There’s waiting, and then there’s hope.Waiting.for the markets to reach a new normal and take a breather. For the political situation to sort itself out. For the monsoon to end, for the skies to change so I could get on with my to-do list. The list is long and I’m primed and ready to go. In a way this is not all that different from trying to learn how to keep one’s wits and navigate AK road or JVLR, all clutch-brake-clutch, a whisker’s breadth away from hunking lorries and high agro BEST buses waiting to bear down upon a flustered you. All in good time.

Independence day
Yesterday
We saluted the flag
Sang out loud the national anthem
Remembered the valiant
The challengers of an Empire’s might
Remembered the time when the cry for freedom
Rang out from coast to coast, and adrenalin charged in the veins
Pulled out sepia memories of the greats
Gandhiji Nehru Patel
And the forgotten, the sacrifices of the untold millions
A steel backbone, the shared heritage

Today, we’re back to examining the meaning of freedom
Past potholed, traffic choked roads
Lined by a wave of regrets, lost opportunity and paved by endless corruption
Scandals and tattered reputations,
That submerge a gasping nation
Widening, ripping apart the chasm
Yet we remain stoutly democratic
A nation of so many differences, yet we remain bonded, defiant
Surely that counts for something.
Yet this morning
an 84 year Gandhian was arrested for speaking his mind
asking for the nation’s accounts
For shame!

In the mad rush for minutes one forgets the magical. Yes, the magical-- startling, breathtaking, elusive mystery spice included. Why should that be the prerogative of children and the dreamy eyed alone? For the record, I’ve for long found the manufacturing process of sublimation quite fantastic. A solution, say an injectable, goes directly from solution to a flaky powder, no heating required. So beautiful Of course, there is a great deal of science involved, lyophilisation, eutectic point, flash point and whatnot, but the clean beauty of it all! Fantastic.
And remember that equation for cellular level energy, ADP Plus P equals ATP? Magical, the way in which we systematically pick up energy from the food we eat, tuck it away into cells in pockets of energy until needed, no use before date, and so seamless the uptake and infinitely economical the usage. Brilliantly neat.
And the powers that devised these may therefore be trusted to keep the world up and running much after we’re done.

A banyan tree felled
A giant of a tree
bark gnarled, white-weathered with the years
its shoot-tree canopy destroyed too
snapped, like matchsticks
Too furious a storm, perhaps
Or age.
I stare at the location
Right outside the Dept. of Sanskrit studies
Peeling paint, turn-of-century building
But the parking lot is full
I walk away.


**

Mourners
All of us in white
I stare at the ancestors on the wall
Charcoal on white
And your portrait joins them
The last of the elders
A few teardrops
Memories,
Your voice, the angle of your head, something you’d say
A banyan tree felled
A giant of a tree

Re: The Tree of Life.
Visual colossal—overwhelming, brilliantly beautiful but too much of brilliant, that gets into your eyes..
Terse. Non-linear. Connect the dots.
Whispers… Too much hinted at.
Too much space for interpretation. One wonders what one missed in an eyeblink.
Opinion: Dunno.
Was it worth braving the traffic and rain? Yep.
Would I see it again? Dunno, maybe.
"There are only two ways, the way of nature or the way of grace..."

I wish I could grieve for you.
Fifty plus years of widowhood, borne with cheer. And duty, and devotion, patience and all the extolled virtues, but I’m not sure what it did to you as a person, to your core. That person we’d see sometimes, irrepressible bits would pop out, and the once-singer would warble a tune, the once-theater performer would deliver a line with aplomb.
Unsteady on your feet, your bones brittle with two decades of steroid and thyroid medicine, you'd restricted your interactions with the outside world. Your hand would tremble, you’d given up writing, and your signature was a scrawl.And yes, the frequent falls. Yet every time I’d drop in, you’d regale me with laughter and a tale or two, and I’d scour your kitchen the way I used to when I was a broke student.
I often left angry, seeing in your tale a reflection of my life and possibly, fate, and determined to will it otherwise.
Let this memory be your last bequest to me.

Winner indeed.
I wish they’d told me it was online.
They didn’t.
Extremely disappointed with the US Dept of State, but the yahoo for whatever it is worth.
http://span.state.gov/mar-apr2011/eng/00-span-article-winner3.html

Startled and grateful for generosity. One friend gifts me rare music.Another celebrates my buy with a special home made treat, and mithai. What did I ever do to receive such goodness? *Lump in throat*.

