Haze and Mist

 It is normal everywhere to name people, give them ridiculous names either to annoy them or just for the heck of it. For instance the place I was briefly working at, a handloom unit of cottage industry, a person with a particularly dark complexion was addressed by all and sundry as Ujala. Ujala was the name of a detergent powder or a whitener. It surprised me because instead of reacting to being called ujala, the person would respond in a matter of fact manner.  I myself got called by various names at various stages of my growing years. My pet name apart, my mother called me by countless names, depending on her moods. My siblings and class fellows had names for me and even my school principal had given me a name!  My neighbors, Sanjay and Mahesh, cousins both, would name any and every approaching person from their window. Those names were apt somehow. I believe it is from them that I picked the habit. Many of my brandings have stuck: Amo— mango, in konkani — was my name w...

 Without meaning to be , I can't help being sentimental when it comes to Nehru's legacy, his family - taken forward by Indira, his only daughter. All because of what? Power? Genuine nationalism? I am not sure, because both are drugs as it is apparent.  Let's imagine Pandit J. M. Nehru's choices for a while so as to see him in the best light.  The only male heir of the great Motilal , JMN could have chosen differently. Motilal Nehru was the only lawyer of Indian ethnicity who was so competent that he was invited by the British bar to argue before the privy council. He was a highly successful advocate practicing in the Alahabad court. His life style was completely Western before the 1919 massacre at Jalianwala. That had a tremendous impact on him and under Gandhi's influence he burned his English clothing and became a Khadi clad Congressman.  His son, Jawaharlal, was a proper British barrister, having attended the inner temple. He was called to the bar in 1912 and so ...

 The crematorium of the Hindus and the graveyard for Mohammedans were within four walls in Panjim. Dead bodies of men and women who believed themselves to be either Hindus or Muslimeen while they were alive were carried through the same grilled gate which led to either/or Hindu/Muslim side. A low wall about five feet high separated the world's two tall faiths — smashan to the right hand and the qabristan to the left. The right wing was larger in area. There was an open courtyard with a high canopied pavilion under which were two raised platforms. There the bodies were cremated. The Muslims buried their dead. The space for the Hindu was more and the Muslim, less. The logic behind this arrangement was difficult to understand. Hindus cremated one body at a time, and after it turned to ashes, the ashes were collected and taken away, making the space available for the next dead person.  The Muslims however, buried their dead and kept them there to decompose in the grave. Therefor...

A Mangalorean ran the canteen at the IPHB ( Institute of Psychiatry and Human Behavior) or simply, the mental hospital. He was a puny little man with a broad smile. The sides of his eyes had crinkled skin owing to his habit of compulsive smiling. He was also particulary generous to us, friends from the college of Art. Probably we arties were slightly more relatable, there was less formality to tackle,  behavior became easier. Simon was his name and I liked the tea he made. It was very consistent and it smelled of Jasmine. He got tea from SLanka.  He would serve lunches there also. Although not regular we ate there sometimes. We paid Simon as and when we could. He  did not ask or not let us drink tea and snacks. I guess we were more reliable among the younger folk.  But it is not Simon or the Jasmine tea this one is about. This is about an intern, a young woman in her early thirties, an inmate in the mental hospital.  In Simon's canteen the windows opened directl...

I need a human sympathizer. Someone who would just put his hand on my shoulder and say, it is alright.  Well...  Came across a sher of Firaq Gorakhpuri: فراقؔ اکثر کوئی ہر ایک سے بیگانہ سا رہتا ہے بس اتنے پر کسی کو ل وگ دیوانہ سمجھتے ہیں > Fira Firaq aksar koie har ek se begaana rahta hai Bus itne par kisi ko log deevana samajhte hain   Firaq, often someone behaves like a stranger with one and all That's all it takes for people to consider him mad Wow ! It hit me. It's so true!  I felt that it was I who was saying it to myself! It throws up disturbing questions about social norms and the individual's struggle to belong to the group. It is a cry from deep within; a confession of the soul to itself. Who do you tell about the struggle within an individual? Everyone is going through the same conundrum, the same difficulty. The need of the soul to be left alone, with no care. But if this is spoken aloud, you are likely to face  the charge of being selfish, or usel...

