The traipse and the truce

I liked her best in the morning, as she came down for breakfast, in pastel, in red - a delectable assassin from the Mediterranean. I'd like to say she came from Israel, a fighting machine, coiled and poised.

The delicate run of light along the ridge of her nose. The gentlest dance, a sway. A tilt now, slight, of her face - even pretending to read! The drama was definite, and this play real.

'Don't smile at me like that, you'll kill me'
She threw her back and laughed, laughed and perhaps killed me just a bit more.
'I'd ask you to marry me, if I thought I had a chance'
'Why don't you?'
'For the pleasure of being turned down? Why not then?'
'Seduce me. You think that might be easier?'
'I think it would be hard to love you. I know this.'
'Love and forgetting, both are hard.'
'Yes.'
'I'll always have one hand on the devil, eternal angel.'

We must all write.

Write, for example -

On her return to circles.
On cantalooping.
On Clyde's buttoned boots - and how they shone!
On bells on clocks, perched.
On black on white.
On curved compliments, and dietary supplements.
On watching geese. Alone and intent.
On reflecting lights. Complete with ripples.
On standing next to Silver-bean. And staring at a bigger you.
On big apples, small starts, and grand dreams.
On vacations.
On olive-cream and jujubes.
On skates, on scooters.
On still staring at a bigger you.
On old leather; now forgiven.
On shaking trees, now awake.
On leaning on knobs.
On slowly playing with you.
On spooning a mouthful.
On pressing floors.
On judging.
On weaknesses and companions.
On lovers.
On not noticing the scars.
On shutting down and waking up.
On brevity.

on worth

If now, for a moment,
Bearing witness, it stands that a romantic interlude –
with the dancing and the lights, stars and long walks, no less,
in effect interspersed and comforting, uncertain yet hopeful –
were to have been;
would it stand to humanly reason that the ensuing time, the time spent apart in waiting,
been differently spent?

If now, as then,
We were to consider –
Is a poem, all that is out of it, worth the effort?

Up the Parvati Valley

We went up the Parvati valley to the source of the river, which is a glacial lake called Mantalai. Parvati is Shiva's wife, so a very powerful woman indeed! As we saw it, the river is calm near the source but gets angrier as it nears civilisation.. which is understandable.
It took us 5 days to Mantalai from Varsheni, and 4 days to get back to Manali. Of course, throughout, the Himalayas are majestic. Even if you're seeing them and walking through them for not the first time, they do not cease to amaze. Up there, all they ask of you is that you give them due respect. That is all. Once that is done, they may treat you well.
We were not so lucky as we had hoped to to cross the Pin Pass over Mantalai, but it was far too snowed over and we did have all the equipment we'd have wanted to get back down the other steeper side.
Next time then.
But in the mountains you see and feel and hear like nowhere else - not the middle of the ocean, not across expansive plains. And on top, you are there just to be. Nothing else. No plans to be made, no phones to be answered.

Over road from Kerala to Delhi - A note on a few days of the journey

I decided to join my sister's fiance's father on a trip from the South to the North - he's done it quite a few times before.

We started in Kerala, which is probably the first place in India into which early humans from Africa entered. Unequivocally beautiful place – I was in a jungle village with four homes and a church (now that I read that it sounds quite a Marquez-esque situation..).

Anyway, first day we traversed some of the Deccan plateau, the cotton belt of India, and up across the Western Ghats. We managed a fair bit, about 700 kms. I was surprised by how good the roads were – often 4-lane, and actually cemented. Of course, regardless of the roads themselves, the traffic on them is still very much Indian – so vehicles and non-vehicles of all shapes and sizes give each other company and fight for space. And with the drivers possessed of a quiet assurance of ignoring the multitude of rules that exist (they really do exist! On paper.)

