In my mindscape, grasses are albums of drives across the US through its prairyland of golden down; of Indian winter scenes viewed from train rides of tall tawny grasses with billowy white tufts; of burgundy silk topping golden straws, swaying under the music of the perched sunbirds. Grasses recall crystal dripping monsoon willows lighted up by an occasional ray; walks through the Indian wastelands with a staff, pushing through grasses that brush shoulders- grasses in shades of gold, brown, jade, emerald, violet, purple, silver,light to deep-wild, free, varied, abundant-grasses being just themselves-zen grasses, absolutely essential within nature's complex web.
Yet, within the domesticated, urbanised, educated, cultured world of modern man, grass recalls lawns, resplendant, smooth, even, mutated, hybridised, hardied to the ravages of human civilisation, rolled up in sheets, laid out over rubble, concrete, harmone fed to ensure uniform, subdued growth, even color tones, flooded with hose pipes or to time schedules of a rotating sprinkler systems, shorn, shaved, trimmed to perfection to provide that worthy floor for a priviledged foot- in ultimate conquest of man over nature-subjugated, humiliated, defeated.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Unquiet Silence
Subdued activity-
reigned in senses,
inner clamour-
tumbling fences,
white noise and
stumbling memories
deluged cares
burdens to share.
Infite nights,
awake in dark-
ticking clock,
message stark-
oozing life
forgetting now,
losing self
to sleep somehow.
reigned in senses,
inner clamour-
tumbling fences,
white noise and
stumbling memories
deluged cares
burdens to share.
Infite nights,
awake in dark-
ticking clock,
message stark-
oozing life
forgetting now,
losing self
to sleep somehow.
Kolkata Connection
What tenuous ties link us, inexplicably, inescapably, to the place of our birth?Is the tree connected to where it was concieved in a seed? a bird to where it hatched?escaping fragrance to the flower that created it? a wave retreating to where it was born? What webs connect us to where we origined-in a dream?What brings me back to Kolkata?Incomprehensible pulls that have no words- to this city of layered grime, a broad placid old river, music born in destitution,unstable, tottering, almost on the verge of collapse, always, and still eternal, evolving.It is 26 years since I last spent a winter in Kolkata. Its a season of black, sooty, chill, that settles physically on your skin, skylines are smoky shadows in the settled, unmoving air that pervades in my days-nights without clarity, walking past huddled shapes crouched around plastic fire-urban refuse is still needed in this city of want, penury.
What is let through this dense, dusty air, are clear notes of music, crisp rythms on tabla, complex, intricate, bouncing off myriad atoms of polluted air, and yet reaching out-outwards in pristine clarity to hold this city together, in intersecting webs of music- all escaping and there by retaining- this city of my birth as a whole.
What is let through this dense, dusty air, are clear notes of music, crisp rythms on tabla, complex, intricate, bouncing off myriad atoms of polluted air, and yet reaching out-outwards in pristine clarity to hold this city together, in intersecting webs of music- all escaping and there by retaining- this city of my birth as a whole.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Reprisal
Inspector Alok Basu sat at his desk on a quiet Friday afternoon. An overhead fan droned and clicked in a rhythmic fashion lulling one into a sense of stupor. No doubt there was no lull in the outer office. Criminal mind needed no respite even at the end of an active week. Yet none of this touched him today. He had just returned from another of those ‘dowry remorse’ cases –another suicide, another note neatly placed well away from the charred remains of a fiery end. There could be no doubt at all this time. Of course the papers no longer cared to report these incidences. But that first time had been a shocker.
It had been a month or so after Kakali Sarkar had decided [or had it been decided for her?] to end her misery by immolating herself. The constant demands by the in-laws, the physical abuse, the emotional torture – it had all been too much. Parents declared foul play, a case had also been filed. But the real shocker came on the day her husband, the dynamic, successful, Rahul Sarkar was also found dead –again by self immolation, with a note of remorse at what had happened to Kakali. The note chided his parents, gently, that they would now know the pain of a dead child. What was one to make of that? Did this implicate his parents in Kakali’s death?
