाँ कहाँ खडे हो ?
देखो वो भैया बच गया
मारो साले को, तोड़ो उसकी टांग
दे दो उसके अन्दर बम्बू
अगली बार ध्यान से, बचने न पाए!

मज़ा आ रहा है ना? मुझे तो आ रहा है !

अरे यू पी वालों पर क्यों रुकें ?
देखो वो गुज्जू आ रहा है
साले को एक लात मारते हैं टेटुए पर
बिहारी दिखा तो आँख निकाल लेंगे
झारखंडी को नंगा करेंगे, ठीक है?
आंध्रा वाले को जलायें क्या?
मद्रासी के मुँह में अंगारे डालते हैं
साले आसामी की नाक तोड़ देंगे
कोंकणी के कान काट लेते हैं
केरल वालों को नारियल के पेड़़ से उल्टा लटकाएं तो ?
मज़ा आएगा!

यह सब यहाँ आये कैसे?
साला अलग-अलग देश कर दो सबका
फिर कितनी सारी क्रिकेट टीम होंगी!
खेलेंगे एक दूसरे के साथ
बड़ा मज़ा आएगा!
अरे देखो वो पारसी जा रहा है -
चलो दो हाथ लगाते हैं उसकी खोपड़ी पर !
जय महाराष्ट्रा !

Excerpt from the Times of India: MNS activists took to the streets and attacked taxi drivers, reportedly belonging to north Indian community. On Sunday, taking exception to Raj's advice that non-Maharashtrians should shout the slogan Jai Maharashtra , Railway Minister Lalu Yadav said people should instead say Jai Bharat.

Performance Pressure

After I brought my hand down and wiped the blood off my palm, I realised I was holding my breath. The blood looked a strange dull-brown in the yellow light as it clotted on my palm. I don’t think anyone noticed the killing – the trucks droned by on the nearby highway; a faraway loudspeaker played an indistinct Hindi film song; a horn blared in the distance, and there was one lesser life on the planet.

I hadn’t planned it. Nothing in the day had indicated that I would take a life before the day was over. I had woken up at four-thirty in the morning while it was still dark outside. I had been invited by a school to judge a poetry recitation competition and had been quite nervous about it, to tell the truth. “We’d like very much for you to recite some of your poems, too,” the lady from the school had said.

I had figured it would not take more than half-an-hour to select the poems and think about how to judge the competition. But, why was I feeling so nervous? I thought about that for a while, lying in bed, staring into the darkness. Was it because I had to read out my poetry before an audience? I remembered the time when I had participated in a recitation competition in school. It was so long back, I had almost forgotten about it. Must’ve been twenty-five years ago? It was one of those memories that one is happy to forget, but memories, it seems, just lie in wait to ambush you.

I remembered that I had been well-prepared for the elocution and everyone had expected me to finish among the top three. But when my turn came I simply gaped at the students and the judges, my mind a complete blank. If someone had asked me my name at that point of time I would have had to think really hard. The prompter, who sat right behind the contestants, read out the first sentence and I started out, but I couldn’t remember the next sentence. My mouth had gone dry and there had been a high-pitched whine in my ear. Even after twenty-five years I could still feel the shocked eyes in the hall looking at me. Afterwards, everyone had been sympathetic – don’t worry, these things happen – but I hadn’t been able to take to the stage ever again.

As I lay in bed, I was surprised to find that I still remembered the face of the student who had been prompting, but I couldn’t recall his name. He used to be a fan of Hitler and would greet people by saying a sharp ‘Heil’ with a sharp click of the heels. I remembered ‘heiling’ him once near the water fountain just to make fun of him, but, funnily, he had been pleased and had responded with an enthusiastic ‘heil’ himself and had insisted that I have a drink before him. I wondered where he was now.

The judging turned out to be quite simple. There were three of us judging the students and we were seated at different places in the hall. A teacher gave us a sheet that had the names of the students and the criteria for judging in neat columns – five points for memory, five for poise, ten for diction and ten for expression. “That should be easy,” I thought and marked the students. At first, I waited for them to finish their pieces, but after the first few I marked them mid-way. It’s easy to tell who’s good and who’s not. When there were about eight students remaining I began feeling uneasy. I shifted and squirmed in my wheelchair. It was a struggle to survive the last half-hour. As soon as the students finished, I excused myself saying that I had an urgent appointment to keep. It was true. I had to go to a studio to record voiceovers, but it was also true that I couldn’t bring myself to recite the poetry.

On the way to the recording studio my thoughts drifted to the conversation in the principal’s office. The other two judges had been alumni of the school. I had been the only male and the only one not connected with the school. The conversation had centered around the unique culture of the school and how its children were encouraged to be ‘in touch with themselves.’ How they did so well in a variety of careers and how they didn’t have any pretence. Bull crap. It was like any other elitist school trying to be one-up on the competition. It would have been different if they had disabled children studying there. But there was no ramp and the doors to the toilets had been too narrow for my wheelchair. In my opinion, any school that doesn’t have room for students with disabilities has no business calling itself unique. Just like any person who works for himself all day but can’t find time to volunteer a few hours in a week for a cause (any cause) has no business calling himself successful. I don’t even think Sachin Tendulkar is very successful, when you look at the totality of the situation. He is an unmitigated environmental disaster. Imagine the number of people who switch on their TV sets when he’s on the crease. Imagine the number of advertisements he appears in and the amount of resources that go into making those ads. All that adds up to a lot of consumption. Consumption that is driven by building dams, cutting trees and burning fossil fuels. However much I like Sachin’s genius, I can’t shy away from the fact that he is bad for the environment. And to think of the number of products that he promotes and the resources needed to manufacture, market and distribute them. The mind boggles. Sachin might be a great performer but he puts too much pressure on the environment.

At the recording studio, a kid was facing performance pressure. Unfortunately he had many lines. He’d nod enthusiastically when we gave instructions and then repeat the lines the same way over and over, reading them out in a dull, flat tone. He also had problems saying the hindi ‘ra’. Instead of ‘doosara’, he kept saying ‘dooshya’. Someone said, ‘don’t worry, it happens’. I suddenly felt really bad for the kid so I recited my poems to him. I guess I made such a mess of it that it brought a smile to his face. Come on, you can do it, I said to him. It’s just dialogues that you’ve practiced so many times before. “Heil Hitler, let’s crack it!” I said. He finally got the dialogues right.

It was pretty late when I got home. I didn’t realise how tired I was till I lay down. The pain from my back spread over the whole body and the world suddenly seemed a very different place. I retreated in my silent cocoon to deal with the pain. When I awoke, it was already dark and I could hear the trucks going by on the highway. A loudspeaker was playing a song. I listened to it for a while, trying to identify the song, but it was all distorted. Then I sensed something near my face. I kept still. Very slowly, holding my breath, I slid my hand towards the lamp switch. I spotted it in the lamplight and brought my hand down in a flash. As I wiped the blood off my palm, I wondered what kind of a day the mosquito had had. I looked for it on my palm but there was no trace of it.

Sudiksha and a Zen Susu

Sudiksha, a curious-three, and I, a slightly-bored-forty, travelled to Ranikhet together recently with other family members (That's her with her mother, Prajakta, in the photograph).

As soon as the vehicle was on the highway she asked, “Salil Tauji, when will we reach Ranikhet?”

“Oh, it’s a long way off. It will take us seven-eight hours to get there,” I said.

After about half-an-hour she wanted to know if we were within striking distance. I told her it was still a long way off. She asked the same question within about twenty minutes.

“We’ll get there when it’s dark,” I said.

“Oh, that’s a long way off,” she said.

When we reached the foothills at Haldwani she was tremendously excited at seeing the hills.

“Will there be snow?” she wanted to know.

“If we’re lucky…” I said, and then to get her in the mood, I inhaled deeply and said, “Hmmm, I’m liking the air!”

As we climbed the hills, she started inhaling deeply and saying, “Salil Tauji, I’m liking the air!”

“That’s nice. How much are you liking it?”

She thought for a moment and said, “More than twenty.”

“When will the road stop going round and round?” she wanted to know next.

“When we have reached Ranikhet.”

“Salil Tauji, now we are going down!”

“That’s because we have to cross a hill before we reach Ranikhet.”

“How many hills do we have to cross?”

“Three more,” I guessed.

“Hmmm…I’m liking it!”

We reached when it was dark. Actually we reached well after sundown and Sudiksha wanted to know why we hadn’t reached as soon as it was dark.

The next morning those of us that managed to get up early went out for a short trek. Sudiksha was with us. After walking for a kilometer or so she came up to me and said, “Salil Tauji, I’m tired now.”

“Shall we turn back?” I asked.

“No, I was thinking, I could sit on your lap,” she said. I hoisted her on my wheelchair and she sat astride on my lap. She inhaled deeply and said, “Hmmm…I’m liking it!”

We were staying in the cantonment and the trees had various signs. I’d read them aloud in a sing song way. “Is this a new song?” Sudiksha asked me as I read out, “Ped dharaa ka bhushan hai, karta dur pradushan hai.”

“Yes,” I said hoping she’d join in.

“It’s a funny song. Stop singing it tauji.”

Then I found a nice one and started singing again, “Dharti ki yahi pukaar, Vriksha se karo mera uddhaar.”

“Has the earth caught a cold, tauji?” Sudiksha inquired.

“Why?”

“Because they are saying to apply Vicks.”

In the afternoon we drove to Machkali. The view of the Himalayas was gorgeous and Sudiksha wanted to know the flavour of the snow on the Himalayas. Then, answering her on question she said, “Looks like vanilla.” I had not thought of Nanda Devi, Trishul, Nand Kot and the Pindari glacier as being vanilla flavoured and the thought was yummy.

We ate at a restaurant that provided an uninhibited view of the Himalayas. The moon was rising from behind the Himalayas and the moment was breathtaking. All of us stood in the balcony, transfixed. The balcony was on a cliff edge and there was a sheer drop of about sixty feet. As we stared hypnotically at the majestic Himalayas, Sudiksha’s voice came through, “Mujhe rabbits ke paas jaa kar susu karna hai!”

I almost feel off my chair. What a concept – rabbits ke paas jaa kar susu karna hai. It was almost as if a Zen master had touched me with enlightenment. Ever since we’ve returned from Ranikhet I’ve been telling my wife, “Mujhe bhi rabbits ke paas ja kar susu karna hai.” All my education – physics, chemistry, mathematics, geography, history, civics, commerce, business administration, what not – and I had lost track of the real meaning of life.

Happy To You

Does it happen to you, too?

This grey, gloomy feeling as ‘special days’ make their appearance on the calendar?

It happens to me all the time. Birthdays, anniversaries, festivals and other must-celebrate days find me in a bit of a mood. I’m certainly not one to let life go by without celebrating anything. Why, just this morning, as I was sunning myself in the garden, two bulbuls perched so close to me that I saw them in a completely new way. They were hardly five feet away and I could make out the details of their down feathers, see the individual strands of their red vents and study them as they plucked small red berries from a prickly plant, held them for an instant at the tip of their beak and then tossed them into their gullets with a backward toss of their heads. I got more kicks out of it than any party I have attended in the last year.