The next day, over some parched land. And then, after a while, across a rushing, happy river with screaming, splashing children and washing women. Through dirty little Indian towns; in which, in Maharashtra, does one find men in starched white Nehru caps & kurtas walking about. Then one sees three red buses in a row – and you know there are three idiots driving them, continuously trying to overtake one another, and only when one of them has to stop to drop off a weary passenger is that possible. So essentially, for the entirety of their journey they remain as it is – three red buses in a row. Also, there are overloaded Tata trucks – laden so that they can hardly climb the gentlest of slopes, or loaded so heavily to the left that the driver has to constantly keep the steering towards the right just to go straight. The horns of these trucks, very distinctive – imagine a long twitter of a single bird, brought 2 notes lower, and amplified to a blare (you know how it is, I'm trying to describe it, don't know if its worked!)

And that, is a little story of an Indian highway scene.

And next morning - through parched destitution. Over land ravaged for more than a century by the British, continued by newly independent Indians, yet to realize and recover from its injuries. This is Madhya Pradesh, the central provinces. I have traveled extensively through Rajasthan, the desert state of India – and that is a land that has come to terms with itself, whose people make the land colorful with their music & clothes dances language. But this, this land looks wounded.

A flash of yellow, a patch or two of mustard perhaps, and a little girl in pink through the empty fields – that is all the color here. Children shuffle along outside their homes, looking down. Trees, many naked, many seeming to lean on the wind for support. That deep scar from which an orange truck takes away rocks must have been a river.

In time, over generations, all this too shall pass.

And that… is another story!

Keshavan and his Bronze medal

Shiva Keshavan, India's only lugeist and my sister's fiance, has just won a Bronze medal at the Asian Luge Championships 2008.
This is indeed a very special moment for him, and I am extremely proud of him for his achievement.
The first article http://sportswire4u.blogspot.com/2008/12/shiva-wins-bronze-ion-luge-asian.html

slipping

Slipping. In a herd of slipping buffaloes, who would remain victorious – the one with a bit of guile, or the one with the largest hooves?
Leaning. It is all about leaning. And not being afraid, or ashamed, to do so. As soon as this is recognised and brought forth into popular thinking, herd and beyond, there will be better understanding. For the leader of the herd knows the guileless will be lost, and will prefer that they not know that he does.
Until of course, water is found. This is the distraction. Clear, clean water. A chance to forego due explanation, to rest finally, to revel in the course rightly pursued. The course that brought them here, no less.

And then there will be the snort, that which will bring us back to reality, to tell us that things could never be so serious.

(2008)

The jade and the pink

The jade and the pink, above and below,
Come together in a lazy moment of reconciliation.
Emerald trees sway, as if trapped in a languid, slipping gait.
The mariner crosses his hands for the last time,
Imagines being among groves and children once again;
This dream among countless others, that he can never fully recollect.

There remain no longer any birds circling the sky.

(2004)

Instead of a lie, let me write you as a story.
And not merely a story with any allusion to understanding, or compassion –
an illusion in every way.

Instead of a lie, let me write you a story.

(2008)

A City scene

Slow down, look around, he advised.

Uhh.. we’ll be late for the show.. again, she pleads, taking his hand, trying to lead him on.

This is a better show. He turns all around, arms outstretched, a smile on his lips as he looks at her – the City.

Ohh no.. don’t you start that now, she shouts back at him now. Come on, we’re almost there.

He runs to her, and they go to their show, a play that focuses on the many reds and yellows of a frequently grey place. Beautifully done too.

But they cannot get out of their minds what he had said before the show.

Against White Light

I want nothing but to sit here, and
Watch her great pools of eyes burn like silver oil.

She moves, languid, toward the window,
the white light brightens her smooth, screaming lines,

accentuates her lively beauty, ever effervescent,
that shines like the morning sun through trees
in a green meadow.

I watch, in black and white, as everything
around her fades to a black.

And then, all that remains, is the smoke from her stub,
And a memory that rests, simple and assured,
ever, in my mind.

(2005)

In Futility

Armaan had seen this often enough. From the roof of his house, he watched perplexed as mobs of youngsters in the streets below hurled abuse and stones at each other, which more often than not, ended badly; all, conveniently sanctioned in the name of religion.

Armaan and his mother lived in their ancestral home, in a city which had seen more than its fair share of communal riots. Vaguely, Armaan remembered a time, when as a little boy he had lived in this same place, and all the people seemed to live easily together, like people do. That was normal then. But this was now.