A few months later, there was another dowry death, followed by another suicide, and a handwritten, signed note of regret and remorse. This had made the press really sit up. Was a trend being set? The cases had since continued at a semi-regular interval till both the public and the press had lost interest. But not Inspector Alok Basu. Had the city really acquired a conscience? His lips curled up at this thought. No, it did not make sense. The dowry demands had declined to be sure, and the reports on dowry harassment had also diminished- but it was these remorse suicides that did not make sense. None of the suicide victims had shown any outward remorse at death of their young brides. Several were seeking new partners who were better equipped economically to meet their demands. Then what precipitated that final act? How could one explain away the same jasmine and sandal smell on the bed sheets – in all the cases? The victims leaving work –unexpectedly-around 11am after a receiving a telephone call–in all the cases? The office operator always mentioned a female voice.
Yet why should he care? Giving four daughters in marriage had cost him his honesty, his reputation. And the demands still continued till there was nothing left to give. Surely the time for Kali had finally arrived.
It had been a month or so after Kakali Sarkar had decided [or had it been decided for her?] to end her misery by immolating herself. The constant demands by the in-laws, the physical abuse, the emotional torture – it had all been too much. Parents declared foul play, a case had also been filed. But the real shocker came on the day her husband, the dynamic, successful, Rahul Sarkar was also found dead –again by self immolation, with a note of remorse at what had happened to Kakali. The note chided his parents, gently, that they would now know the pain of a dead child. What was one to make of that? Did this implicate his parents in Kakali’s death?
A few months later, there was another dowry death, followed by another suicide, and a handwritten, signed note of regret and remorse. This had made the press really sit up. Was a trend being set? The cases had since continued at a semi-regular interval till both the public and the press had lost interest. But not Inspector Alok Basu. Had the city really acquired a conscience? His lips curled up at this thought. No, it did not make sense. The dowry demands had declined to be sure, and the reports on dowry harassment had also diminished- but it was these remorse suicides that did not make sense. None of the suicide victims had shown any outward remorse at death of their young brides. Several were seeking new partners who were better equipped economically to meet their demands. Then what precipitated that final act? How could one explain away the same jasmine and sandal smell on the bed sheets – in all the cases? The victims leaving work –unexpectedly-around 11am after a receiving a telephone call–in all the cases? The office operator always mentioned a female voice.
Yet why should he care? Giving four daughters in marriage had cost him his honesty, his reputation. And the demands still continued till there was nothing left to give. Surely the time for Kali had finally arrived.
Bus Ride
Mrs. Meenakshi Sreenivasan hummed gently to herself. M.S. Subhalakshmi’s rendition of Meera bhajan was her favourite – it never failed to soothe and calm her senses. This was the best time of her day between 10:30am and lunchtime. Mr.Sreenivasan and the children had left for the day. Ayo! Here she was thinking of them again as children. Both had finished their education and had such good posts in the city. God was great. Even her Mr. Sreenivasan had been nicest of husbands –undemanding and mild mannered. The only thing he required was that rasam be good – and it always was. These were the thoughts that filled Mrs. MS’s head as she pottered around the garden in her new nook for ayurvedic herbs. It was lucky for her that her father, Vaidya Muttuswamy, famous in their entire district, had thought it fit to share with his only child some of his wisdom on ayurvedic plants, herbs, roots, potions. It still made Mrs.MS chuckle as she remembered the fits her mother would throw as the father and daughter frequently disappeared into the garden, or poured over old manuscripts, or concocted a new potion. Her Mr. Sreenivasan had been quite pleased when she had recently decided to renew her interest in ayurveda. God knows what she did with herself all day! But as long as she remained busy and happy playing with her plants, powders and obscurely labeled bottles of colored potions and did not grumble while he read his newspaper, he was satisfied. It made her giggle to imagine the look on his face if she were to tell him what she really was up to. Dear Mr. Sreenivasan- what did he know!
Today she was happy –it would be 10th bus ride- not a small feat in only last one year. In all the cases she had been successful. Hadn’t her father rightly told her that she could achieve anything she desired as long as she set her mind to it? So now after almost twenty five years of marriage and raising family, after all those dragging years of tedious boredom she had finally discovered an interest that amused her constantly and she considered worthwhile.
