Sevai sei

Delicate, graceful, white. Exactly
as you should be.

No sign of the steaming,
unappetising dumpling
you once were.

What won’t a little effort
do

Sevai of rice
and a
wife of you.

Tempered

Hot oil is what the
fiery mustard needs,

Fifteen seconds of rebellion,
fizzled
into soothing sambaar.

~

On your last maiden bath
by the seventh village well
a dozen knowing hands oil your
mustard skin.

I watch the chicken stroll by;
tomorrow they will be
at the wedding feast,
fried, spiced, tempered.

One year

Most of it out of tune, I suspect.

What did you think?

This one was easy

Think of it as a warming up session. It wasn’t so much our victory as their loss. It is the next one that will be real battle, comrades: Modi vs Rahul. If the Congress becomes overconfident (such a big victory cannot be without side-effects) and botches up the next few years, we’ll have a much, much harder fight next time. I feel all melodramatic now: it is not yet time to sit back, let alone sleep in peace. Jaagte Raho!

ps. Chidambaram riding ahead at the very end of the count seemed rather suspicious. Ditto with Shibu Soren and Laloo at Pataliputra. No?

sym phony

i smash a glass
for each time you laugh;
percussion for your
flute.

only, some of them
don’t quite shatter;
i blame the cheap
acoustics.

cold comfort

i pluck words
from your vapour sentences,
they condense on my cold hands

and slowly freeze.
i apply their icy compress
to a bruised memory,
blue, swollen, silent.

September

September cools,
the laundry flies

Like paintings
brushed against
the skies.

The skies are seas
of azure blue,

And clouds scud
by like sailboats
do!

~

That picture and poem are part of a hand-painted calendar a friend’s friend made a few years ago. She is an artist who makes her living doing exactly this sort of whimsical and utterly delightful thing.

I have this sheet put up above my desk. Just looking at it transports me to the world of that painting. What could possibly be lovelier than lying on the grass on a breezy, sunny September evening, empty of all thought, watching the washing flying above you? Mind, it is not a complete escape. It acknowledges that the washing has to be done, but also that it will indeed get done just in time to let you lie, pleasantly exhausted from the exertion, on the cool earth and feel the wind blow your cares away.

Voting

So the booth was this government school. Most people were queued up outside the main building but we were directed to a little room at the back where there were no observers, no agents, not even the mandatory policeman. Only some very bored looking teachers on duty who cheered up somewhat when we turned up. They looked at the card, located my number on the list, marked it off, marked my finger with ink (which is manufactured in Mysore, by the way) and made me sign against my name on yet another list and gave me some receipt-like thing which I handed to yet another officer who then pointed me to the Electronic Voting Machine.

It was on a small, rickety table with the voter’s privacy protected by a corrugated cardboard box whose bottom and one side had been removed and the rest placed around the EVM. To make sure it didn’t get blown away, some brown packing tape had been used.

That was it. The nation’s fate hung on one long beep. And the secret ballot amounted to a recycled cardboard box. But the potential symbolism, that went right through the roof.

Internet on the Shatabdi

Free wireless internet. On the Shatabdi Express. Discovered entirely by accident. Provided by a Chennai-based company called Zylog. Being used to post this.

Clearly, I am too thrilled to speak (type) in full, coherent sentences.

Updated to ask: Who does one thank for this marvellousness? Been trying to locate a number to call, an email or regular mail address to write to, a name I can use in what is likely to be a rhapsodic communication, but can’t find anything. May have to resort to writing a letter to some editor.

Short leave

I’m sure you’ve noticed the lack of activity in these parts over the last couple of weeks. Work, a bad back and local travel are to entirely blame. And over the next couple of weeks, more work and long-distance travel will take over as the culprits. Will come back and make up for it with lots of pictures.

Puttandu vazhutukkal, Vishu Ashamsagal, Shubho Nabobarsha!

Sheep Art!

Quite amazing! And funny.

cheat

a second skin, strange
hairs. lighter than those
on you.

a different breath – softer,
longer. a dry, empty
mouth. straight

eyelashes, curved
clean brows,
a wide, flat hairline.

new rhythms, a few
surprises. quicker
smiles.

afterwards, a long
lie.

this is how i cheat
you.
making quiet love

to myself.