‘Amma, I’m going back to college. And this time, you’re coming with me, ‘ he announced as he reached her bedroom, where she lay reading.

Amma looked at her son and smiled. All grown up, she thought. He’d had been studying the arts at a college in another city not too far away. However, with the situation at home as it was, he’d decided to return for awhile to be with his mother. His father had long since left them, and he was the only child they’d had.

But now the sometime had stretched to long months, and looked to go on longer.

‘I have three months till graduation, and I need to finish this.’ He went on, ‘I’m sick of the ‘dire communal situation’ that everyone seems to write about.. why doesn’t someone do something?’
Armaan’s mother put a comforting arm around her son’s shoulders, ‘It’ll all get better soon. It has to.’

‘Nahi Amma, we’ve been through this over and over again for too long now. What we need now is good leadership, not good rhetoric. Of course, you could blame me for that myself right now,’ he smiled and continued, ‘But I know now what I’m going to do with my life.’
His mother didn’t need to ask him what that was. ‘If I decide to come with you, what will happen to the house?’

‘We’ll work something out,’ he replied. ‘Right now, I’m going to go over to the station to get us the train tickets. Or to Salim, if the station’s sold out,’ he continue with a wink and a smile.

‘Why don’t you just ask Salim to bring them over? I really don’t want you to go out right now.’
Amma had been hearing the shouts below.

Armaan leaned out of the window. ‘It’s quieted down. They’ve probably remembered their favourite serials are on. Besides, I have to meet someone before I leave, and I’ll be taking the back door, so there’s no need to worry.’

He moved toward the door. ‘Come back quickly. I’ve made something special for dinner.’ He smiled as he closed the door behind him.

As he stepped out into the alley, Amma felt her stomach lurch, as only a mother could; Armaan would never know what hit him – the police would later report that it was a stone, hurled carelessly by one of the retreating mobs. None of that mattered anymore.

The moment his life flashed before his eyes, the light went out of Amma’s.

(2003)

On best handling interviews

Dear Sister,
Yesterday there was an interview. I have mellowed down considerably due to it. In fact, I am now a completely changed man. You will probably not recognize me the next time we meet – but that we can attribute mostly to the fact that I now sport a pince-nez, a judge’s wig and six-inch heels, not to mention my excellent checked-skirt. I am slowly transforming into the person that in my mind I imagine myself to be. Thus, in effect, soon you will have a brother who is an astute lawyer masquerading around the courtrooms as a bagpiper on elevated skates.
The interview truly, and quite literally, opened my eyes. The most important thing I learned was that it is well bloody hopeless going for an interview when you’re half-asleep and humming to yourself. Next time, I hope to overcome this inadequacy, and more importantly, to promise myself to go to the correct venue for the interview, so as not to end up having to be interviewed for the job of a junior janitor at a private warehouse. Which also explains why the interviewer was a burly ape of a man, and not a boring advocate, and who laughed as he saw me but turned deeply grave, and a brilliant crimson, when I showed him my credentials. It all ended well though, and I wish one day to be like that man, extremely respectful and kind. He assured me I didn’t require to be interviewed, and personally showed me out. All the men in the warehouse were smiling brightly too, looking at me as I walked out. Perhaps working in a weapons warehouse really is a satisfactory experience.
I do realize the implications of what I saw, make no mistake about that. ‘A weapons store in a private warehouse?’ you may pointedly ask. True, I thought of doing something about it long and hard, and found that the best I could do was to offer them a better warehouse (pray tell me what better alternative may have occurred to you, concerned, as I’m sure, you must be with the safety of the men there, as am I ). But that simply would not suffice, especially if there was no air-conditioning. Thus I let it be, and perhaps someday soon, those fine men will get air-conditioning themselves.
Now I must return to my favourite daily pleasure, if I may – I must walk to the newsstand, read the various newspaper titles and laugh uproariously until it gets dark. Then I wait to get back home.
I do hope things are alright with you.
Your brother.

(2006)

On the colour of grass at Red

The intricacies of a once discovered, lost again blade of the reddest grass can be quite misleading. No, it is not an uncommon phenomenon, as exponents of the ‘grass is green’ theory would like you to believe; in fact, they would like you to think that red is actually green.