 Met a friendly man I know after a long time. I waved and proceeded but something made me stop and ask him regarding his work. "Yes," he said, " somehow I am going on but... " He didn't complete the sentence but it was clear that he found it difficult to continue. I dropped a name in the same profession as his —designer pottery and suggested, "You could collaborate with him because I believe that he is very entrepreneurial and I hear he's doing well. I'm sure he could open things for you".   (Let's call him) Michael did not understand, or he did but pretended as though he didn't. So I elaborated and told him that a regular flow of some money might give an incentive to continue doing what he did best. "No", he said, "of course I understand that sale keeps you going, and also it is a service to people  who like to use pottery but... "  I noticed that he had developed a way of stopping mid-sentence after a but, like a s...

Again this morning  I postponed dying. No, no,  not suicide, but that routine dying, habitually almost.  I dusted off the membrane of night,  got Bob on the lead,  then we walked into morning air.  (Mornings are beautiful beings !)  There is an un-breathed breathing,  a sort of suspension of an air-intake,  when the inhalant burns deep  in the labouring wind pipe.  Something of that sort happened to me this morning and I let go of the daily dying.  I felt uplifted.  So listen: let the world go to blazes!  Do your thing, Stop dying. 

 Already half the May gone,  not so far from resolution– for four months isn't far.  Six decades long habit has grown old in the body,  touched ground, turned soft.  I have been practicing reclination.  supine, for when they box me in the corpse mustn't revolt.  Nothing to be done now of all those procrastinations.  You are gone; they, as good as gone! 

If we expose ourself to any language we learn it. An illiterate beggar on the road is more likely to surprise us with a turn of phrase which a scholar may not. It is the same reason why an ordinary German may know fluent German than a foreign scholar of the same language. It is because language thrives on the open streets, not in closed biblioteques.  Why we accept the elitist opinions on the beauty of language is beyond me. A workable grammar, proper syntax & a reasonable vocabulary are the survival kit of any language. What gives language its vitality is its easy use with the purpose of carrying a thought across and not ornamental doodah! It is not what the 'Shastrys' of language claim and whose advise is taken by the Goverments in their official documents, circulars, etc. It is not a living language but a pile of dead bodies of words, put together to sound officious only to be, more likely, misunderstood. On Indian railway platforms you read notices with words like ...

I sleep deep & so don't remember dreams. I dreamt last night and on waking up past 3.40, remembered parts of it. Decided to write it down lest I forget.  I was lost in a village, deep inside Tamil Nadu.  Much of the dream is forgotten. Don't know why or how I went to that village. Perhaps in passing, got down in that village mistakenly.  It was a hamlet through which buses passed. There was a temple, small shops selling groceries, etc. It was difficult to communicate with the people because the people there spoke only Tamil & I don't speak Tamil. I have no phone with me, didn't remember any number to call, didn't see a post office or a government building and I had no cash! Had no idea what the name of the place was. One or two people I tried to ask for help waved me off. I wasn't looking like a beggar, I'm sure, not shabby in appearance but I didn't speak Tamil! That was the only reason why they didn't speak to me, is my conclusion. Remember...

 

The habit some people have of giving funny names to passers by.  There were two cousins, Sanjay and Mahesh, who stood at the window of their house and called passers-by all sorts of strange names in Konkani. Something about their appearance made them come out with the most ridiculous names. A short, roundish man waking with a limp would be, for instance, "polio-pedha". 😄Sanjay was the one who shouted out aloud so that people would actually hear. At times he would address the person. The best part is, some of the passers smiled at Sanjay's mischief but most just ignored him. Mahesh, his cousin would usually simply laugh, holding his palms across his mouth in order to suppress his own laughter. Sometimes he would improve on his cousin's suggestive name. I used to watch them doing it.  The trait developed in me with good fertilizer of idleness & productive alluvium of boredom.  I have christened many school mates in this fashion. A classmate of mine, Vallabh (we did...