About a tree, actually two

I have mentioned the mango tree behind our apartment in an earlier post. In reality, there are two of them, growing next to each other in the same compound. They belong to an elderly lady, of remarkable spirit and physical will, who lives alone in the old house within the compound.

Neighbouring her plot is a house which has been extended several times and is occupied by several families. Among the many people in this strange house is a woman, K, who objects to the trees. She claims the leaves that the tree sheds ‘dirty’ her compound and cause her no end of trouble.

Three days ago, she called the city municipal office and complained about the trees. They promptly sent a few men over to cut them down.

Veena, a friend and neighbour, heard and saw branches falling and rushed out to talk sense into the municipal people and K. She begged and pleaded and even shed a few tears. The result was that the trees were spared, but all the branches extending over the compound were lopped off.

The trees are now precariously balanced, with most of their weight on one side. When the rains come, I won’t be surprised if they just keel over and crash.

The lady whose trees these are shut herself inside the house and refused to come out during the whole chopping up exercise. These are trees she has probably lived with all her life; they probably know each other as old friends do.

She’s well over 60, perhaps close to 70 even, and each week, she diligently sweeps up the leaves from the trees and either buries them (during the rains, for compost) or burns them (during the dry season to heat water).

Not all of us have the time and energy to maintain a garden, but I do wonder – to think of fallen leaves from a magnificent tree as garbage that ‘dirties’ one’s home, while being perfectly tolerant of the tons of un-reusable, un-recyclable plastic that we ourselves bring in daily, seems sadly warped, doesn’t it?

This is a picture of the old house and the trees around it from last year’s monsoon. The lopped tree doesn’t look too bad from my balcony, as the cutting was mostly on the other side, but still I can’t bring myself to take a picture of it now.

Crops and robbers

You are Mallesha.

A fifty-six year old farmer. You live in Maguvinahalli, a village on the northern boundary of the famous Bandipur National Park.

Every year, at the end of summer, you till your meagre 4 acres, sow some jowar and some sunflowers. For weeks you work in the baking heat. Once the monsoons arrive, you continue working, in the pouring rains.

Once the seeds have sprouted and you have a crop, you don’t relax, no sir, you don’t. You build a thorn fence around the field. And a machan (platform) on the peepal tree in your field for you to sit up on, all night. Waiting and watching for the elephants.

Yes, the elephants. They come from the forest, to feast on your precious crop.

Last year, your brother Murthy lost everything in a single night to a herd of 9 elephants. It happened at the very end of the season, a few days before the harvest. He still owes the moneylender 14,000 rupees.

So for several weeks you get no rest at all. Night after dark night you sit up on the machan, shaking your head and muttering to yourself to keep sleep away. They are eerily silent, these elephants. You have to be alert all the time.

You look out of the machan, moonlight outlines the distant hills. The silence is broken by the roar of a speeding vehicle on the highway. It used to be a small dusty strip when you were a boy. Now it is dangerous to cross with all the tourist traffic.

You have heard the tourists pay 3000 rupees for a day at the hotel at the edge of your village. You could buy seeds for a whole season with that! Why would they spend so much just to see some elephants? They could instead sit up in your machan, for free.

The gentle breeze lulls you into a dangerous calm. Your head tilts. You sleep.

Kttrrrrck! You are suddenly wide-awake, but it is too late. You fumble for the match and light a firecracker. The wick forms an arc of light, then bursts. Your hand is shaking as you throw another. It is louder than the last. One of the elephants lets out a cry. You can feel the earth shake under you.

As quickly as they came, they are gone. But the silence is not comforting. You sit numbly, not wanting to move.

Dawn arrives and reveals the damage. In the ten minutes they spent in your field, the elephants have taken half your crop.

Lead settles in your stomach, you can’t even feel anger. Slowly, you tuck the matchbox and firecrackers into the folds of your dhoti. And walk home.

Overhead fly an early flock of parakeets.

Costumes

Sometimes you have to buy
purple curtains
to see how the rug matches
your daughter’s too-short skirt,
making them kin.

A stately, petticoated aunt
for the clothes of your house
to gather around and gossip -
whose sweat is on your silk,
where your trousers really went.

Counter wipes may bond with underwear
(never mind the hygiene),
quiet jackets could embrace leggings,
damp towels might write
love notes to halters.

But the purple curtain, only she
knows of a too-short skirt
kissing
an unknown green turtleneck.