Earlier this week, on a foggy Delhi-winter morning, I discovered that the rose bushes on the far side of the garden were in bloom. The bushes are a gift from a friend who was upset that I didn’t wish her on her birthdays. “At least this way, you’ll remember me,” she had said when she gifted the rose bushes. She was right. When I saw the beautiful pink roses in the morning, it felt like my friend was in the garden, smiling at me. On that winter morning, I celebrated our friendship despite missing out on the ‘special day.’

As the year comes to a close I sense a gloomy knot building up inside me. One will be invited for New Year celebrations and expected to party wildly and be happy, as if on cue. Already, an enterprising person has sent me an email, saying, ‘No tear, no fear, eat murga, drink beer, because ten days later it’s New Year. See, good friends wish each other well in time’. I feel like responding, “It’s all right. New Year’s is not a competition and I wouldn’t mind if you didn’t wish me at all. I’d still know you were a friend.”

The best wish I have received for a special day has been from my nephew when he was about two years old. He was asked to wish his uncle ‘Happy Birthday to You.’ The words were too much for the toddler and all he could manage, as he threw his arms around me, was ‘Happy to You.’

With the same earnest hope, I say to all of you, ‘Happy to You’ and may you be so at least once a week.

In heaven, as it is on earth…

Americans had stopped going to heaven. It wasn’t the air-conditioning. That was the most obvious thing that came to mind, but a quick discussion between St. Peter and the angels threw that possibility out of the window.

“But we don’t need any air conditioning here in heaven,” said an angel fluttering his wings. “The physical body might need it but an astral body lives in a constant state of comfort and bliss, at least when it’s in heaven.”

“Then why aren’t the Americans coming to heaven anymore?” asked a second angel, playing with a cloudlet.

“That’s got me stumped,” said the first angel.

“Me too…do you think they are going to hell?” suggested a third angel.

“I checked with Satan,” said St. Peter. “He said that things were normal and there was no dramatic increase in American souls in hell. He was interested in what was going on, though. I guess he figures that if he could find these lost souls he could get them in to hell somehow.”

“You should know what’s going on,” said the second angel to St. Peter as he shaped a small cloud into a trident.

“Well, I don’t! And stop playing with the cloud!”

“Ok. But don’t these American souls turn up at the Pearly Gates? Perhaps we should check with St. Michael if there’s a problem during the soul’s journey to heaven” the second angel asked.

“I checked with the archangel, but the transportation is progressing normally. I just don’t know where they are disappearing to, or why.”

“Have you spoken to Our Father about it?” asked the third angel.

“You know how busy he is. I don’t want to bother him about some lost souls. Not right now, anyway,” said St. Peter.

“Could it be that the American souls can see souls of people from communist countries here? Or maybe they can see souls of some Iraqi children and innocent bystanders. Do you think we should build a barricade so new souls can’t look into heaven?” asked the first angel.

“That’s as silly as the air-conditioning idea. The astral body perceives everything, it does not need to ‘look.’ And what a crazy idea… partition heaven! I say we keep things as they are and not change any thing. Next, you’ll say let’s introduce sin credits,” said the second angel, as it absent-mindedly shaped a cloud into the Statue of Liberty.

“No, I didn’t mean to suggest...yes, of course...er…could you please stop playing with the clouds, it’s distracting,” said the first angel.

“You know, I feel if we can just get hold of one of these lost American souls we’d be able to get at the bottom of this mystery. Where are they going anyway? I mean, what could be better than going to heaven?” said the second angel.

“Maybe we could tag them somehow when they first appear at the Pearly Gates,” suggested the third angel.

“That can be done only by Our Father. I was given the keys to the heaven, but I don’t have any jurisdiction outside it. Wait! There is one thing. During the interview at the Pearly Gates they all ask one strange question. Maybe that holds the key to this riddle. Come to think of it, I’m certain it does,” said St. Peter.

“Well, what is it?” asked angel two, making a fish out of a cloud.

“They ask if they have voting rights.”

“And what do you say?” asked the first angel.

“What do you think? The obvious thing, that there’s no voting in heaven. They do look very disappointed with that,” said St. Peter.

“Don’t you get it?” said the second angel, chiselling a ballot box from a mid-size cloud. “No voting means no democracy. And what are Americans dying and killing for? Why are decent, god-fearing Americans supporting military action in places far away from their homes? For democracy! And if they die and find out that there’s no democracy in heaven…”

“In the name of Our Father, you could be right. Hey, that’s a nice likeness of a ballot box…you’re getting good at this,” said St. Peter.

“So what do we do now?” asked the third angel. “Should we introduce democracy in heaven?”

“That’s up to Our Father,” said St. Peter. “I don’t think he’ll like the idea too much... it’s not going to be viable to do that. Imagine running the Universe by majority consensus.”

“What about the lost American souls then?” asked the first angel.

“I guess we’ll have to wait for them to get over their democracy trip,” said St. Peter. “Maybe they’ll remember that it’s ‘Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven,’ and not the other way around.”

Mother-in-law and morning tea

It was our seventh wedding anniversary and we had invited family over for dinner. We were cooking a vegetarian fare – Khus Shahi Paneer, Yoghurt Sauted Mushrooms, Pudina Aloo, Pulao, and salad with a curd-based dip for snacks. I had cut all the vegetables and arranged the ingredients neatly in a plate.

My parents arrived earlier than others and found me and Monika in the kitchen. This is not a usual scene in our household, I confess. But I am learning to cook to ease Monika’s burden. Seeing me labouring in the kitchen, it didn’t take long for Mom to suggest that we all go out to eat in a restaurant. Monika mumbled something about mother’s darling boy into the ears of the kitchen sink. I insisted that we eat at home and ushered Mom out of the kitchen. The meal came out pretty well – no left-overs were a compliment to our cooking After dinner, since the nights are cold now, we built a small bonfire in the lawn and chatted for about an hour and then everyone dispersed.

The next day we had gone to visit some friends and were telling them about mum’s reaction to my presence in the kitchen. Our friend’s wife told us a story that I would like to share with all women because it combines wisdom and cunning wiliness to overcome the woman in the blue corner – the ma-in-law.

“This woman,” said our friend’s wife, “was having a tough time with her mother-in-law who was staying with them for three weeks. The son is very fond of tea and the daughter-in-law doesn’t drink tea at all. Being a working couple, they leave the house in the morning and come back late in the evening. When she gets back, the daughter-in-law has to prepare the dinner, after taking care of the evening tea. But, instead of helping out, the mother-in-law constantly complained that her son, who was so fond of tea, didn't get it in the morning before he left for office. So, after giving it some thought, the daughter-in-law decided that since the mother-in-law was staying for a short period, it would be best not to make a scene. She hatched a plan that would at least take care of this complaint.

“The plan worked to perfection, and the mother-in-law, pleased that she had been victorious on one account, didn’t complain about anything else during her stay. The plan? Well, the mother-in-law was a late riser. So every evening, our heroine cunningly hid one of the unwashed cups from the evening’s tea. Before leaving for work each morning she retrieved the previous evening’s unwashed cup and left it in the kitchen sink!”

Chemical: Body and Soul

I’ve had this itching allergy for about seven years, now. My eyes swell up and get all puffy and raw-like and the skin around the eyes itches in a strange way from the inside. A skin specialist told me to think about how I spend my day, what I eat, what I use, what I wear, etc. So, my plan was simple, list the things that I use on a daily basis and try and isolate the problem ingredient.

So, how did I spend my day? I began by brushing my teeth with the extra whitener toothpaste. I picked up my favourite toothpaste and listed the ingredients.

Colgate Advanced Whitener: Silica Sorbitol, Glycerine, Sodium fluoride. It also said that children under 6 years of age should use it under adult supervision and only a pea amount. It also said ‘Do not swallow, spit and rinse thoroughly’.

I decided to go after sodium fluoride and googled it on the laptop.

I found that kidneys can eliminate only about 50% of the daily fluoride intake. The rest gets absorbed in calcified tissues, like bones and teeth. For the average individual, a retention of 2mg/day would result in crippling skeletal fluorosis after 40 years. Small children, even if pea-size amount is used, will still absorb the same, more if the child is younger and has less swallowing control skills. Half a tube of toothpaste can kill a child.

So my toothpaste was safe. Sodium Fluoride didn’t cause any allergies. And now I knew how to pop off irritating children. Not bad, for ten-minute’s worth of research.

I scratched my eyes a bit and moved on. After brushing, I normally shave and put on an after shave lotion. I checked on the lotion.

Old Spice: Alcohol denatured with 1% diethyl phthalate.

Off to the Internet, again. I found that phthalates are a family of chemical plasticizers that are used in personal care products to moisturize skin and as a solvent. They are almost synonymous with fragrance. Phthalates have been shown to cause birth defects, reproductive impairments, and liver damage in lab animals.

That was cool, then, no allergies.

I also found that manufacturers are not required to list the ingredients used in ‘fragrance’, but common ingredients also include methylene chloride, toluene, methyl ethyl ketone, methyl isobutyl ketone, ethyl alcohol and benzyl chloride, all of which are hazardous. According to the American Academy of Dermatology, ‘fragrance’ is the number one cause of allergic reactions in cosmetics.

There it was! An allergy caused by fragrance. But it didn’t mention diethyl phthalate, specifically, so maybe this wasn’t it. I decide to move on.

Okay, so next I have a bath, sometimes I shampoo my hair and sometimes, when it’s hot I apply talcum. I prefer Old Spice talcum powder and use L’Oreal, or Ultra Doux and, on occasion, Clinic shampoo. Actually, to tell the truth, it depends on what the wife is using.

So I started listing the ingredients. Now it started getting a bit complicated. If I hadn’t had the allergy for seven years I would have given up then and there. Here’s the list of ingredients:

L’Oreal Liss Extreme contained Sodium Laureth Sulfate, Disodium Cocoamphodiacetate, Sodium Chloride, Glucerin, Glycol Distearate, Hexylene Glycol, Cocamide Mipa, Polyquaternium 10, Disodium Ricinoleamido MEA-Sulfosuccinate, Butylphenyl Methylpropional, Butylparaben, Hexyl Cinnamal, Ethylparaben, Hydroxypropyltrimonium hydrolized wheat protein, Isopropanolamine, Propylparaben, Isobutylparaben, Magnesium acetate, 2-Oleamido-13-Octadecanediol, Linalool, Asparitic Acid, Glycine, Arginine, Parfum (fragrance).

What the? Was this rocket fuel or a shampoo? Ummm, I think I’ll go for this polyquarternium 10 thing. Click, click, type, type, enter.

Quarterniums are toxic, cause skin rashes and allergic reactions. They are formaldehyde releasers. Dr Epstein reports in his book that there is substantive evidence of casual relation to leukaemia, multiple myeloma, non-Hodgkin's lymphoma and other cancers.

There was the allergy again. This Sodium Laureth Sulfate sounds promising. Click, click, type, type, enter.