It wasn’t as if there were any streak of aggression in her. She considered herself very reasonable and God fearing. And without Almighty’s help could her success be this complete? God had empowered women to create life –made them mothers of creation. But sometimes creativity could also go haywire and had to be rectified-so to speak. So when the other day Lalitha, that nice young girl next door, came visiting with her mother and the topic of the harassment that she had to face every day on the bus came up, Mrs. MS suddenly and very clearly discovered her vocation. After all men born of woman’s womb had little right to insult that favour. Ayo! how disgusting, how repulsive. It had recalled in a flash the dark corridors of her childhood and Nagu mama’s waylaying her, his dirty hands. But no, her decision had nothing to do with her past.
The rest had been easy. Mrs.MS took to taking those significant bus rides with a little needle dipped in her homemade potion. On rats the reaction was immediate. In the first case she had lingered to witness her experiment to completion – it must have taken all of 10 seconds. Then death for the aberrant and a small freedom for his victims. She knew that her task could/would take a lifetime. And would suspect a portly matron in two “mukutis” and her grocery bag getting off to catch another bus home?
Today once again she gathered the tools of her trade, arranged her ‘champike’ in her hair and with her shopping bag made for the bus stop. No.39 was along soon and she soon got herself a ladies seat and settled back in comfort. The bus got crowded as it approached the city – this was where the action usually took place. Sure enough, soon an arm extended beyond her side to reach the curved young posterior just beyond. Mrs.MS reached inside her bag, carefully got her needle out and reached it inside the trouser leg next to her – strange! That trouser looked familiar. She turned back and raised her eyes to that familiar face even as she felt the needle contact in that fatal prick. Oh no! Mr. Sreenivasan, Sreenu, could it be you? Oh Venkata, Oh Shiva, Oh Gopala, what have I done? Could it really be you? My Lord?
She watched in a shocked silence as the body shivered and slumped to the floor.
Today she was happy –it would be 10th bus ride- not a small feat in only last one year. In all the cases she had been successful. Hadn’t her father rightly told her that she could achieve anything she desired as long as she set her mind to it? So now after almost twenty five years of marriage and raising family, after all those dragging years of tedious boredom she had finally discovered an interest that amused her constantly and she considered worthwhile.
It wasn’t as if there were any streak of aggression in her. She considered herself very reasonable and God fearing. And without Almighty’s help could her success be this complete? God had empowered women to create life –made them mothers of creation. But sometimes creativity could also go haywire and had to be rectified-so to speak. So when the other day Lalitha, that nice young girl next door, came visiting with her mother and the topic of the harassment that she had to face every day on the bus came up, Mrs. MS suddenly and very clearly discovered her vocation. After all men born of woman’s womb had little right to insult that favour. Ayo! how disgusting, how repulsive. It had recalled in a flash the dark corridors of her childhood and Nagu mama’s waylaying her, his dirty hands. But no, her decision had nothing to do with her past.
The rest had been easy. Mrs.MS took to taking those significant bus rides with a little needle dipped in her homemade potion. On rats the reaction was immediate. In the first case she had lingered to witness her experiment to completion – it must have taken all of 10 seconds. Then death for the aberrant and a small freedom for his victims. She knew that her task could/would take a lifetime. And would suspect a portly matron in two “mukutis” and her grocery bag getting off to catch another bus home?
Today once again she gathered the tools of her trade, arranged her ‘champike’ in her hair and with her shopping bag made for the bus stop. No.39 was along soon and she soon got herself a ladies seat and settled back in comfort. The bus got crowded as it approached the city – this was where the action usually took place. Sure enough, soon an arm extended beyond her side to reach the curved young posterior just beyond. Mrs.MS reached inside her bag, carefully got her needle out and reached it inside the trouser leg next to her – strange! That trouser looked familiar. She turned back and raised her eyes to that familiar face even as she felt the needle contact in that fatal prick. Oh no! Mr. Sreenivasan, Sreenu, could it be you? Oh Venkata, Oh Shiva, Oh Gopala, what have I done? Could it really be you? My Lord?
