There is a fly,
It deserves to die:
It is very irritating.
Spreading illness like that
Bringing shit to your hat
It's a claimant on collective hating.
Rubbing its hinds,
About to devour your health
Disgusting like a Star Wars villain.
Let the electric fly killers
Attract them and burn them
Let the swatters take care of
The carcasses in flight
Let newspapers get to their real jobs
Let the hum finally cease.
31.7.09
From Another Time
It's almost a bimonthly affair now, my Hyderabad-Delhi- Hyderabad trips. What is so special about travelling between a big city and the State-Capital, you'd ask: ordinary Second Class Sleeper, 26-30 hours, the extreme weather of the plains, and rotten police afsars between Jhansi and Agra who insist on harassing anyone remotely urbane in appearance.
The price tag: Rs. 649/- one way.
The safety: I can't begin to describe the extent.
The pleasures: Countless.
Since food becomes top-priority on a long distance journey, let me begin by stating that the Indian Railways, under the guardianship of the greatly revered Railways Minister Laluji, have converted into a sort of chain of a-la-carte restaurants, the likes of food courts at malls, almost. From the heavenly, yet earthy adrak (ginger) chai, to the slightly upmarket cutlets/ omelet-bread, to the standard set meal- all at your beckoning. Did I mention the in-betweens?
Fresh, intoxicatingly sweet fruit of the season: oranges, guavas, chickoos. And about two hours before Nagpur, start the flat cries of "Agra ka Petha" and namkeen. As you manage to get over these temptations, samosas and vadas- piping hot- come knocking at the doors of your palette. So potent are their delicious smells that they possess the power to awaken you from the deepest slumber caused by the cradling motion of the train. Madhya Pradesh is the most deadly though.
The dacoits of Chambal would eat themselves if they ever knew of the culinary delights lay in the bogies of the Sampark Kranti Express: Ratlami sev and bhujia, Imarti, puri-bhaji, Mathura Laddu. It just doesn't stop!
It's a ceaseless flood now, and you'd better turn a saadhu to remain determined. To not give in. And just as you've managed to save yourself from the clutches of a night that'd lead you to a three-day course of Pudin Hara/ Eno/ Triphala, the early morning chai arrives at Mathura in heart warming kullad to break your resolution.
The price tag: Rs. 649/- one way.
The safety: I can't begin to describe the extent.
The pleasures: Countless.
Since food becomes top-priority on a long distance journey, let me begin by stating that the Indian Railways, under the guardianship of the greatly revered Railways Minister Laluji, have converted into a sort of chain of a-la-carte restaurants, the likes of food courts at malls, almost. From the heavenly, yet earthy adrak (ginger) chai, to the slightly upmarket cutlets/ omelet-bread, to the standard set meal- all at your beckoning. Did I mention the in-betweens?
Fresh, intoxicatingly sweet fruit of the season: oranges, guavas, chickoos. And about two hours before Nagpur, start the flat cries of "Agra ka Petha" and namkeen. As you manage to get over these temptations, samosas and vadas- piping hot- come knocking at the doors of your palette. So potent are their delicious smells that they possess the power to awaken you from the deepest slumber caused by the cradling motion of the train. Madhya Pradesh is the most deadly though.
The dacoits of Chambal would eat themselves if they ever knew of the culinary delights lay in the bogies of the Sampark Kranti Express: Ratlami sev and bhujia, Imarti, puri-bhaji, Mathura Laddu. It just doesn't stop!
It's a ceaseless flood now, and you'd better turn a saadhu to remain determined. To not give in. And just as you've managed to save yourself from the clutches of a night that'd lead you to a three-day course of Pudin Hara/ Eno/ Triphala, the early morning chai arrives at Mathura in heart warming kullad to break your resolution.
$#&^*(#%+ Rains
She plays hide and seek
Where trees lie mobbed together:
A veil of shower
Or just peek-a-boo.
Her games are an open secret,
Like a burqua that covers beauty
And intrigues the onlooker too.
She dances on the ledge
And climbs in through the window.
When the winds chase her elusive arrival,
She gushes through tiny bylanes
And beckons all on the way—
The myna to sing,
The grass to beam,
The puddles to splash,
And lovers to dream.
The dreams shatter as she lashes about,
The puddles meander into streams,
The grass sinks, stamped upon,
But the myna remains on the brink—
On the brink of madness,
She wades through the fog
Climbs each branch higher
Forks further, flits farther,
The friend catches up, at last.
~ Priyanca, The Rain
The rain in this city has as much shame as its people. It barges into your taxi like it's gonna pay half the fare plus damages for wetting the seats. The pitter patter isn't consistent. It kisses my lips sometimes and at others, just drenches me like it was holi. Zero modesty or sense of timing.