Sodium Lauryl Sulfate is found in soaps and shampoos and is exactly the same as you would find in a car wash or even a garage, where it is used to degrease car engines. In the same way as it dissolves the grease on car engines, sodium lauryl sulfate dissolves the oils on your skin, which can cause a drying effect. It is also well documented that it denatures skin proteins, which causes not only irritation, but also allows environmental contaminants easier access to the lower, sensitive layers of the skin.

Perhaps most worryingly, SLS is also absorbed into the body from skin application. Once it has been absorbed, one of the main effects of sodium lauryl sulfate is to mimic the activity of the hormone oestrogen. This may be responsible for a variety of health problems from PMS and Menopausal symptoms to dropping male fertility and increasing female cancers such as breast cancer, where oestrogen levels are known to be involved.

No allergies there, as far as I could tell.

Ultra Doux – A Delightful Experience – contained Cetearyl Alcohol, Propylene Glycol, Chlorohexidine Dihydrochloride, Glyceryl Stearate, Hydrogenated Patrimonium Chloride, Methylparaben, Quaternium-80, Tilia Cordata Flower extract, Parfum / Fragrance (C15056/1)

Hmmm…Propylene Glycol?

Propylene glycol (PG) is a petroleum derivative. It penetrates the skin and can weaken protein and cellular structure. Commonly used to make extracts from herbs. PG is strong enough to remove barnacles from boats! The EPA considers PG so toxic that it requires workers to wear protective gloves, clothing and goggles and to dispose of any PG solutions by burying them in the ground. Because PG penetrates the skin so quickly, the EPA warns against skin contact to prevent consequences such as brain, liver, and kidney abnormalities. But there isn't even a warning label on products such as stick deodorants, where the concentration is greater than in most industrial applications. I remembered the time when my father-in-law had tried a deodorant stick and then roamed around the house in a vest for a week because of the allergy he had in his armpits.

I was getting hooked on to this, so I continued.

Johnsons’ Baby Shampoo contained Sodium Lauroamphoacetate, Polysorbate20, Sodium Laureth Sulfate, PEG-150 Distearate, Cocoamidopropyl Betaine, PPG-2-Hydroxyethyl Cocamide, Cetyl Triethylmonium Dimethicone, PEG-8 Succinate, Acrylamidopropyltrimonium ChloridelAcrylamide Copolymer, Polyquarternium-10, Quaternium-15, Fragrance, Benzyl alcohol, Tetrasodium EDTA, Citric acid.

Lots of quarterniums here. Why not try something else? Dimethicone? Click, click, type, type, enter.

Silicone emollients are occlusive, that is, they coat the skin, trapping anything beneath it, and do not allow the skin to breathe (much like plastic wrap would do.) Recent studies have indicated that prolonged exposure of the skin to sweat, by occlusion, causes skin irritation. Some synthetic emollients are known tumour promoters and accumulate in the liver and lymph nodes. They are also non-biodegradable, causing negative environmental impact.

Oriflame Yoghurt and Blackcurrant Cream Mask. I don’t use this, okay! It just came along with all the other stuff that the wife uses. It contains Butylene Glycol, Hydrogenated Polyisobutene, Ethyhexyl Stearate, Butyrospermum ParkII, Cyclopentasiloxane, Methyl Gluceth-20, GlycerylPolymethacrylate, cetyl Alcohol, Ammonium Acryloldimethyl Taurate, Ribes Nicrum, Tocopheryl Acetate, Imidazolidinyl, Urea, Propylene glycol, Sodium benzoate, Ethylenediamine, Denatonium Benzoate, Butyl Paraben.

I’ll go for Butyl Paraben. Click, click, type, type, enter.

Parabens are used as inhibitors of microbial growth and to extend the shelf-life of products. Widely used even though they are known to be toxic. Have caused many allergic reactions and skin rashes. Highly toxic. Harmful if swallowed or inhaled. Cause irritation to skin, eyes and respiratory tract. May cause allergic skin reaction. Eye contact causes irritation, redness, and pain.

Wow! A cream mask that causes skin rashes!

Old Spice Talcum – Triclosan, Isopropyl Myristate.

Triclosan, please, that has nice ring to it. Click, click, type, type, enter.

Triclosan (in talcum and toothpastes) could be, and is suspected to be, contaminated with dioxins. Dioxins can be found in triclosan as impurities formed during the manufacturing process. Researchers who added triclosan to river water and exposed it to ultraviolet light found that a significant portion of the triclosan was converted to dioxins, raising fears that sunlight could transform triclosan to dioxins naturally. A study by researchers at Virginia Polytechnic Institute finds that triclosan reacts with chlorine molecules in tap water to form chlorinated dioxins, which are highly toxic forms of dioxin. The same study also found that the combination of tap water and triclosan produces significant quantities of chloroform, which is a probable human carcinogen. Production of chloroform and dioxins may also be a problem in pools, where there are high levels of chlorine that can react to triclosan residues on people's skin.

Good Knight, mosquito repellent lotion – Diethyltoluamide topical lotion.

Diethyltoluamide has not been studied in pregnant women. However, studies in animals have shown that diethyltoluamide is passed on to the offspring. One animal study has shown diethyltoluamide to cause death of the foetus. Before using diethyltoluamide, make sure your doctor knows if you are pregnant or if you may become pregnant.

Lesson that I learned: Don’t try and make babies if you are applying Good Knight!

Kiwi Kleen Toilet Cleaner (Lemon) – Hydrochloric Acid, Benzalkonium Chloride, Amine Ethoxylate, Acid Brilliant Blue, Perfume.

Benzalkonium Chloride is corrosive and toxic, It causes burns. It is harmful by inhalation, ingestion and through skin contact. May cause reproductive defects.

Nizoral Anti-dandruff Shampoo – Ketoconazole, Sodium Lauryl Ether Sulphate, Brilliant Blue FCF, Water.

Ketoconazole may cause liver damage. Tell your doctor if you drink or have ever drunk large amounts of alcohol and if you have or have ever had liver disease. Tell your doctor and pharmacist if you are taking acetaminophen (Tylenol, others); cholesterol-lowering medications (statins) such as atorvastatin (Lipitor), fluvastatin (Lescol), lovastatin (Mevacor), pravastatin (Pravachol), or simvastatin (Zocor); isoniazid (INH, Nydrazid); methotrexate (Rheumatrex); niacin (nicotinic acid); or rifampin.

There were lots of other ingredients but I was tired. Then I wondered, what about the harmless glycerine I use. What the hell, why not? Click, click, type, type, enter.

Glycerin is a syrupy liquid that is chemically produced by combining water and fat. It is used as a solvent and a plasticiser. Unless the humidity of air is over 65%, glycerin draws moisture from the lower layers of the skin and holds it on the surface, drying the skin from the inside out. Serious risks if ingested. The vast majority of skin care, hair care and other products marketed as moisturising, hydrating or replenishing use glycerin as one of their main active ingredients. It is clear from the data above, that this is a myth, resulting in an increased level of moisture at the surface of the skin at the expense of drying out the deep, sensitive, newly formed skin in the basal layers.

I was sure that all these companies have souls and god-fearing, nice people working for them. People who have children of their own. They’d never put out deadly stuff like this.

Then I realised that I hadn’t even begun on the food items. Pretty tired and itchy, I lumbered on with the food packages. I pored over packets containing biscuits, pickles, cereals, listing their ingredients.

I found that preservatives are of two kinds – antimicrobials, that prevent growth of moulds, yeasts and bacteria; and antioxidants, which keep foods from turning rancid or developing black spots.

Nitrites, a kind of antimicrobial, for example, inhibit the growth of bacterial spores that cause botulism, a deadly food-borne illness. They are used for colour enhancement of cured meat, poultry, and fish products. They are often found in preserved meats, including bacon, hot dogs, bologna, and salami. Nitrates react with substituted amides to form nitrosamides which are carcinogenic. Why are carcinogenic food additives allowed in food? The risk of adverse health effects from botulism is much greater than the risk of developing cancer from small amounts of nitrites.

Sulfites, another form of antimicrobials, include sulfur dioxide in fruits, sulfites in grapes and wine, and metabisulfites in other foods, and they sometimes cause allergic reactions, or headaches, nausea, and diarrhea. Anyone suffering from allergies or asthma should minimize or avoid sulfited foods.

Synthetic sweeteners like Aspartame, and acesulfame-K are widely used in soft drinks, candies, chewing gum and a variety of other products. Two research studies found aspartame to have caused brain tumors in lab animals, and it should be avoided by pregnant women and children under seven.

That was a relief. I was neither a lab animal, nor a pregnant woman or a child under seven.

Preservatives such as BHA, BHT and EDTA are used in small quantities in grain products like cereal, soup bases, and other foods containing oil to prevent rancidity. These are potentially toxic to the liver and kidneys, and they've been known to cause allergic reactions and neurotoxic effects. Children can be especially sensitive to preservatives and they may cause behavioral changes and hyperactivity. Interestingly, BHT is prohibited as a food additive in the UK.

Artificial flavours represent the largest number of food additives. Most of the food products with artificial flavor additives are highly processed. Both adults and children may exhibit allergic reactions and other health issues from these chemical flavorings.

Olestra is a synthesized fat substitute first used in potato chips. It's a non-absorbable oil polymer, thus it's not metabolized by the body. Certain consumers have reported digestive and other problems from Olestra consumption, including diarrhea and abdominal cramping.

Food packaged in PVC (polyvinyl chloride) is a known carcinogen, and it's often used as plastic food wrap. Many grocery stores seal meats and other foods in PVC wrap; a particularly dangerous practice for warm or fatty foods, both of which help release the PVC into the food.

Well, I knew a lot about allergies and what to look out for.

The question gnawing my mind now was, with all these chemicals in my body, is my soul intact? Maybe the soul is just another chemical compound. Perhaps a company is toiling right now to develop denaturated 5% soul patches that could be worn unobtrusively on the arm.

Saliluku 6

A sucessful and
Beautiful
Couple
Drive their successful car,
Energetically and
Fast,
Going to a party-
Happy,
In a successful way,
Jumping red lights successfully.

Saliluku 5

Pretty girl walks prettily,
Quite alone.
Remembering,
Some company and
Togetherness.

Saliluku 4

Quivering and
Revolving all around,
Suddenly! the world is within.

Saliluku 3

If you were to write a poem,
Just a little poem,
Know that now's the time,
Later...
Might never come.

Saliluku 2

Ducks in the water,
Everywhere.
Floating and bobbing,
Going nowhere.
Happy to be,
In the water.

Saliluku 1

Oh, what a night!
Pity it won't last,
Queer sensations,
Rainbows
Seen at night,
The weather is not always forecast.

I can't find, peace of mind

I can’t find
Peace of mind.

I want to swim every sea,
Touch every tree,
Kiss every flower,
Live every hour,
Sing every song,
Right every wrong,
Fall in love…
With Him above.

Everyone around me seems to think I’m going crazy,
But I can’t help it my world is getting hazy.

I can’t find,
Peace of mind.