 This morning a bird fell from the sky with a damaged wing. Not a fledgling but not fully an adult, a common Indian hawk. That's the generic name. On refining my search it is most likely to be a common hawk cuckoo, 'Brainfever' as it is popularly known owing to its call.  ( This is not Bal-mukund but a common Hawk cuckoo"brainfever" )  I'm not into ornithology. I like looking at birds. They are an industrious lot. Peacocks and other "elite" birds are fine because they are bestowed with glorious plumages, breath taking coloring, some with purposeful, strong beaks and others with fascinating crests. But a bird without beauty is beautiful too. I am intrigued by babblers. What do they have, really, just one indeterminate tawny color with some variation – like an embarrassing consolation! They keep babbling and they are busy picking this and that from here and there. A babbler is the underdog and I am the supporter of any underdog. I used to take lunch at...

Luca and Jean Pierre were seated bare chested on a rock, basking, sipping beer from the bottle. Bala saw them.  He rolled a joint quickly & started walking in their direction.  As he approached them, he lit the joint. The scent of hashish mixed with the marine sea-smell briefly soothed his nose before disappearing in the breeze. Bala was looking towards the sea, not the firangies, deliberately, because he wanted them to smell his joint but not him looking at them. He wanted a conversation with them. He wasn't a drug peddler. Bala was curious about white people like his million other countrymen.  He blew a large cloud of smoke and hoped the scented cloud would target the European noses. It did. Luca and Jean Pierre suddenly acted like two Salukis in the sands of the Sahara. They sat up and sniffed at the air, their necks straining. Bala, without looking at them saw, his peripheral vision informed him that his scent-cloud had achieved its objective. He blew another....

 A black cat has made Parul's varanda her home since about a month. She is healthy and seems to have no abnormalities in her behaviour. Parul despite her allergies to dander has began feeding her.  Since a few days another, a replica of the 'Parul's' cat, was spotted lurching in the bushes. This one was aggressive. At a closer look I saw that she had abrasion on her neck. She was attacked by an animal or possibly a human. This cat was in need, but I felt that cat lovers should be concerned before me. I'm a dog fellow, not cat-crazy.   Last week my dogs tugged at their leads, making me look and I saw that the aggressive cat was hissing at them from under a bush close by. I threw a tiny pebble at it but it remained stay put. I took the dogs away with some force and forgot about it– I have little interest in cats.  Last night I saw the cat curled up in a corner looking frail. It appears that her time has come; she's going to die. The year end of 2023 saw a cat ende...

A trivial page to the world, one less important than an obituary, where warm smiles are caught in grey pictures  of  people  once living  and  warm,  now  cold and dead. That page is my residence. Beneath forty four dusty almanacs scattered across time’s table and the passage of years.

                                 I waited for it to go,   the minute.  The long minute.  A sky-wide moment,  Just a minute. 

Like the last orange On an impersonal grey,  A sinking sun-curl Far far away.  Soon the night will fall,  It will gobble-up all.  Rest, with her black spell,  man, to wake another day. 

An airy quality   b uoys me up Barring my brave plunge Into the abyss of love....

Where are my childhood heroes? Tall giants all, Bull-frogs in local pubs,  Bards who sang Adventure and heroism From far-out lands, On sandy beaches drew Makalu and Manaslu; Or sitting on dunes Dream again of oceans Where they said they swam With silver mermaids And chased white unicorns In Takamanohara. I grew wings  On their dreamings...  But today Where are they now that I wish to compare my myth  With their fibs?