And then the taxi.
Fiats have a distinct smell. A smell very different from other cars. It is the smell of the steering wheel and the dashboard. In the rains, the moss threatens to erupt all day if you don't clean it often. It is probably the stench of that threat that marks all taxis in the rains. You just can't keep the water out. The odour seems to me an inseparable part of the monsoons here. It's like those lines from Hotel California, You can check in anytime you like/ But you can never leave.
Spooky, I say!
And when you try turning up the windows in an attempt at keeping the vaachhant* out, you feel gagged, like the lack of air had taken over from the mold and now that's a menace you SHOULD be scared of.
*Gujarati for the spray of water, especially rains, reflected from a surface because of the force of the water itself.
Where trees lie mobbed together:
A veil of shower
Or just peek-a-boo.
Her games are an open secret,
Like a burqua that covers beauty
And intrigues the onlooker too.
She dances on the ledge
And climbs in through the window.
When the winds chase her elusive arrival,
She gushes through tiny bylanes
And beckons all on the way—
The myna to sing,
The grass to beam,
The puddles to splash,
And lovers to dream.
The dreams shatter as she lashes about,
The puddles meander into streams,
The grass sinks, stamped upon,
But the myna remains on the brink—
On the brink of madness,
She wades through the fog
Climbs each branch higher
Forks further, flits farther,
The friend catches up, at last.
~ Priyanca, The Rain
The rain in this city has as much shame as its people. It barges into your taxi like it's gonna pay half the fare plus damages for wetting the seats. The pitter patter isn't consistent. It kisses my lips sometimes and at others, just drenches me like it was holi. Zero modesty or sense of timing.
And then the taxi.
Fiats have a distinct smell. A smell very different from other cars. It is the smell of the steering wheel and the dashboard. In the rains, the moss threatens to erupt all day if you don't clean it often. It is probably the stench of that threat that marks all taxis in the rains. You just can't keep the water out. The odour seems to me an inseparable part of the monsoons here. It's like those lines from Hotel California, You can check in anytime you like/ But you can never leave.
Spooky, I say!
And when you try turning up the windows in an attempt at keeping the vaachhant* out, you feel gagged, like the lack of air had taken over from the mold and now that's a menace you SHOULD be scared of.
*Gujarati for the spray of water, especially rains, reflected from a surface because of the force of the water itself.
24.7.09
This City Breathes
Its beauty lies not in its people, but in a yesterday that ponders. And though it treads the path of now, they merely shed the load of the day and get on with tomorrow. The city ain't for the weak of heart, for a weaker hearth ties them. Grand in wrath, more grandiose in recovery, their scars too are a thing of the past.
Like the numerous buildings that line all the six-lane roads in South Bombay. Like the statues that stay put, even with flyovers erected around them- almost Matrix-like. They have resisted time, space (or the increasing lack of it) and the sea.
I feel like an alien here. Not because the pace is too fast for me, or the decibels too loud, but it always boils down to the people. I have made a few acquaintances though. Some, I call friends too. But they're not warm.
The distance bothers me here. Not because it is too large, but because there is so little space to travel it. So few means despite the buses and taxis and autos and private vehicles, despite the flyovers and bridges and sea link and foot-overs.
They have built their tiny bridges, when a large one could not be afforded. They have fought their way through train trips, when the larger wars gunned them down. Their angst is their own, no one shares it outside the city. Their problems are their own, not even their neighbours share them. So if this city's so synthetic, why do I love it so much?
I've never been happier than I've been the past 6 months. I'm left alone when I need my solitude. There's no dearth for good conversation. The breeze blows all the time. The stone buildings always offer the occasional marvel. But two years is all I can take of it. The happiness would kill me.
Like the numerous buildings that line all the six-lane roads in South Bombay. Like the statues that stay put, even with flyovers erected around them- almost Matrix-like. They have resisted time, space (or the increasing lack of it) and the sea.
I feel like an alien here. Not because the pace is too fast for me, or the decibels too loud, but it always boils down to the people. I have made a few acquaintances though. Some, I call friends too. But they're not warm.
The distance bothers me here. Not because it is too large, but because there is so little space to travel it. So few means despite the buses and taxis and autos and private vehicles, despite the flyovers and bridges and sea link and foot-overs.
They have built their tiny bridges, when a large one could not be afforded. They have fought their way through train trips, when the larger wars gunned them down. Their angst is their own, no one shares it outside the city. Their problems are their own, not even their neighbours share them. So if this city's so synthetic, why do I love it so much?