I want to ride every wave,
Explore every cave,
Dance every dance,
Take every chance,
Hold every hand,
Believe in every stand,
Run down every hill…
Cure every ill.

Everyone around me seems to think I’m going crazy,
But I can’t help it my world is getting hazy.

I can’t find,
Peace of mind.

I’d like to end every war,
Heal every sore,
Be the Alexander of Love,
Be really, really tough,
Hold every ray,
Laugh every day,
Fight every fear…
Wipe every tear.

Everyone around me seems to think I’m going crazy,
But I can’t help it my world is getting hazy.

I can’t find,
Peace of mind.

I must destroy every gun,
Won’t that be fun!
Catch every rainbow,
Make every stain go,
Cross every bridge,
Scale every ridge,
Run every mile…
Hug every child.

Everyone around me seems to think I’m going crazy,
But I can’t help it my world is getting hazy.

(This is written as a song. Would be only too pleased if someone could put it to music and shared it).

Khirr khirr, khateeja khateeja khateeja

I was driving to my brother's place in Delhi Cantonment last week. It's a long drive – about forty minutes – and I have to take the Delhi-Noida-Direct Expressway, better known as The DND.

After paying the toll, I hugged the left-most lane to get a better view of the riverside. The evening sun was low, kissing the horizon, and the elephant grass was awash with buff-golden October 5 o'clock sunlight. I couldn't drive any further and parked my car to get a better look at the treat nature was offering me -- this shimmering sea of purple and gold.


I activated the car's blinkers, the good citizen that I am, and looked out of the window, hypnotised by the view. From the corner of my eye I spotted a guard standing thirty feet ahead. I reckoned I had about three minutes before he decided to approach the car and there would have to be 'talk'. Soon enough, he began moving towards me and when he was blocking my view said, "Kya hua sirjee?"

Summoning my best Hindi I said that I was taking in the prakriti ka nazaara. Any kasht? Well, he said, he didn't have a problem but his seniors would, so better I move along. Then, being helpful, he suggested that I take in the view from the bridge over the river. Here it was just tall grass, but out there, on the bridge, it was much nicer.

Just grass? I admonished him and urged him to take in the beauty along with me. Then, as we both looked out at the purple expanse, I told him how ten years ago, when there was no DND, this place would attract many birds. Birds were still around but in not that great a number, I complained to him. Do you watch any birds, I asked.


By this time, his buddy who had been watching from across the road, and was undoubtedly intrigued by this long drawn out affair, joined us. What's the problem, he wanted to know. The weather, replied the first guard. It's nice weather and he wants to look at the nazaara. Wants to know if I watch any birds, he continued. Birds? said the second guard, bending and peering at me through the window, to get a closer look. They are all gone, he said, still bending, hoping that would make me go too. Why have they gone? I continued. Because of the pollution, he replied. Who creates the pollution? I asked. Man, he said definitively. So they have gone because of man, I said, because of this road that man created. Not impressed, he said that there I was, on a perfectly class one and was complaining about it, and in his village there were no roads and they complained about that. Didn't make any sense to him. Now if I could please get going on my undoubtedly important journey.

I slowly advanced the car and to my astonishment I saw a Grey Francolin walking ahead on the edge of the road. As some cars whizzed past, she scampered back to the elephant grass screaming khirr khirr khateeja khateeja khateeja at the top of her voice.

Perhaps she was complaining about the road too.

Within Me Flows

The original Hindi version is followed by the English one. (I was requested to translate some of my poems into English so that a non-Hindi speaking audience could also read them. This is my first attempt, and going by the looks of it, will not be taken up too often. Takes too much time! The Hindi fonts translate better in Internet Explorer).

मेरे अन्दर बहता है

आठ का था जब मैं मिला उससे पहली बार
और वो? शायद थी आठ हज़ार !
गरमी की छुट्टियों की एक सुबह
मेरी पहली नदी - शांत और गहरी
एक किले को अपने बगल में दबाये
बहती हुई फिर भी कुछ ठहरी

बडों ने किया नाविक से सौदा
पर उससे पहले हम थे सवार !
नंगे पैर, पैर में बालू
यमुना तट पर पहली बार !

चप्पू की 'शिलिक्चुप'
एक कछुए की भी है मुझको याद
एक नदी की पीठ पर फिसलते
शहर का नाम था इलाहाबाद

उस दिन यमुना ने की एक ह्त्या
एक मासूम डुबकी बस डूब गयी
मेरी उम्र का लड़का था
लगा यमुना उससे ऊब गयी

वो नन्ही ह्त्या का दिन
याद मुझे अब भी रहता है
यमुना का थोडा सा ड़र
मेरे अन्दर अब भी बहता है

जैसे जैसे बड़ा हुआ
शिक्षा पाने स्कूल गया
अपनी दुनिया में खोया रहता
यमुना को मैं भूल गया

फिर देखा उसको हवाई जहाज़ से
ताज महल के इर्द फैली थी
कचरा मलबा ढोती हुई
लगा यमुना कुछ मैली थी

आकाश से है दृष्टिकोण अलग
नदियों के छोर पे शहर बसे हैं
लगता है पृथ्वी की देह पर
संचालन करती यह रक्त नसें हैं

और मानव दीखता कीड़े जैसा
उसकी सभ्यता धरती पर घाव है
शहर शहर की बंजर पपड़ी
हमें इनसे क्यों लगाव है ?

फिर मिला यमुना को दिल्ली में
जहाँ बंध गयी है नलियों में
एक शहर जिसे ममता से सींचा
अब फिरती है उसकी गलियों में

यहाँ पायी एक लाचार यमुना --
अजीब होती हैं यह नदियां
जहाँ जीते हैं हम कुछ बरसों
जीं लेती हैं यह सदियाँ !

यह यम् की बहन
क्या देगी हमें लहरों से फांसी ?
जब हम हैं इसके अस्तित्त्व के प्यासे
क्या यह भी होगी हमारी प्यासी ?

अक्षरधाम का विशाल मंदिर
अब इसके तट अर रहता है
यमुना का थोडा सा दर्द
अब मेरे अन्दर बहता है


Within Me Flows

Eight I was, when I met her first,
She perhaps was eight thousand years!
On a summer dawn, my first river –
Calm and deep; an eternal giver
Around a fort and by a hill
Flowed she, gently, almost still.

The adults haggle and strike a price

We’re in the boat now, off with cries!

In our feet, some sand and grime

O’er the Yamuna, the very first time.

Remember the gentle tinkle of oars?

And a turtle on his daily chores?

As we slided sweetly down her back

Our cup of joy was about to crack.

A little life, that day, the Yamuna took

An innocent boy with an innocent look

Who must have been about my age,

Was trapp’d in a whirlpool’s watery cage.

I still remember that black black day

When a young life quietly dipped away

The dim feeling, never really goes

A fear of Yamuna within me flows.

Then off to schools – some nice, some rotten

I read and Yamuna flowed forgotten

Till I spotted her around the Taj

Choked with garbage, ruin writ large.

And I wondered as o’er the Yamuna I flew –

‘From the sky ’tis such a different view!’

These rivers that we exploit for gains

Look like Earth’s myriad veins.

From up there humans seem like worms

A bacteria from which the earth squirms

And cities resemble an ugly scab

O’er a wound or a deathly stab.

Then I met Yamuna at Delhi

Trapp’d in drains and quite smelly

A civilization that she reared

Now she flows through, smeared and jeered.

How strange ’tis the fate of rivers

A cruel blow destiny delivers

As we live our ‘meaningful lives’

There’s nothing else that survives.

O Yamuna!

Will you not drown us with your waves?

Find for us wet watery graves?

When? When will your patience burst?

For our lives do you not thirst?

The Akshardham temple sits on your banks

A million devotees – a million cranks!

And a dim feeling within me grows

A little pain of yours within me flows.

Stranded Trees - The Video

Okay, Deepali

Here's a video, instead of the pictures requested by you. Might take a bit of time to download, so please be patient.

Cheers!

Stranded Trees

Trees are the best. And they are best in the mornings.

We had planted a Persian Lilac last year in the middle of our garden. It was almost like a long twig when we planted it. Now, a year later, it has a round canopy and has outgrown us by many feet. It must easily be about twelve feet high. I am sure we can swing ourselves on it, though I haven’t tried doing that for sometime. The last I tried was in the monsoon and the earth was quite wet. As I hung, the tree started tilting slowly from the base so I let go and straightened it, patting the mud back into place. But now the trunk is as thick as a child’s thigh and I am sure it can take our weight. Perhaps I’ll try in the winters. The tree sheds a lot these days, but we don’t mind. There’s always a round carpet of yellow leaves and slender twigs under it which look like nature’s clock. I can’t wait for the Persian Lilac to flower in the coming spring.

It seems to be competing with the banana tree, which also we had planted last year. We had gone to pay our telephone bill and the Post and Telegraph office had some bananas growing. We asked the maali to give us a cutting and he gave us one quite happily. The banana came up till our knees then. Now it’s also about twelve feet high and has made itself into three-and-a-half banana trees, looking like a small grove of its own. When the banana sprouts a new leaf, the leaf stands tall and straight and is an eye-pleasing light green. The older leaves are torn at the edges and look like they have grown beards or even wrinkles. I love to look at the banana in the rains and the way the raindrops form rows of wet pearls on its leaves.

The Persian Lilac is special because it attracts many birds. In the mornings, a laughing dove perches itself in the Persian Lilac and goes gur-gur-groo for minutes on end. Its mate hovers around, looking for it, and perches itself on the broadband wire going by the tree. Then it finally joins its mate on the tree and they both cosy up and gur-gur-groo softly in each other’s ears. They are so close to me that I can see the blue grey on the edges of their wings and the black spottings on their necks. Maybe they have been scouting the Persian Lilac for a nest, though they aren’t building one yet. When the sun is up, a pair of Ashy Prinia makes regular visits to the Persian Lilac, hopping from branch to branch restlessly and jimmy jimmy jimmying loudly. They seem to treat it like a Jungle Gym. A hoopoe that visits the garden and digs holes with its hammer like head sometimes perches itself on the Persian Lilac, but he doesn’t spend too much time on it. He seems to prefer the uninhibited view from the wires.

One morning we found a single strand of gossamer, shining in the sun’s slanting rays, stretching from the Persian Lilac to the banana -- a distance of fifteen feet. It was obviously the handiwork of an ambitious spider, and we couldn’t figure out how it would have managed to get from one tree to the other without breaking the strand.

Since it is a rented place, we are likely to move out of the house early next year. The trees are like family members and we’ll have to leave them behind. I wonder if our strands of attachment will stretch too, without breaking, like the spider’s.

यह शहर जब सोता है

यह शहर जब सोता है
ना जाने मुझे क्या होता है

नज़र जाती है फुटपाथों पर
सोती हुई उन लाशों पर

जो सुबह जग जाती हैं
और काम में लग जाती हैं

जाने कहाँ से आती हैं ?
क्या इस शहर से पाती हैं ?