She watched in a shocked silence as the body shivered and slumped to the floor.
Red and Green
There was no point –they could not be made to understand. Didn’t they see that her thoughts, efforts, and planning were solely to help those needy miserable souls- the cause of the hopeless- could almost be called social service? In fact would the light ever dawn that her actions merited acclaim – an example as it were, to those that did not dare? Then why was she here in this small cube, where the only ray of comfort came from that little square that illuminated her day and clocked time with passage of each starry, sleepless night, suffocating in the intense black of her cube? She, who used to be so free and only sought to free those others?
And, what did they object to- that she always found the colours green and red aesthetically pleasing? The calmness and soothing of the green in violent clash with the passion of red? And did’nt blood make the best red of all? Pulsating, warm blood, especially in spray on the tendrils of a spring field? Why was death the ultimate fear of human race- couldn’t it be life as well? Most people she encountered were most fearful of life, love, laughter – didn’t they then need a friend, who could show them that death was definitely another viable option?
Then there was the other matter- her fascination with trains. Since her earliest memories she had always had a train. Trains seemed indomitable, powerful, assured, and fearless in their pursuit of destination (or destiny?) through jungles of her imagination or through tunnels in rocky sheer cliffs or teasing the shore as they skirted the landline. She always knew that her destiny would forever be tied to those powerful pursuers and so it had turned out.
She had always been a good child, obedient and modest, mediocre in most respects, as was expected of her- in all except for her passion for trains. So when she approached what was considered a correct marriageable age , it was to everyone’s utter surprise, shock really when she calmly declared that she wanted to be a locomotive engine driver. No tears, threats, would make her change her mind. At last they had to give in- what else could they do? Where had they gone wrong? Nothing obvious came to mind- except buying her all those toy train sets. But who could have guessed?
As expected, her chosen path was also eventless – with effort she passed her exams and was lucky enough to even get a job- she had applied when women’s quotas were in favor and it was felt that her recruitment would add positively to the railways sordid, entirely male profile. True, her own line ran through least challenging and frequented landscapes. But oh! The freedom of it- chugging away in that old steam clonker! The familiar sound of his whistle, the grunts when he had to get moving, and sighs at the smallest stops! She smiled bemusedly at the memories of those endless hours of companionship. And thus it had been for a long, long time.
That first time had been startling- probably more in the context of her conservative upbringing. There was that lone figure standing besides the tracks- dusky skin, orange saree and a long plait- all this she saw as the train noisily approached the lonely figure. And oh that sad sad face at the last glimpse- how was she to know? The figure had lurched right into her path. She braked instinctively- the poor clonker screeched his complaints, but she knew it was too late. That was her first look at the red on green. It enlivened her senses- made her breathe faster- it was shockingly, beautifully, crudely, glorious. Another look at the mangled remains- she was touched by the serenity on one who had been so young, and now would never be old again. Her heart wept in happiness at the comfort that she had helped achieve. She could still recall the words that spun through her head- “ sleep dear child, sleep”
It was after those first tedious rounds of formalities, endless questioning, when she had a chance to dwell on the incident that it struck her- she had discovered her true calling- this then was what it was all about. Her life suddenly was no longer lived on a whim, but she had been pre-ordained to be their savior- their final savior- those miserable hopeless souls. Why her old clonker was nothing but her partner in mercy.
That first advert in the papers looked innocent enough “Are you in deep distress? Write to PO Box 875623” How could they be expected to make arrangements for their final earthly moments-why! most of them did not realise that they craved the peace of eternal slumber. But they had her. And she was uncompromising on details, dedicated in her mission- their own guardian angel.
Of course she was always present during their last moments. She had to make sure that the job got completed. The thrill of red on green was a secondary issue –truly.
Oh, what was that? Footsteps? Clanking keys? Freedom? Oh no! was it the warden? Not again-please not again. She could not tolerate those shock therapies-what were they trying to do? Make her mad?
And then the door opened.