For see, in parts of the world where people seldom eat more than three pigs a day, each, mostly always roasted, and mostly always with great wine, grass grows red. And a wonderful red, as though Ferrari’s paint shop had mistakenly spilt its contents all over here. Of course then, it is a pointless affair to attempt to drive one through here, as no one would notice. True also, you’d have to build a road yourself first.

Watch. It is untouched land. No, food does grow here, but it is quickly eaten, always. See, red is a deeply hunger-inducing colour. And this, combined with the thought of having to stay awake, leaves people with no confusion in their minds, and they do not hesitate to stuff themselves, and thus feel happily drowsy the entire day.

Near where the trees grow in circles, and raccoons sing songs about the choicest mozzarella cheese, there is a space where the clearest water stands as deep as your ankles. Pray, do not take your dog there, specially if he lacks an average IQ, as I remember mine dove headfirst into the water at his own reflection; true, I followed him, but it was merely out of concern, and sympathy, but mostly out of curiosity. And it must be said there is little else that is more hurtful physically, psychologically and ergonomically. So I was a changed man after that.

I was once walking through Red (as we shall call this place), and it was a rare moment when three people on the street decided to discuss the politics of a herd of deer and their particular relationships with predators, thus blocking all traffic. So the only bicycle in town could be heard all through the day with its little bell ringing; even its rider tried shouting – of course, the men, like all men in the world, simply reveled in their power to cause a potential gridlock, and showed a great deal of surprise when their wives whacked them that night, for what reason no one knows.

In Red, there is a man who thinks, besides doing some other things. This has led him to believe that if all the forces in the Universe were to combine into one Big Force, it would be possible to lift Old Lady, his aunt, from her chair, where she has been sitting for the past twenty three years, trying to outdo her own aunt. It has also led to his growing concern over the future of identical twins in this changing world. His most recent discovery had to do with ants. He found that they were a disorganized bunch, and so must be the closest genetically to us humans.

An excerpt from one of his latest works in fiction, titled ‘ The Futility of Laments’ –

From Chapter 3 ‘..It caused me a fair degree of incredulity, and itching too, to find that of all the things that can grow exponentially in this world, the number of cactii had taken an obvious lead. To learn more, I tried putting on my thinking cap, but found that it was full of cat hair, and no longer fit anyone but my cat.

From Chapter 111 ‘..Do you know what one can debate endlessly upon? One can argue indefinitely about the sad state of the music industry today, or the merits of government sponsored toothpaste, or the usefulness of transparent pencils, but two can have a great time at the restaurant on Main street.’

Coming back to the subject of the grass here in Red, mention must be made of the great reverence people here have for this otherwise common and taken-for-granted plant - why, once when it hadn’t rained for an entire day, a third of Red’s inhabitants actually gave up eating it, much to the delight of their respective digestive systems, and even more so for the cows, who had never before had such a field day.

True, there is not a sight that can be compared with the lush red at Red. Apart from squirrels dancing on chimneys. Or the finest spread of the finest broccoli, placed on white linen.

(2006)

On The Vanity of the Sun

I walk the streets now, newfound desire,
Unaware, yet, as ever, of the show being played out around;
And only, perhaps, in answer to her little-opened window.
True, when the sun is lazy in the afternoons,
She lifts her hand upto the window,
sitting beside it herself, pushing it out a little;
just a little, just so the sliver the sun sends so anxiously only for her,
now perches itself on a little seat on her temple,
lights her so.
She continues brushing her dark, lonely hair,
Unaware, still, of the sun's eager gift,
and my entrance.
Waiting, perhaps, only for restful sleep.

(contd..) Intruding Now – or, making envious the sun
She lies in her repose now – I, intruder, beside her;
When she, full of causeless desire, of uncharted dreams,
And little wayward smiles that question me so,
Leans ever so slightly towards
And with one last giggle,
Forgives my trespassing, I imagine.
And so, she will forget me soon,
As the countless others before;
Yet, it is merely some of what I love of her.