I've never been happier than I've been the past 6 months. I'm left alone when I need my solitude. There's no dearth for good conversation. The breeze blows all the time. The stone buildings always offer the occasional marvel. But two years is all I can take of it. The happiness would kill me.
Shh...
The sea brings my day to me,
And the lullaby to slumber.
Last night, he came a tad sooner,
Whispering a tide on my shore.
He slipped in through no secret door
No crevices led him in
He needed no permission,
I couldn't bar his entry.
Shhh, he grunted.
And the lullaby to slumber.
Last night, he came a tad sooner,
Whispering a tide on my shore.
He slipped in through no secret door
No crevices led him in
He needed no permission,
I couldn't bar his entry.
Shhh, he grunted.
Written at the L&T Orientation Programme
When I was on the bus to Haji Ali last evening, I noticed a house. All that was available to the eye, from my vantage point on the road, was the verandah on the first floor, with a couple of windows open. The windows allowed a peek into what could be the outermost "layer": clotheslines, spare mattresses stacked one on top of another, toys from another era, peeling paint, rusting pot stands, corroding aluminium on the windows themselves.
It was a feeling of deja vu. As if I have been told about this house, this verandah, this place before. A few years ago, may be. And then it strikes where, by whom I was told. I remember exactly my source of this prior description. Rohinton Mistry's A Fine Balance told me.
What came as a surprise though, was how close the house was to the vicinity where I live. And how close to the description's likeness.
Bombay takes me back to books now.
Nerd.
It was a feeling of deja vu. As if I have been told about this house, this verandah, this place before. A few years ago, may be. And then it strikes where, by whom I was told. I remember exactly my source of this prior description. Rohinton Mistry's A Fine Balance told me.
What came as a surprise though, was how close the house was to the vicinity where I live. And how close to the description's likeness.
Bombay takes me back to books now.
Nerd.
Sweet Flower Bus Trip
A couple of days back, I had an intriguing conversation with a lady in the bus Iwas travelling to go to... Dadar, I think. It all began with this sweet smell that stung me while I sat on a window seat, practicing the songs I was to sing for the rehearsal (yes! I was going to Sion for my rehearsal, not Dadar) that day as the brackish sea air mixed with the salty mist hailing from the Haji Ali shore came flooding in the face.
It was probably so stark because it wasn't the regular stale jasmine or jui or rajnigandha. It was different, despite emanating the same sweet headiness of white night flowers.
I was in two minds, to ask or not to ask the lady what those flowers she'd put in her hair were called. She had the air of studied dishevelledness- like all Marathi women of a certain age do. a dark green sari with red and gold border, oiled hair tied into a tsotli . So raked some guts (as if I were a boy of 14 asking some girl), "Auntie, aapne jo baal mein phool lagaye hain unko kya kehte hain?" She smiled (Oh! the smile that lit up my day!) and told me the name of the flower [which i've forgotten now :( ], and then she told me the jhaad is called bakul. "Shivaji Park mein Ganesh Mandir ke paas hai."
I've stopped putting flowers in my hair. The last time I did was at my sister's engagement. It scares me to attract someone now. Not because I'm "booked" or because my loyalties lie in a home far away- perhaps the prospect of being so subtly attractive scares a lot of us. There's something demurely sexy about flowers - especially the way we Indians tend to use them for shringaar. It is like wearing a love potion. Devilishly sweet, yet elusive.
It was probably so stark because it wasn't the regular stale jasmine or jui or rajnigandha. It was different, despite emanating the same sweet headiness of white night flowers.
I was in two minds, to ask or not to ask the lady what those flowers she'd put in her hair were called. She had the air of studied dishevelledness- like all Marathi women of a certain age do. a dark green sari with red and gold border, oiled hair tied into a tsotli . So raked some guts (as if I were a boy of 14 asking some girl), "Auntie, aapne jo baal mein phool lagaye hain unko kya kehte hain?" She smiled (Oh! the smile that lit up my day!) and told me the name of the flower [which i've forgotten now :( ], and then she told me the jhaad is called bakul. "Shivaji Park mein Ganesh Mandir ke paas hai."
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| Photo courtesy: http://www.flickriver.com/photos/noshin_me |
I've stopped putting flowers in my hair. The last time I did was at my sister's engagement. It scares me to attract someone now. Not because I'm "booked" or because my loyalties lie in a home far away- perhaps the prospect of being so subtly attractive scares a lot of us. There's something demurely sexy about flowers - especially the way we Indians tend to use them for shringaar. It is like wearing a love potion. Devilishly sweet, yet elusive.
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