पहाड़-सा एक दिन चढ़ती हैं
पर कहीँ नहीं वो बढ़ती हैं

शाम फिर फुटपाथ पर आती हैं
खुद कफ़न ओढ़ मर जाती हैं

शहर के जाल मैं फंसती हैं
और अपने हाल पर हंसती हैं

पर आंखें इनकी नम होती हैं
यह लाशें कभी ना कम होती हैं

My Way on the Highway

Today, as I drove back from work,
I drove through a lane called Quirk,
And as I sped along the highway,
I saw the world my way --

Cars are music-boxes,
That comprise this rhythmic traffic,
That is why at crossroads,
They’re instructed by equalisers graphic.
The traffic-cop’s a conductor,
Who waves the cars in a pattern,
But he wears a constant frown,
Because he’s lost his precious baton.

-- and that Maruti in crimson red
is flashing eyes at a Merc well-bred --

The roads, they have been wetted,
Because, the clouds, they have sweated,
And those loud lightning flashes,
Are God’s frightening lashes.

The moon, curved and clear –
Is an invisible devil’s frozen leer.
The universe, constantly stretching,
Is God's smile, fetching,
The blackhole’s mystery is simple,
It’s the smile’s pretty dimple.

-- and that beggar with a bowl
is asking for a piece of your soul --

Those entwined fingers on the street,
Are a temporary substitute for entwined feet.
Every human lie,
At another truth, is an honest try,
And every ‘I love you’,
Is a ‘I hope you love me too.’

-- and that man's round bald patch
is where the lice play catch --

यह मात्र एक लिपी नहीं

यह मात्र एक लिपी नहीं
और यह शब्द मेरी कलम की खरोचें नहीं

ध्यान से देखो इन्हें
इनको मैं बड़े प्रेम से सजाता हूँ

कुछ को सीधा कुछ को उल्टा पल्लू पहनाता हूँ
कुछ के माथों पर बिंदी लगाता हूँ

कुछ के घुंगराले बाल सवारता हूँ
कुछ के पैरों में घुंगरू बांधता हूँ

नहीं यह मात्र एक लिपी नहीं

Sometimes, doesn’t a does do?

Does a tree sometimes wish it were a straw?

Does a crab seek lips instead of a claw?

Does grass wish ‘twas on the other side of the fence?

Do porcupines wish for a less pokier defence?

Does a prince sometimes wish he was a frog?

Does an axe desire to sleep with a log?

Does a villa want to be a shack on the beach?

Does near ever wish ‘twas completely out of reach?

Does a minute want to stretch to an hour?

Does a thorn want to feel like a flower?

Does a window sometimes wish to be like a door?

Does gravity ever wish it could freely soar?

Does a ‘why’ ever want to be a ‘how’?

Does eternity wish it was right now?

Does a pearl sometimes wish it was a little rough?

Does ‘more’ ever desire it was just enough?

Does a push ever want to be shoved?

Does hate ever require to be loved?

Does a mountain ever crave to be a valley?

Does an enemy ever want to be pally?

Does ‘maybe’ ever want to be ‘certain’?

Do rugs ever want to be a curtain?

Does a wish sometimes hanker to be a horse?

Does God sometimes wish he was not the source?

एक आज, एक कल

बुझ चले शोले पर है तसल्ली
एक अंगारा अब भी जल रहा है

रफ्तार इसकी देख कर हैरान हूँ मैं
यह कारवाँ ना जाने किधर को चल रहा है

हमने ज़माने के लिये खुद को बदला
यह ज़ालिम तो फिर बदल रहा है

एक अजीब इत्तेफाक है यहाँ हर इन्सान
उगते उगते ढल रहा है

एक खूबसूरत ख़्वाब देखा था कभी
कहीँ गड़ा अन्दर अब भी पल रहा है

दायरा सिमट चला है अब मेरा ...
बस एक आज एक कल रहा है

Wet in Goa

I was trying to catch the monsoon in Goa – my first.

‘Monsoon? It’s over now, no?’ said Annie’s neighbour when she heard me. But thankfully, there has been enough left in the clouds to delight a Dilliwalla. Here are some moments from Goa, where I am currently, babysitting four dogs, one of which, my lucky mascot Muttoo, is howling like a baby, waiting for Annie and Anjali to return from their shopping trip to Panjim and Mhapusa.

A humpbacked, green monsoon monster looks over the gate:

A monsoon wave:

Bhaloo finds something interesting in the backyard:

Chipku gives a shy girl look at the attention she recieves:

Muttoo (aka Hero) shows me how to really enjoy the monsoon, instead of being busy with the camera:

Jaya checks out the bushes post-shower with Muttoo:

There aren't any pictures of Annie and Anjali, but in this household the dogs are far more important, believe me.

मेरा भारत महान

अरे नाचो गाओ झूमो कूदो मेरा भारत भयो महान
निठारी मानसिकता से होता बच्चों का बलिदान
झमा झम नदियों से निकले कैमिकल का उफान
पेस्टीसाइड पी पी कर आत्महत्या करे किसान
सड़क किनारे सोते लोग रौंदे अपना सल्मान
अरे नाचो गाओ झूमो कूदो मेरा भारत भयो महान

कौल सेंटर में शॉन के नाम से बोलता अपना शान
होम लोन से जुटा लेगा निजी फ़्लैट या मकान
एस.ई.ज़ेड. से मिल रहा है प्रगती का प्रमाण
गाँव-गाँव उद्योगी कूड़े का बन रहा पीकदान
अरे नाचो गाओ झूमो कूदो मेरा भारत भयो महान

रामलीला में दिखता है आइट्म नम्बर गान
नया युग है, नयी दिशा है, तू बुरा मत मान
शिल्पा शेट्टी के आंसू लाए ब्रिटेन में हमें सम्मान
कौन बनेगा करोडपती पूछता शाहरुख खान
अरे नाचो गाओ झूमो कूदो मेरा भारत भयो महान

सचिन अमिताभ कि भैया ख़ूब चली दुकान
गोस्वामी ले गया बाढ़ के पैसे खबर ना कानों कान
गांगुली को लात मरी, ना रहा कप्तान
पर अब भी अच्छा म्यूसिक देता है रहमान
अरे नाचो गाओ झूमो कूदो मेरा भारत भयो महान

चोर पुलीस में अंतर करना नहीं रहा आसान
कम्युनिस्ट काडर ने गिरवी रखी अपनी पहचान
उद्योगपती को गले लगायें करें उनका गुणगान
नर्मदा बचाए, कोक पिलाए प्यारा आमिर खान
अरे नाचो गाओ झूमो कूदो मेरा भारत भयो महान

मरीज़ की जेब काट कर करें डाक्टर कल्याण
टाटा, अम्बानी, मित्तल पर देश को है अभिमान
झुग्गी हटा कर बनेगा स्टेडियम आलिशान
जाने कैसे सह्ती है जनता यह अपमान
अरे नाचो गाओ झूमो कूदो मेरा भारत भयो महान

गोल्डन क्वौड्रिलैट्रल का सपना देखें मंत्री प्रधान
नदियों को जोड़ने का देते हैं फरमान
'मंदिर वहीं बनेगा' की वही पुरानी तान
कभी दिलों को जोड़ने की बात करो मेरी जान
अरे नाचो गाओ झूमो कूदो मेरा भारत भयो महान

लोक सभा में ग्रहण किया गोविंदा ने स्थान
नौकरशाह देश की संपत्ती पर मेहरबान
नेता तेरे हुए मुलायम-लालू-पासवान
अब देखें कैसे बचायेगा हिन्दुस्तान
अरे नाचो गाओ झुमो कूदो मेरा भारत भयो महान

(A post Independence-Day reality check)

The twenty-first century fool

Meet the twenty-first century info-age fool,
To protect himself he goes to management school.
He tells himself he leads a productive life,
But, mind you, only from nine to five.
He specialises in 'derivatives' or some such niche,
On his collar he sports a colourful, corporate leash.
And then with others of his cornered ilk,
He smiles and struts 'cos it's made of silk.

प्यार से

सच कहते हैं
दिल पर चोट लगती है एक सच्चे यार से
क्या तभी लिखते हैं गाड़ियों के पीछे
देखो मगर keep distance प्यार से

एक कविता भोली सी

काश एक कविता लिखता भोली सी
रंगमय दिखती होली सी
सजी दुल्हन की डोली सी
काश एक कविता लिखता भोली सी

क्यों

क्यों मज़ा नहीं आता जीने में
क्यों आग एक जलती है सीने में

क्यों ?
क्यों फिरता हूँ अकेला सा
जिन्दगी की दौड़ में ढकेला सा

क्यों जवाब मिलता नहीं आसानी से
क्यों प्यास यह बुझती नहीं पानी से

क्यों?

एक टीले पे

ऊंचे एक टीले पे खड़ा
अचानक लगा मैं हूँ बहुत बड़ा

बादलों के बीच था सर
इरादों में थी ना कसर

फैला दिये अपने हाथ...
हवा भी थी मेरे साथ

आया एक बड़ा सा झोंका
मैं उठा पर एक हंसी ने मुझको रोका

" समझदार तो नहीं पर हो निडर
मालूम नहीं उड़ने के लिये चाहिऐ पर ?

उड़ने की रखते हो अभिलाषा
क्या बोल सकते हो आसमानों की भाषा ?

क्या जानते हो कैसे जीता है परिंदा ?
आकाश में नहीं चाहिऐ मनुष्यों की चिन्ता

तुममें और पक्षी में बस इतना है फ़र्क
उनका स्वच्छ विशवास और तुम्हारा तर्क!

मानव हो कैसे बचोगे मानव धर्म से ?
तुम्हारी करनी तो लिखी है दिव्य कलम से "

A Measure Of Independence

The country celebrates 60 years of Freedom today.

The media is flush with related coverage and explores Freedom from all possible angles. I ask myself what freedom means to me, hoping for a different answer this time. But my mind refuses to let go of its experiences and throws back the same answer as every time I put this question to it: To be able to get a glass of water when needed.

I was hoping for a grander response, but experiences can really take hold of a mind, it seems.

My mind can not forget the incident when I was lying on a bed, a glass of water on the bedside table, but just out of reach. The bell on the bed, out of order, and therefore not summoning the nursing assistant. My body paralysed and I stretching to the best of my ability towards the glass of water, finally managing to pull the tablecloth and the glass along with it, only to have it drop to the floor and shatter. That got he nursing assistant’s attention, however, and I got my glass of water.

Since then, to me freedom has always meant being able to get water when I want it. Quite hopeless a definition, if you ask me -- so focused on the self, and not grand enough. So yet again, I turn to the poem by Rabindranath Tagore to understand what ‘that heaven of freedom’ could be.

Another thing that has taken hold of my mind since June are the floods and their minimal coverage in the media. While the country rejoices through Independence pageants of all kinds and the Prime Minster delivers his speech from the Red Fort, there is this piece of news about water that has shattered the lives of 15 million Indians: ‘Losses in India’s worst-hit northeast amounted to 875 million dollars so far, including damage to crops and property, India’s home ministry said, while Bangladesh said it had counted crop damage of at least 86 million dollars. Heavy monsoon rains and flooding since June have killed more than 2,400 people in India, Bangladesh and Nepal and displaced millions of others.