And, what did they object to- that she always found the colours green and red aesthetically pleasing? The calmness and soothing of the green in violent clash with the passion of red? And did’nt blood make the best red of all? Pulsating, warm blood, especially in spray on the tendrils of a spring field? Why was death the ultimate fear of human race- couldn’t it be life as well? Most people she encountered were most fearful of life, love, laughter – didn’t they then need a friend, who could show them that death was definitely another viable option?
Then there was the other matter- her fascination with trains. Since her earliest memories she had always had a train. Trains seemed indomitable, powerful, assured, and fearless in their pursuit of destination (or destiny?) through jungles of her imagination or through tunnels in rocky sheer cliffs or teasing the shore as they skirted the landline. She always knew that her destiny would forever be tied to those powerful pursuers and so it had turned out.
She had always been a good child, obedient and modest, mediocre in most respects, as was expected of her- in all except for her passion for trains. So when she approached what was considered a correct marriageable age , it was to everyone’s utter surprise, shock really when she calmly declared that she wanted to be a locomotive engine driver. No tears, threats, would make her change her mind. At last they had to give in- what else could they do? Where had they gone wrong? Nothing obvious came to mind- except buying her all those toy train sets. But who could have guessed?
As expected, her chosen path was also eventless – with effort she passed her exams and was lucky enough to even get a job- she had applied when women’s quotas were in favor and it was felt that her recruitment would add positively to the railways sordid, entirely male profile. True, her own line ran through least challenging and frequented landscapes. But oh! The freedom of it- chugging away in that old steam clonker! The familiar sound of his whistle, the grunts when he had to get moving, and sighs at the smallest stops! She smiled bemusedly at the memories of those endless hours of companionship. And thus it had been for a long, long time.
That first time had been startling- probably more in the context of her conservative upbringing. There was that lone figure standing besides the tracks- dusky skin, orange saree and a long plait- all this she saw as the train noisily approached the lonely figure. And oh that sad sad face at the last glimpse- how was she to know? The figure had lurched right into her path. She braked instinctively- the poor clonker screeched his complaints, but she knew it was too late. That was her first look at the red on green. It enlivened her senses- made her breathe faster- it was shockingly, beautifully, crudely, glorious. Another look at the mangled remains- she was touched by the serenity on one who had been so young, and now would never be old again. Her heart wept in happiness at the comfort that she had helped achieve. She could still recall the words that spun through her head- “ sleep dear child, sleep”
It was after those first tedious rounds of formalities, endless questioning, when she had a chance to dwell on the incident that it struck her- she had discovered her true calling- this then was what it was all about. Her life suddenly was no longer lived on a whim, but she had been pre-ordained to be their savior- their final savior- those miserable hopeless souls. Why her old clonker was nothing but her partner in mercy.
That first advert in the papers looked innocent enough “Are you in deep distress? Write to PO Box 875623” How could they be expected to make arrangements for their final earthly moments-why! most of them did not realise that they craved the peace of eternal slumber. But they had her. And she was uncompromising on details, dedicated in her mission- their own guardian angel.
Of course she was always present during their last moments. She had to make sure that the job got completed. The thrill of red on green was a secondary issue –truly.
Oh, what was that? Footsteps? Clanking keys? Freedom? Oh no! was it the warden? Not again-please not again. She could not tolerate those shock therapies-what were they trying to do? Make her mad?
And then the door opened.
I do not Belong
I do not belong. I do not belong to this world- this rarified world of riches, glittering lapis pools under neon lights, temperature controlled, feeling controlled, where a smile is to be paid for, a drink-a weekly wage, a touch- a month's toil; everything is for sale, everything can be bought. Helping hand- available for a price, for a price- a piece of the sky, a bit of sand, song of waves. For a bit more, permission to air pollute, water pollute, noise pollute, land pollute, mind pollute-rubbish, filth everywhere.
I do not belong to this world of overfed, over drunk, bloated bodies, barely covered, glittering with jewels-vaccuous souls, nothing more,no spark, no song, no space in their buried hearts for a deep breath.
I do not belong-in this trap-a pina colada quietens the inner voice, quells the rebellious heart,furious swimming deadens the mind- the cost of these lapis pools, exhausts the clamoring heart- to escape, from all this human pollution of the educated, wealthy, priviledged, developed, westernized-to escape where the human heart dwells in innocence, where sharing is smile,food, home, heart, all-to realise how crumpled this own heart has become-to unfold, smoothen and set it free-to fly the wandering winds.