Truth is shining, solid, incontrovertible.
100% proof.
There’s one pro, and matching it, the one con
Fitting, like the teeth in a jigsaw puzzle piece
So one of this, to one of that;
That's what I've always thought.
Silly me.
But there can be SO many facets to a story.
Depends on the retelling. The version.
Each side fully believes it is RIGHT.
That great injustice has been done.
Even if it means summoning up the Gods.
The forefathers.
Or questioning parentage. At hyper-volume.
But not my problem.
So beyond sympathy most non committal.
And sounding equally indignant to both parties
And a shrug or two. “It happens”
while the brokers slug it out
No holds barred
I shall remain “god-fearing, naïve”
Step away,
And watch.
Perhaps good enough for a life philosophy?

Cocooned in the temple by the tree grove uphill
Even as rained clothed the skies in serenity
We’d gathered early morn
For an invocation to the Lord
devotees in orderly rows, sitting by offerings of flowers and lamps,
As chants of the 1000 names rose sky-wards
in age-old prayer and supplication
each syllable ringing clear
It dawned upon me
How ever generation has its own demons, its own *kurukshetra*
Time after time, a call to arms
Battle lines drawn in the sand
Armies at the ready
A call to battle,
to defend the righteous
As also the weak
Each of us an Arjuna, battle-ready, yet
plagued by self doubt
Trapped in a quicksand: do’s, dont’s, rights, wrongs
History, modern expectations, and demands that hold us back,
Leashed
Our battles fought in tightly packed lanes.
winding by lanes crammed with turn of last century’s buildings.
As also swanky shopping malls, multiplexes and such like
Our enemy yellow-livered
just as sly, unfathomable
why, he may even be one amongst us--
and going by the record strictly
the enemy seems to be winning, hands down.
While reams of old newsprint are stacked
Splattered with undone lives
Perhaps it is time to abandon what is not working
Stop cowering behind closed doors
For how long will prayers, pleas, supplication work?
What will it take
For this Arjuna to be challenged
What call to arms?

Guru purnima, this special full-moon day
A day of gratitude and remembrance
Reverence
Not that life-debts and knowledge dues can be ever repaid
Gratitude bridging many lifetimes
First remembering the parent, and both the mothers, the giver of life and the one who shaped life,
Then the triumvirate of Gods, and the Remover of Obstacles you annote as your personal deity,
And yes, the learned sage prehistoric that you trace your lineage to, somewhat reluctantly
Wondering if anything you’ve done this lifetime,
Anything you’ve ever done, justifies a linkage, however tenuous.
Remembering the forefathers, all the names you can remember
the geneline, strong on obdurance and integrity
Which you think you’ve somewhat inherited, toned down to this world we live in,
And steel backbone, to enable you to stand tall
And the other, diplomatic, which you wish you had.
And the many many teachers who’ve lit your way.
Miss Ganguly in Class 1, and that prize for being good,
What a gesture for a child coping with life events.
All the teachers you helped you struggle with the vagaries of language
And the mysteries of science
And build an abiding interest in current affairs.
Even if chemistry formulae had to be written on walls and trembling Hindi underlined
Thinking of how 5 years of school and 2 years of the pg
Were the only place you ever learnt anything,
Even if the later lessons were real-life, grow-up-quick
Lessons that repeated over and over again, until you’d get them right
And yes, the arts, colors and tone and rhythm
Indebted forever to the one who painted new vistas
Subluminal lessons of persistence and patience and doing-over and experimentation.
Encapsulated in
Hundred-eight repetitions of the *sargam*
And now the teachers in distant lands, how generous they’ve been
A stumbling, falling into the sea of verse and prose
Amazing, but they’ve kept you afloat
Sane. In line.
So yes, a day of gratitude and respect
So many teachers, so many lifetimes
Not enough words.

Today I’ll write about
Anything but the spirit of the city
Resilient survivor of shattered glass
Like a battered abuse survivor--resilient but also a partaker, silent
So, the rains would do
Now that its been raining nonstop
Rain drumming over the covered roof at work
The wind whistling as it races uphill
Rain drumming on the downstair neighbors’ awning
Sometimes fine English rain but mostly in your face rain that impinges
Gets into your eyes and brain
Makes a joke of raingear
Not to mention the flooded roads that were paved not too long ago
If you cant see it, its not there,
Rain that brings long forgotten streams and rivulets to life
Nonstop this week, all this week
The skies overcast and the birds silent
perhaps we have enough water to last
this filled-to-the-brim and spilling-over city
enough water to quench
its unending thirst

when will those half assed bastards learn it takes more than a few bombs to stop this city? that NOTHING can stop this city so go to your special brand of hell, you infidels.