(2005)

On a moon night

As the children of the moon pass us by,
they whisper secret names.
And we stand together 'neath the cloudless void,
unmindful of anything else.
You're gone tonight, and blissfully for a moment,
I don't long for tomorrow.
After everything, I miss you,
as I would a tender loving stone.
Obviously cruel, but you are not there.

(2004)

A fair exchange

It was yet one of those warm and very beautiful days, thought Giri, as he watched the sun make its presence gracefully, slowly over the mountains. He had woken up in this room for as long as he could remember. And he remembered each day as one of promise.

Getting ready for the day, Giri wished he could have his wife and children back home, but knew they wouldn’t be back from the plains for another two weeks. Ah, the plains. He often wondered how it would be to actually live down there, away from the pure air, the birds, the silent mountains. Having lived on this hilltop in the Simla Hills, in quaint little Sanwara ever since a child, he decided he certainly wouldn’t like it. More because the rigorous hill lifestyle was now a part of his character, a result of several past generations who had lived at this very place.

Snick. The blade jolted Giri back to the present. He quickly finished dressing, offered his prayers to his god, and had his usual breakfast. Since taking over from his father, Giri had followed this routine each morning.

Now he made his way to the main street of the town – mall road. Never did he have to lock his front door. He again reminisced – about his childhood, his parents, his innocence now inherited ably by his children, parenthood and its accompanying innocence. In a life as this, nostalgia was a constant friend, and time was not scarce. He waved to his neighbour, pacified the excited dog, and continued on his way.

As he reached the Mall, he noticed a few tourists already roaming about. It was the season, at the height of summer down in the plains. He went to his shop and shook away the rickety shutters - which in the day served as ramps leading up to his shop. He took his place behind the low, glass counter and looked around, mechanically and quite unnecessarily, to check if anything was missing. Giri ran the family souvenir-shop and after years of experience, had learned to remember every day’s sale for the next few days. Of course, all the objects were marked at four times the normal selling value. The general clientele made this practice very feasible and profitable.

As he settled himself properly, Giri noticed an old man take his place on a little backless chair just outside the shop. There was no overt exchange - but the two men had acknowledged each other without words, as old friends do.

The day’s first customers presented themselves. A French couple, decided Giri, and married – both facts inferred by the incessant rattling they troubled each other with. The lady walked up the ramp and smiled at Giri.

‘Bonjour,’ she offered, ‘Avez-vous d’evian?’ To which she received a wide smile from Giri, even displaying his gold tooth. She sat down on the stool and dragged her husband there too. Now that she understood that the shop-owner was clueless as to what she was saying, she tried frantic hand-waving, to which she only received frantic hand-waving from Giri – intended, of course, to signal the husband to sit down. After a few minutes, when he’d had enough fun from one customer, Giri told her he didn’t stock mineral water. Her husband tried, resigned, to explain that a souvenir-shop would hardly specialize in selling Evian. She threw her hands up exasperated, and stormed out, allowing her husband to follow in her trail.

The next customer was another European – a woman backpacker who thought she knew English. What she didn’t know was that right now, Giri had decided that he did not.

‘Souvenirs?’ she asked.

Giri nodded, happy that the woman noticed.

‘Gem, for..’ she pointed to her necklace, ‘ ..Colour..’ – she rummaged in her bag for something green, but Giri thought it would have been better if she’d just pointed to her shirt. Giri showed her a few green stones and she selected one. ‘Real, eh?’ she enquired. No, replied Giri – but only in his mind. But he managed a ‘Hmmm’ and a slow peculiar nodding motion.

‘How much?’ she asked.

‘Four fifty,’ said Giri, bracing himself for the shock and incredulity, and the eventual bout of bargaining that was sure to follow. But surprisingly, she paid him. Well, not bad, eh, thought Giri as he pocketed the money.

The next person was a burly man, sweating profusely from the arduous task of walking the fifty yards from the hotel to Giri’s shop. He wanted a paper cutter. When he’d selected one, he asked for the price.

‘Two-forty,’ replied Giri.

‘Too much,’ said the man, not sweating anymore, his body having realized that it was no longer being unjustly exerted.

‘Two-twenty,’ countered Giri.

‘Uh-huh,’ said the man, shaking his head, which started sweating at the movement.