The Indian losses include 100 million dollars in the impoverished state of Bihar, where the flooding affected 15 million people. Standing water could have destroyed the annual harvest for many of the state’s farmers, experts said. “So many people have lost their homes and these are mostly the poorest of the poor. Re-establishing their livelihoods is going to be a major issue,” said Vinoy Ohdar, who heads anti-poverty agency ActionAid’s Bihar office.’

Here is Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore’s poem, and a glass of water:

My Country Awake

Where the mind is without fear and the head held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by Thee into ever-widening thought and action;
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

I Love You, My Adorable Socks

What a strange paradox!
The closer people get,
The more you treat them like socks.

They exist, but you can't tell,
You notice them,
Only when they smell.

Then it's time for the detergent of love,
As soon as they're shining,
They're back as a foot's glove.

You tell them that you really care,
But your friends know the truth,
They say, “What a wonderful pair.”

Glimpses of reality one day you'll snatch,
You'll see you've been a sock too,
And now you don't match.

What went wrong, you'll wonder and think,
As you're tumble dried,
In the washing machine of a shrink.

Before life deals you such unsavoury knocks,
At least take time to say,
“I love you my socks”.

My Pathetic Life

I’m sick and tired of my pathetic life. And my pathetic thumb is to blame for the mess I’m in.

Every so often, my phone beeps and I’m made a life-altering offer. A window of opportunity opens and, to my horror, I delete the promotional sms after reading the first few characters. It’s a Pavlovian reflex that I’m trying hard to overcome because I’m losing out on all the fantastic offers that life is making.

Just a couple of minutes ago I received an sms which said, ‘Order calendar with hot chicks…’ Just then, my spoilsport thumb took over and a year’s worth of delicious ogling disintegrated into the ether. Earlier in the morning, as I was having my breakfast, I was asked to win a flat in Navi Mumbai by answering a simple question. It would have taken only a minute, but my thumb played spoilsport again.

Meanwhile, what’s my brilliant idea of passing time? Since the morning newspapers were delivered I’ve been harassing my wife, demanding to know why the worst floods in 30 years have not made it to the front pages of newspapers. As if she brings out the newspapers! Why is Sunjay Dutt’s jail term more important than the 20 million flood-affected people who are homeless and don’t know where to get their next meal? My pathetic brain refuses to be titillated by Sania Mirza’s sexy photograph after her short-skirted victory over Martina Hingis. My pathetic response is that this is a tasteless photograph.

I live on the brink of social ostracism because of my attitude. My cousins and their spouses don’t want to go out with me because I fuss about being in malls. I tried it again after a long gap and it wasn’t so bad. There was a brief moment when things could have turned sour. We were in the lift, admiring the inviting expanse of products through its glass walls as a delicious lemon aroma wafted in. Suddenly, for no reason, I started asking the liftman how many hours his shift was. Eight hours, he informed me. “And why don’t you have a stool to sit on?” I asked. “What to do, sir?” he said, shrugging his shoulders. I wanted to go and speak to the management about this but, seeing everyone’s exasperated expressions, I tried to have a good time instead.

It’s not as if people are not trying to help me overcome my pathetic hang-ups. My telecom company regularly sends me thoughtful text messages which can result in a transformation of my life – ‘Upgrade to a colour handset for only Rs…’, but my thumb swings into action before I can digest the details. Polite bank executives, concerned that I might not have the means to enjoy all the goodness, call regularly to check on my financial status and ask if I could do with a personal loan. Television companies pitch in by beaming exciting things like a day-long coverage of Abhishek and Aishwarya’s wedding, knowing that I haven’t been invited to the wedding and that should be no reason to miss out n the good things. Newspaper editors try their bit to give me uplifting news, taking care to bury the uncomfortable news inside, but instead of taking that small step that could emancipate me, I grumble about things. I’m so far gone that at times (hold your breath) I even get irritated at the efforts of all these well-meaning people.

The world is talking about, no, celebrating the high growth figure of the country, and my thumb, instead of giving a joyous thumb-up to all the news, chooses to wallow in denial. I think I need urgent psychological attention so that I can learn to buy in to all the forms of good living that are just for the taking. I am considering amputating my dumb thumb or at least rehabilitating it.

The Show Must Go On

“You never take into account my disability,” I was complaining to a friend who had booked movie tickets for us. The cinema hall was not very accessible, which was to be expected of a theatre in India, but what had got my goat was that our seats were way up towards the back. I was annoyed that my friend had not thought of choosing seats that were easier to access. The anger didn’t last long, as it never does with good friends. He carried me up to the seats and we enjoyed the show.

On the way back, he apologised for not thinking about the seats and said something that’s still fresh in my mind after fifteen years, “You know, one doesn’t think of you as a disabled person even though you are on a wheelchair. I just feel you’re the same as me.” At that time I retorted, “Sure, the fault is all mine!”

In reality, my friend’s admission was a big revelation to me. I thought of other times when I felt frustrated, helpless and therefore angry. One of my pet peeves with my parents has been that they leave things out of my reach, shut doors with latches on the top rather than the ones at the bottom. I would fly into an indignant rage, “If you, as my parents, are not sensitised then what can I expect from the world?” I’d exclaim, my anger tinged with heartbreak.

But that one remark from my friend put things into sudden perspective. The love and support of my parents, my brother, my relatives and friends has been instrumental in making me independent and confident. My parents’ attitude of you-can-do-anything-you-want has given me the strength to go out and achieve my dreams, whether it was playing wheelchair tennis in Australia and Japan, going out on holidays, deciding to marry, running a company of my own and more recently, acting in a television serial.

My friend had taught me that being disabled and thinking of oneself as disabled are two separate things. How you imagine yourself also influences others’ imaginings of you. I’ve also learnt to hang strings from top latches so I can pull them open.

The same friend and I had once gone to an Air Force Officers’ Mess to play billiards. We were teenagers growing up in an Air Force camp near Allahabad. Our fathers served in the Air Force and we would often go to the Officer’s Mess and spend hours playing billiards and snooker. This day, as we were exiting the billiards room, a senior officer almost bumped into me. He sprang back to avoid collision and as I passed him, he looked at my friend behind me, and with a sympathetic cluck of the tongue asked, “Polio?” Without pausing to think my friend replied matter-of-factly, “No, Salil.” We laughed heartily after that but today, when I look back at this incident, I feel that if only most people took a leaf out of my friend’s book the world would be different. For one, Corporate India could learn from my friend to recognise the person and not look at the disability while hiring people.

Another incident that has had a huge impact on me involves my elder brother, who is now in the army. After my accident, which had left me with a spinal injury and my family in a state of shock, it took a long time for all of us to find the strands of life again. During that period I was encouraged to try and walk with callipers with some support. My brother would sit on the wheelchair to lend stability to it and I would hold the pushing handles and walk slowly with the callipers, moving my legs from the waist, one at a time. One evening, as we were doing this tiresome routine, my frustrations welled up and I started yelling at my Bhaiya because no one else was around. To my horror, he simply got up from the chair, which left me with no support. I swayed uncertainly for a moment and then came crashing to the ground. His words resound in my years till this day, “Don’t think you’ll have it special because you have a disability.”

But the seeds of independence were sown much earlier. Within days of my accident, as I lay in the Intensive Care Unit of the Command Hospital, Lucknow, I was given a card signed by my father, mother and brother. It showed lively dancing girls on-stage, with hands entwined behind their backs as they were kicking up one leg in a gay dance routine. One of the girls was missing from the row. The card simply said, ‘The Show Must Go On.’ I am certain that the card was chosen by my father, for I know his habit of examining cards in detail before deciding on the right one.

Thanks Dad, I’m still trying to keep the show going.

The Violence Began Eight Hours After The Accident

I wasn’t really allowed to feel the shock of the accident. First the body’s defence mechanisms, then morphine took the pain away.

By piecing together stories told by others I realise that I must have felt pain, but there’s no memory of it. Perhaps the body’s defence mechanism hasn’t let go even after twenty-three years. I wish it would. I feel the need to face some things, but the mind draws a blank when I try to think about anything related to the spinal injury. The brain re-routes those thoughts to some other lane in the neural networks. Unrelated thoughts take over and I move on.

One of the earliest memories I have, though, still haunts me. It makes me cringe and a shudder runs down my fractured spine. It’s late at night, and I surface from God-knows-where to see my father dozing in a chair at the foot of my bed. I can’t move or feel the tube that has been inserted up my penis into the bladder. I know it’s there though, I don’t know how. It’s been about eight hours since the accident; my head is wrapped in thick gauze, the scalp has been stitched together hurriedly to prevent blood loss. I feel numb and I feel a little sorry for my father who sits in the chair, head hanging on his chest.

“Daddy”, I call out. “I’ll be alright. Please go home.” But he knows more than I do. He knows that I’ll be flown early next morning to the Command Hospital, Lucknow, where I will undergo an emergency surgery to extract pieces of vertebrae that have been sprayed like bullets into my spinal column. (Tears are streaming down my cheeks as I remember the look on dad’s face. I guess I do need to write this down to get it all out…after twenty-three years).

I don’t recall the impact of the jeep. All I can remember is a cyclist appearing from nowhere in front of my scooter, applying all brakes, seeing the right handle of my scooter closing towards my face in slow motion, then nothing. Only voices. It’s difficult to make out who is saying things. The blood is pouring out of my head as I lie on the Grand Trunk road that runs through Allahabad. The scalp has detached and is covering my eyes. Only voices in my head. Soon I realise two of them are my own thoughts. This is what I hear in my head: “Bachega nahin…tch tch…zinda hai kya?…go to sleep…no! you’ve met with an accident, fight back, don’t sleep…what accident? It’s just a bad dream, you’ll wake up fine, go to sleep…don’t listen to this guy, you must stay awake.” Somewhere along the way I must have gone to sleep.

There was so much blood around me, I am told later, that a schoolmate standing in the crowd couldn’t recognise me. A mechanic identified the scooter and then they figured I lived close by. Someone rushed to call my grandfather. They took me to the emergency room of the Swarup Rani Medical College. No one knew about the spinal injury so my grandfather took me to the hospital on a scooter, wedged between two people. I kept complaining about a stomachache, I was told. I’ve spent hours, even days, trying to figure out why I would say that. And I have realised that I probably said “Peeth mein dard hai” (my back aches), but a weakened, blood-drained mumble may have sounded like “Pet mein dard hai” (my stomach aches).

Strangely, I have no memory of the violence – no sounds, no crash, no pain. For me, the violence began about eight hours later at the Military Hospital in Allahabad. I was about to tell you about it…my earliest memory that haunts me. I guess the brain is still trying its re-route technique.

Dad finally decided to take a break from the vigil and a matron-nurse came to me and started talking. I had blood and something from another tube dripping into me slowly. She was nice. She spoke softly and told me that I’d fly the next day to Lucknow in a helicopter. She managed to get me excited about the trip. Flying in a defence chopper, imagine! She gave me a name of a nurse in Lucknow and a message to pass on to her. It was a meaningless message, something like, say hello to her and that I’ll join her soon. I now realise that she was just helping me to focus on something to do. I still didn’t know much more than the fact that I had met with an accident.