Only in Mumbai can you walk alone at eleven in the night off the expressway trying to hail an auto past the stream of whizzing traffic, say beep-beep to the rain and admire the reflections on the road, and still get home safely and not get teased/ heckled/ hooted/ picked up. BHTB is larger than life. Like its protagonist. Quick and sharp. But I prefer the suave Reid-and-Taylor version, thank you!

After the keys were received and accounted for
Crisp paperwork and signatures done;
cheques signed with particular flourish
The deal tied up
I was shocked-- at how tiny it seemed
As it had before
And it did, again
But getting my foot in the door, that’s what mattered.
The security of my own home, that’s what mattered
So yes, tiny square footage, all mine
Along with banyan tree and view to the horizon
But I was still shocked. And worried.
About vintage, teak. And fitting it all in.
Until I came across
apartment therapy and their cool contest
for tiny spaces, some tinier than mine
all the entries jostling for delight
but oh so elegant with texture, color and light
So to the magic worked by strangers in distant lands,
Specially Beth in Sausalito, color and style compacted
a cheery cottage so nimble you wouldn’t believe it
My everlasting gratitude

I know I’m no Rodin
Not much of a thinker
But these days most mornings
I find myself idling
With nothing in particular
Not as if I’m blue, in a funk
That idle dullness is different, a gritty quicksand
Pulling you deep into murky depths
Crashing headlong into a wall.
None of that!
But I sit around, looking at the greens
And the sky
And sunlight on the wall
And if its night, that rich red that the sky can take
The patterns of light in the neighbor’s window
And nothing much in particular
So I watch.
And then I move. Until the next time.
Of course meals get cooked
Taxes get paid
The cheque book’s balanced and
I log into work and log out
But no, these days I’m not shooting for the moon
No Don Quixote at hypothetical windmills
No grand stories of theft or crime impale polite readers on the writing list
Nor have erudite editors been bombarded by third world tales they have no interest in.
No sir!
I’m taking it inch by inch
The world can wait
Or not.

Tossing and turning with a fever
(Hundred one, hundred-two, who knows?)
Is a good time to eke out a philosophy of life
Not exactly novel,
so with a salute and apology to all the philosophers--
One way is the blazing meteor
Fast and furious, pinnacle breached effortless.
These sort are ambidextrous,
learn dancing and Spanish and algorithms with the same effortless ease,
while whistling in metre
The other way is the slow-plod
For the slow coach;
That’s mine.
Plodding on step by painful step—but not as linear
So many detours and re-do’s and rejections, failed tries and retries
And wastage and warnings and chemistry formulae written on the walls,
All the better to memorize.
Yes, that’s mine
So given time, you learn to duck, deflect, shake off
Turn a deaf ear to naysayers and wellwishers
And learn to live with what is
Nothing very dramatic, this adhesive of ploddingitis
No paens, no eulogies or odes
Save for the afflicted
An odd satisfaction
On eventual attainment, closure or completion.

These times are bittersweet.
(Like the strains of a Mohd. Rafi song
His voice rich and sweet, but the sadness!
Still seeps through some sixty years after;
Sixty years after the celluloid the stories were printed on
cracked to a brittle nothing)
So, these times are bittersweet
Incongruous.
As disjointed as the paan-tinted, tile-lined government building
Housing divorces, marriages, building registrations under the same roof
Which skeptic must have evilly grinned at
This harmony of joining for seven lifetimes, and breaking asunder?
These are strange times
And I while away hours, waiting for files to move,
Watching the milling crowds
The black robed, the hopefuls, the angst-ridden, the touts
And the distant stream of cars glide beneath a green leaf canopy
I wait

There is something pure, ascetic like
In this disdain for the limelight
In fealty to the craft, no more, no less
A tale, when there’s one to be told,
(such an old fashioned word, fealty
I turn the words around, savor the taste)
No pr spiel, no oversell
No shiny smiles, no sound byte
Just a simple tale, and a tale told well
That breezy light, play of wind and rain
A church spire outlined in the evening light
sustenance anchored in wealth of the soil
The rush of sap to sequoia leaf- arch
Long lost echo, laughter gale of tag
And such it was, and will be again

http://movies.nytimes.com/2011/05/27/movies/the-tree-of-life-from-terrence-malick-review.html
And I have not even seen the movie.

Something I saw this morning, a YT clip of amazing color and light, children chasing, laughing gleefully, reminded me of that time I’d slipped off the bricks with a huge splash and plop and you’d found that so funny we’d laughed till we cried. No, it never goes away. Not really. But the day's brighter for that.

Well, she's walking through the clouds
with a circus mind
that's running wild
Butterflies and zebras and moonbeams
and fairy tales
That's all she ever thinks about...
Riding with the wind
(lyrics- Sting)