Suddenly the old man outside the shop crackled, ‘I could give that to you for half the original price.’

The big man heaved himself around, then turned back to see Giri’s reaction. Giri’s face was expressionless. However, for some reason, the man slowly got up – started sweating again – and left the shop. Giri and the old man simply looked at each other.

Thereafter till about noon, the going was fairly idle. Just as he was about to close his shop for the half-hour lunch break, a young man marched in, seemingly in a hurry. He looked around, and his eyes lit-up as he spied a chess-set on display.

‘Just what I always wanted,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘How much?’

Giri ventured ‘Nine hundred’ – one hundred more than even the quadrupled marked price.

‘Too much,’

‘Eight hundred fifty,’ Giri said. The young man shook his head.

‘Alright.. Eight hundred, no less,’ Giri declared.

The man again shook his head and looked genuinely crestfallen, until he reminded himself that he didn’t know how to play chess. He was about to leave, when the old man sprang up, ‘I could give that to you for half the original price.’

‘I’ll take it!’ snapped the youth, smiling now.

‘Come back here in ten minutes, five if you’re taking the bus,’ said the old man, well aware of the only bus each day departing from Sanwara.

When the young man left, the old man got up, walked up the ramp to Giri, and held out his hand. He received the chess set.

‘You needn’t have done that this time. I was getting there,’ Giri said simply, not angry.

‘I know,’ the old man said. ‘Allow an old man some fun, what?’ He smiled and returned to his place.

The young man came shortly after, received the chess set, and handed the promised sum over to the old man. Then when the youth left, the old man trudged over to Giri, handed him half the amount, and pocketed the rest himself. This time another smile was exchanged.

The uncle and nephew then settled down in their original positions, as they had done for the last fifteen years.

(2000)

An American queen

She was like the queen you didn’t want to touch, nor offend by addressing directly, only mention in well-disguised awe, as if you didn’t notice the slight quiver each time you did.

I think we just tried to please each other by our wonderful dreams and stories, continually ignoring this most beautiful dream being played out between us. It still remains ignored; and I hope, to her disappointment as well.

She never would let her hair open out in front of me, as if in it she faithfully contained all that I must never see.

When you are young, life is full of promises; she was one of them. And there are few.

(2005)

agathe, afosa

You say nothing, and that is enough
Away a whisper,
always, away a whisper.

It is to your credit that you will always seek,
not one who is of material wealth, but
a poet, writer,
tragic soon,
seeker himself.

In a dream could one touch you?
Love you without ever knowing you;
And love you more without ever understanding you.

What do I have to go on - a face, turned into, now turned away;
a song I cannot recall, framed by grace - the idea of song.
Fingers on the guitar, gently forming a pattern,
soon to leave, outside, in the rain, clasping a burning cigarette.

This is all.
All that I have seen in the rain and a moment's hesitant glance.

(2008)

Nights, from High up Above the Center of the Street

This night two things happen which normally never do in Sawa. One, it stands that the white blanket of the moon has spread itself over the land, subjugating all the sub-elements, the distractions; true, it has the power to illuminate every one of them, and yet it chooses to shine just so it is the center of every visitor and spectator’s world. And second, the wind no longer is resting.
And the night wind whispers the secret names of lovers new and yet hidden. And the wind blows soft carrying with it the lovers’ eager messages, and the still profound declarations of love. It may not be long for many before their enchanting lovers become uninteresting, and it becomes harder each day to keep the proclamations genuine, and going. But the wind’s own commitment is unconditionally eternal, and unfailing.

So many times I have seen her sitting on her balcony parapet, knees drawn up, her chin resting on them, straining to decipher the wind’s fleeting sounds. Sometimes her eyes cloud over, and she looks down at nothing in particular. But many times she smiles, and throws her head back in sweet laughter, drawing her knees closer, as if enveloping herself more securely in this new happiness.

There are night-sounds – someone waking up. There is the groan, the creaking bed, and then the shuffling feet, trying to locate the slippers, elusive. This followed by, reassuringly, the sound of a thud, and a creak, as the person finds it is too much trouble to wake up, and decides to return to sleep.

Turn around.

(2006)