And then it happened. The duty officer, a young doctor of the rank of Captain I think, came for his rounds. With him were other nurses. He must have wanted to check on the emergency case. He held one corner of the white sheet and yanked it off me. Oh God! Oh dear god! I was naked! I let out a gasp as if struck by ice-cold water. I couldn’t move my hands to cover myself, so I moved my face away and met with the eyes of the matron. There were three or four people around me. One of them reached down to my penis and checked the tube. But I couldn’t feel him. The doctor touched my legs and ran the end of a ball-pen on the soles but I couldn’t feel a thing. I found that strange. The doctor asked some questions from those around. All I remember is the harsh tone. Then they left. I was staring at the ceiling, naked, tears streaming down my cheeks. The bastard didn’t even put the sheet back.

Across the curtain, I heard the matron berating the young doctor, screaming at him at the top of her voice. I don’t know if she knew I would have nightmares about this for two decades, still counting. I don’t know if she knew that that one sweep of hand had reached so deep into my being and stripped me of something that I don’t even have a name for. It wasn’t respect, it wasn’t dignity, it wasn’t privacy. It was that pure stuff that we are all made of…what is it? Human-ness, humane-ness, stardust, pure joy, what? It must be something that makes us humans because I felt like an animal then. Later, I’ve realised that animals have more sensitivity than that doctor. And now, a lifetime later, Monika, my wife wants to know why I won’t go to a doctor for my aching tooth.

The journey to the Command Hospital was fun. I flew in a Chetak, and every time the pilot looked back to check on me, I gave him a morphine-induced thumbs-up from my stretcher, military style. I can’t help but laugh at the memory of me lying on a stretcher near the chopper, before the take-off, one nursing assistant standing next to me, holding up a red bottle. As relatives streamed along to say bye, I was focused on touching their feet!

After two operations and months of rehabilitation at the hospital, one day I encountered a nurse as I returned from the physiotherapy department. She was short, slim and dark and had a pinched face, or at least that’s the way I remember it. “Why are you smiling?” she asked. “Don’t you know you will never be able to walk again?” This was the second violent moment. Doctors had hid the fact from us. I always thought that with treatment and exercise I would recover in a few years time. We didn’t have the Internet back then and we knew only what the doctors told us. I guess they wanted to soften the blow, and didn’t want to give us all the facts. I just stared at her with my mouth open. I was sixteen, living alone in a hospital with my family in another town, and this is what she could come up with to make me feel better. I just wheeled away.

I have other happier memories that my mind veers towards when I remember those days. The nurses that kissed me in dark corners, the one that let me feel her butt in the ICU while she took my blood pressure, the one who sang songs to me when she gave me a back rub. But I just wanted to tell you about what haunts me.

(as published in Tehelka magazine, August 4 issue)

Garden Fresh

Living in a country in South Asia, it is not surprising that my blog has been drenched by the monsoon. An early morning drizzle today meant that the champas were decked up in their wet pearly earrings. As Annie would say at moments of ineffable joy - "Ooooph, feautiful!" Do you agree, sporadicblogger?





The periwinkles were not to be left behind in the monsoon pageant!

Return of the Garden Monsoon

The monsoon has turned its gaze at Delhi again. It’s been raining here for the past two days and my garden insects have been stirred by the fresh showers. There is intense arthropodic activity in the roughly 1000 square feet of green space. In the morning, the driveway was teeming with earthworms which had shriveled and melted away by the afternoon. But the others are living to tell a monsoon tale. Even a thousand words won't be able to express the wet magic, so here are the pictures (click on them to see a larger size).

Towards the evening, just for a fleeting minute, the skies take on this wonderful hue which had us spellbound the first day. On the second day, I was prepared with my camera.


The leaves and flowers add to the joy.

Simple Pleasures

You don't have to go distances
You don't have to go far
Simple pleasures are all around
Just wherever you are

Today I drove on a road
Laid with pebbles and tar
And experienced a hail-storm
On the under of my car!

An Early Morning Poem

In the early morn
Flies an early bird –
A kite bobbing wild.

A stringed greeting,
To the early wind,
By an early man –
A child

My Maruti Spacecraft

A bored journey –
On the horizon
I spotted a star.

I imagined
I flew a spacecraft
And not a small car.

A stone I avoid –
“That actually is
a mean asteroid”

O’er a bump I flew
"Relax", command I
To my worried crew

“We’re in galaxy
Number S10E
That’s our destiny!”

Captain's log: "On course
all systems are fine!"
Then I remember
I am twenty-nine.

As the sleepy kid
on the roadside
Glances up from it,
Does he understand?
To him did I look
Like a swift comet?

Dear mosquito

What's the point in killing you

After you’ve had your fill?

Even if a drop or two,

My very own blood I spill!

I make a bloody donation

To expand your winged species,

And you, Sir! an irritation,

Offer assortments of diseases?

You accost me with aerial raids,

And I bet a hundred bucks,

In this world of deadly AIDS,

You don’t practice safe sucks!

Excuse me as I go WHAP!

But, don't you find it odd?

To kill you I have to clap --

An automatic applaud!

As I end your selfish flight,

Remember this the most:

Got be an elegant parasite,

To get an elegant host!

blogging is fun

if I were a frog
i would not blog
but i'm a man
so blog i can

Calotes Versicolor

“No pesticides and no chemcial fertilisers.” This has been the simple instruction to the gardeners who have worked for us. We have been warned that the grass won’t stay green, the flowers will not look healthy and that worms and disease will overrun the garden. I am sure all of that will happen, and that nature can’t take care of itself except through man’s chemical formulations, but exactly when the garden will go to natural rot as predicted by the gardeners, it’s difficult to say. For three years the garden has been green, the flowers have been cheerful and the worms have appeared at the designated time of the year and been swallowed by our resident mini-gardeners – the growing family of garden lizards.

Their Latin name is Calotes Versicolor. Sounds almost like a spell from Harry Potter. In our language (Hindi) we call them girgit, or girgitan. They aren’t very loved creatures though I have come to enjoy their company a lot. Folklore has it that a person being chased by villains hid in a well. A helpful spider quickly spun a web over the well to camouflage him. But the spoil-sport girgit gave it away by nodding his head vigorously as if to say, ‘He’s here, he’s here!’ In reality, garden lizards do rapid push-ups as a show of strength to ward off competition during the mating season. That’s when their heads turn red too. But it seems whatever the poor girgit does, it is born to be reviled. They are called bloodsuckers in Sri Lanka because of this phenomenon. And in India and Pakistan, any person who changes his stance at the drop of a hat is acccused of ‘changing colours like the girgit’.

I am happy that our garden is a safe sanctuary to the girgits. They have, in fact, been an important part of our garden, keeping the insects in check. The first year, there were just a few girgits – perhaps three at most. But they have proliferated and now, depending on the season, the garden sometimes feels like a highway for these busy-bodies. Their numbers dwindle in the monsoons and they almost disappear for a while, only to make a comeback the next year in greater strength.

I have observed a difference between the earlier generations and the younger lot. While I could get quite close to them a couple of years back, the younger lot are very wary and want to stay at a safe distance -- the generation gap, I think. The earlier ones also seemed more eager to get themselves photographed, sometimes giving almost human-like poses.

What I like most about them is the way their eyes follow us. Both their eyes move separately and they can focus on two different objects simultaneously. If they want depth percecption they focus with both their eyes on the same object. As we move around the garden, I can see their eyes shift, closely following our actions. I am overcome with this urge to spin suddenly, wave a wand and cry out, ‘Calotes versicolor!’ I don’t know what the spell will do to them, but these magical creatures have held me spellbound for many an hour.

Your Call Is Important To Us

Monika, my richer half, had received a juicy bonus at her office. We were planning ways of blowing it all up -- buy the whole set of Cohen Brothers, Tarkovsky, Miyazake and Ozu's movies, buy all the books we had been listing for the past two years and take that holiday to Vietnam. Somewhere along the way, reality intruded on our plans and we finally decided to pay back part of the housing loan and bring the EMIs down to a more comfortable level. (We bought three movies, two books and went for a vacation to Corbett National Park).

So, I called up the Customer Care Service of our bank (referred to in our household as Icky Icky bank, owing to the strong emotions it stirs in us). I needed to find out how paying back Rupees three lakh would affect the EMI plan.

A simple thing, really. Here’s how it went:

Call 1

A woman on some uplifting drugs, speaking in a hyper-cheerful voice: “Welcome to Icky Icky Bank’s Phone Banking. For instant access to your account, enter your debit or credit card number.”

“Hey, did we get a debit or credit card number with our loan application?” I shouted in the direction of Monika.

“I don’t know. Check the file!” She hollered back.

I didn’t find anything of this sort in the loan file, so I called again.

Call 2

Same woman, same uplifting drugs: “Welcome to Icky Icky Bank’s Phone Banking. For instant access to your account, enter your debit or credit card number.”

This time I was wiser, so I didn’t bother.

She continued cheerfully: “If you are an Icky Icky Bank customer, or for application status, press 1; for information on our new products, press 2; to report loss of card, press 3; for any unresolved request, press 4.”

As I was mulling over the choices, she cheerfully reminded me: “We have not received your input, please try again.”

But I’d forgotten the choices.

“We have not received your input, please try again,” she said, and after a polite wait said, “For English, press 1, Hindi mein jaankaari ke liye do dabaayein.”

Ah, ha! So she now figures I could be having problems with the language. I choose English.

“Please select from the following 7 choices at anytime during the call: for Banking Accounts, press 1; for Credit Cards, press 2; If you are a Private Banking Customer, press 3; for Demat Accounts and Online Trading, press 4; for Loans, press 5; press 6 for Icky Icky Bombard General Insurance; for Bonds press 7.”

I begin to wonder what Demat accounts are and whether my Commerce classes in college were a waste. Then I begin to worry about the insurance premium coming up and finally think how nice it would be to have her say, for James Bond, press 007.

“We have not received your input, please try again.”

Shit! What were the choices again? But she goes on cheerfully, her drug-induced high making it a cakewalk for her: “Please select from the following 7 choices at anytime during the call: for Banking Accounts, press 1; for Credit Cards, press 2; If you are a Private Banking Customer, press 3; for Demat Accounts and Online Trading, press 4; for Loans, press 5; press 6 for Icky Icky Bombard General Insurance; for Bonds press 7.”

I’m focused this time, and I press 5 for Loans.

“To avail of loan on phone, press 1; for queries on your existing loan account, press 2; for information on new products, press 3.”

I’m still focused, though I’m curious about new products. Before my nervous system kicks in with a reflex action, I press 2 for existing loan accounts. I’m imagining smart executives, sitting next to phones labeled ‘Loan Accounts’ ready to jump to the rescue of a customer as soon as the phone rings.

But the lady continues, and I listen in a slightly numbed way, feeling my individuality melting and being sucked out through my ear into the phone. I’m just another of the million customers with a micro-waved ear. The cheerful lady on the other end of the line has impressive stamina though. She continues, “To access home loans, press 1; To access car loans and car overdrafts, press 2; To access personal loans, press 3; To access two-wheeler loans, press 4; To access loans against security, press 5; To access other consumer loans, press 6; To return to the previous menu, press 7.”

I give up on the idea of enthusiastic executives waiting to pounce on the phone. There is no way they’ll have phones labeled with so many choices. I click on 1 to access home loans. The lady, still cheerful after all this time (I’m beginning to wish I had access to her drug cabinet), starts to say something when the network connection dies and the call ends. I am sent spinning into Customer Care Hell.

Day two

After sharing my inability to navigate basic Customer Care (or is it Customer SCARE) procedures with friends, and receiving advice from them, I figure out that I am supposed to treat it like some sort of a video game. All the choices are really different levels that you graduate to and you don’t have to wait till the cheerful drugged lady has spelt out all her choices. You go for it as soon as you hear the choice.

This time I navigate expertly. In a few quick strokes I am at the home loan level. The cheerful lady on the drugs, says cheerfully, her tone suggesting that this might be the most exciting thing I’ll do today: “Please enter the 11 digit numeric part of your loan account number.”

Ah ha! That’s a new one, but I’m prepared. The file is with me and I enter the number.

“Your Loan Account number is”– she repeats the number, enunciating each number with a burst of energy. She has clearly enjoyed the eleven-digit number. What could it be? I wonder: LSD? Speed? Smack? I really must find out about those drugs. I stem the thought and mumble to myself – ‘focus, focus.’

‘To confirm press 1; to cancel and re-enter, press 2.”

I confirm, with a flourish. But what’s this?

“For provisional income tax certificate, press 1; for final income tax certificate, press 2; for repayment schedule, press 3; for loan account statement, press 4; for welcome letter, press 5; for part payment letter, press 6; for rate of interest confirmation letter, press 7; to return to the previous menu, press 8; to speak to a phone banking officer, press 9.”

Ah, finally a human being! Damn the choices, I just go for the banking officer, pressing 9.

“Hello, this is Krish, how can I help you?”

I can tell by his tone that he’s had some of those happy drugs as well.

“Uh, hi Krish. I actually want to pay back some of my home loan and wanted to know how it will affect the EMIs. I want to bring the EMI amount lower.”

“Yes, that’s possible.”

“Great!”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Er, sorry?”

“Is there anything else I can help you with Mr Chaturvedi?”

“But you haven’t helped me yet. I wanted to know how paying back Rs three lakh will affect our EMI plan?”

“Sorry sir, to find that out you’ll need to go to the nearest bank. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Wait, wait. You don’t understand. I only need you to tell me, if I pay back Rs three lakh, how will it affect the loan EMI. Can’t you calculate and let me know?”

“Yes sir, you can pay back and bring your EMI down. For calculation please go to the nearest bank. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Yes. Where do you get your drugs from?”

“Excuse me sir!”

“Never mind, thanks.”

“Thank you for calling Icky Icky Bank. Have a nice day Mr Chaturvedi.”

Have a nice day? Is he for real? It’s a shame. They ought to get their customers on those happy drugs as well. I wonder if I can get the courts to intervene and have them share those pills. It’s not fair for corporates to have all the fun. I’m so pissed, I’m thinking of closing my account with Icky Icky Bank and trying Shitty Bank instead.

Don’t Catch That Disability

I’ve often wondered, if one can catch disability by being around a disabled person, like one catches a bout of viral or flu? Empirical evidence suggests that that might well be the case, though a deeper scientific study is needed to verify this.

Here are some conditions, enumerated in the hope that they will keep you from accidentally catching a spell of disability.

>> Push and Shove Motor Syndrome (PSMS): Be careful around persons on wheelchairs lest you fall prey this to syndrome. For that matter, even blind persons have been known to cause this ailment.

In this debilitating condition, you will be overcome with spasms of charity and will lose control over your thoughts and musculature. As the altruistic virus takes sudden control of the brain, you will be overwhelmed with a mad impulse to either push the wheelchair, or to lift it off the curb, or to assist in some other way. It does not matter if the person on the wheelchair is in mid-conversation with someone – off he goes, having to finish the conversation over his shoulder. I’ve even seen a particularly severe strain of this syndrome at the Indira Gandhi International Airport in New Delhi where a helpful person was pushing two wheelchair sportspersons at the same time. The poor guy was struggling to control the wheelchairs, while the wheelchair users were struggling to break free.

If you are the disabled person causing this syndrome, you can fortunately play a part in ending it too. A well-aimed slap usually rids the person of the virus. There might be other methods too, like going over the toes of the charity-ridden person but a slap seems to be the most efficient.

>> Disability Erasitis: This is a condition of the eye that will affect you as long as a disabled person is within sight. By a mysterious phenomenon, for which there seems to be no rational explanation, you will simply erase the disabled person from your vision. As the disabled person moves around, you may unconsciously adjust your posture so that you can avoid his sight. If the disabled person somehow manages to address you, or ask you a question, you will acknowledge the question as having emerged magically from the ether, and will deliver your response to the ether. You may even have long conversations with the disabled person without once looking directly at him. Not your fault, because you are suffering from Disability Erasitis, and your mind can not acknowledge the presence of the disabled person.

This condition seems to get cured if the disabled person repeatedly pokes the affected party in the stomach, but the cure is usually accompanied with a side effect -- the person will quickly walk away.

>> Decibel Disorder: This is a curious case, but nevertheless, one that is fairly common. On meeting a blind person, you will start speaking loudly so that the blind person can hear you clearly. Sometimes you may speak very slowly, and sometimes do both -- speak loudly and slowly. While no sure-shot cure is available, the blind person can save his hearing by saying a magic word after the affected person stops speaking. Depending on the language being spoken, one needs to simply say “Hain?” or “Kya?” or “What?” forcing the affected person to repeat every syllable, leading to vocal exhaustion.

>> Curiosidosis: This usually occurs when a person suddenly comes face to face with a disabled person, as when turning a corner. The element of surprise seems to play an important role in triggering this disorder. At first, you will experience severe reactions in the facial muscles. Then as your face is being contorted, one of two things might happen – either the eyes will widen, pulling the eyebrows towards the forehead, and dragging the jaw upwards, or the face muscles will be instantly paralysed and your jaw will sink downwards, accompanied with a blank stare. The foot muscles may also be paralysed, rooting you to a spot, eyes transfixed hypnotically at the disabled person, mouth wide open. This disorder also seems to have a socio-cultural aspect. It can affect conservative people when they see a disabled person doing tasks such as getting into the driving seat of a car, working on a laptop, playing a music instrument, playing lawn-tennis, etc. Sometimes, especially in older people, one encounters yet another variant of this disorder. They will start asking many questions, the pet one being, “Is this from birth?”

If you are a disabled person and you hear that question, you know what you are up against and you can proceed to treat the affected person. There are many ways of doing this, one of the most effective being to return the question with a volley of questions of your own, such as, “Do you always ask personal questions before you get to know someone?” “Do you have a daughter (or son) of marriageable age?” Are you generally this rude?” You could devise your own questions based on the situation and the severity of the attack.

There could be other kinds of conditions that are caused by disabled persons. I’d appreciate it if you could bring such ailments to my notice so we are all prepared. It’s getting increasingly difficult to keep disabled persons safely inside their homes.

My Garden Monsoon

It’s been two-and-a-half years since we moved into this house. There was no garden then -- just a large, bare patch of mud. Now there’s a seven-foot banana tree, an equally tall anaar tree with effulgent flowers, a diminutive chiku tree that gives us a single chiku fruit every year, a guava tree that is bearing fruit for the first time, a plentiful lemon tree, a Persian Lilac that is already about 10 feet tall and going strong, three bougainvillea creepers arching over the wall, roses gifted by a friend from Chandigarh, two types of tulsis, jasmine, aloe vera, hibiscus bushes, curry patta, a patch of lemon grass, an explosive variety of chilli, a fragrant frangipani and an assortment of seasonal flowers. And all of them are thrilled that the monsoon is here.

The summer was particularly tough for the plants. In the evenings, as I’d water them, I’d give them regular updates on the monsoon: It has hit Kerala, now Goa, moving up the Konkan…in Mumbai…it’ll soon be here…hang in there. Then one day, as I hear a deep rumble that resonates in my solar plexus, I rush out to greet the clouds, a moist excitement seeping through me.

The temperature dips, the sky darkens and I sit expectantly in the driveway, looking skywards. I don’t care if the wheelchair gets wet or if the cushion gets soaked. I’m looking forward to the first drops brushing my cheeks -- lightly at first, and then with stinging intensity. The clouds don’t disappoint this time. I sit with a smile; eyes shut, and let the monsoon soak through.

I soon discover that there are tinier hearts that have been waiting for the monsoon with equal keenness. At first I am surprised to find that there are so many little creatures in our garden. I’ve noticed that small birds like wagtails, hoopoes, bee-eaters, prinias and stonechats visit the lawn every morning and spend about an hour ch­asing, digging up and catching insects. But I had never realised that food supply was there in such abundance. Within minutes spiders, ants, a small, white scorpion, slugs, centipedes and hundreds of earthworms join me on the driveway. It’s as if they’ve decided to welcome the monsoon with me.

In the following days, as the newspapers and television channels begin the downpour of predictable monsoon coverage -- statistics, comparison with previous years, listing of deaths and devastation, floods, the endless traffic snarls -- I turn to my tiny friends to rediscover the magic of the monsoon.

I follow a centipede rushing off on its myriad legs. I track the slow progress of a slug as it climbs a plant and explores its leaves, finally resting on the underside of one. I tag along an ant as it busies itself in finding dry ground, and I could swear that another one was trying to fold a blade of grass over itself like an umbrella. As I tail my garden friends I experience the monsoon in a completely novel way. For the first time I notice the pearl-like drops that sparkle on the soft downy green of a broad leaf; I admire rain-drenched buds that have fallen in the cup of a leaf; I laugh as I find a stupefied cockroach sliding down a leaf; I marvel at a flower wearing raindrops like earrings.

And to think that my microscopic friends don’t even know about the phenomenon called the monsoon. They will never know that the strengthening of the Asian monsoon has been linked to the uplift of the Tibetan Plateau after the collision of India and Asia around 50 million years ago. Or that records from the Arabian Sea and the Loess Plateau of China has led geologists to believe that the monsoon first became strong around 8 million years ago. Or that plant fossils in China and new long-duration sediment records from the South China Sea have led marine geologist Peter Clift to propose a much older monsoon starting around 24 million years ago. My friends will also never know that the monsoon has varied significantly in strength since this time, largely linked to global climate change, especially the cycle of the Pleistocene ice ages.

What they know, they have taught me -- that our drop-like lives are surrounded by beauty. We just need to take a break from our grand visions and peek behind a brick, look under a leaf or explore between the blades of grass. Thanks to my garden friends, this has turned out to be one of the best monsoons I have had. I do feel a bit like my friend on the leaf down below.