I do not belong to this world of overfed, over drunk, bloated bodies, barely covered, glittering with jewels-vaccuous souls, nothing more,no spark, no song, no space in their buried hearts for a deep breath.
I do not belong-in this trap-a pina colada quietens the inner voice, quells the rebellious heart,furious swimming deadens the mind- the cost of these lapis pools, exhausts the clamoring heart- to escape, from all this human pollution of the educated, wealthy, priviledged, developed, westernized-to escape where the human heart dwells in innocence, where sharing is smile,food, home, heart, all-to realise how crumpled this own heart has become-to unfold, smoothen and set it free-to fly the wandering winds.
A Search
Kabir, the fourteenth century Bhakti poet of Varanasi sang:
I am like a shell in the ocean-thirsting for a drop.....
-------------
I thirst for a sight
of my loved one
sound of a carefree laugh
a taste in my mouth
a touch, a feel- of fire.
I search for all this
wandering the world
scanning the skies
swimming different oceans
to stop, exhausted
and find,
what I am searching
is inside-
there is no difference
between the seeker and the seeking
the seeker is the seeked
the path and the goal
are the same.
------------
Olber's paradox
got resolved,
a starlit night
became infinitely bright-
planets whirled
to Kepler's songs,
and suns winked bright
to auroral lights.
In this opaque gold
a seed was born,
of darkest hue
all clarity gone,
to shape out a
human, bereft and lost
with this universe
left to roam.
----------
I am like a shell in the ocean-thirsting for a drop.....
-------------
I thirst for a sight
of my loved one
sound of a carefree laugh
a taste in my mouth
a touch, a feel- of fire.
I search for all this
wandering the world
scanning the skies
swimming different oceans
to stop, exhausted
and find,
what I am searching
is inside-
there is no difference
between the seeker and the seeking
the seeker is the seeked
the path and the goal
are the same.
------------
Olber's paradox
got resolved,
a starlit night
became infinitely bright-
planets whirled
to Kepler's songs,
and suns winked bright
to auroral lights.
In this opaque gold
a seed was born,
of darkest hue
all clarity gone,
to shape out a
human, bereft and lost
with this universe
left to roam.
----------
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Action and Detatchment: The Gita Way
Its been about a year since I have been completely captivated by the principal idea of Bhagavat Gita - that of detached action, as a way to conduct ones life. Such action is devoid of greed for gain, or fear of failure or loss. It is done purely in spirit of right action, conduct-complete, calm, poised and concentrated in its very self, uninfluenced by external factors, and thus independent of intent or outcome.
At Kurukshetra, Arjuna-the supreme warrior-is filled with sorrow,and grief at confronting his relatives and friends across the battle line. He is ready to renounce war rather than raise arms in violence against his kin. Then God Krishna, his charioteer, mentor, friend, advises him:
Follow the path of your Karma, without pondering on the fruits of that path.
This mythological battle described in the epic Mahabharata has often been seen as an allegory for the battles that we constantly fight-the good versus evil, right versus wrong, raging within.
Or maybe, it is a guidepost, a beacon, shining awareness that lines must be drawn, and battles must be fought, in order to follow, conscientiously the path of right personal action, correct conduct through this passage called life. Krishna warns Arjuna against weakness and cowardice, in facing his enemies, internal demons, in name of caring, and compassion-since both arise from attachments-or Maya, illusion, in the great, eternal cosmic theater.
As the new year begins, I jump into my own Kurukshetra, to play hide and seek with Maya-to run from her laughter and clasping hands, be caught, and then run after her in joy, seeking her flitting, illusionary form, for as long as we do not tire of this Karmic game.
At Kurukshetra, Arjuna-the supreme warrior-is filled with sorrow,and grief at confronting his relatives and friends across the battle line. He is ready to renounce war rather than raise arms in violence against his kin. Then God Krishna, his charioteer, mentor, friend, advises him:
Follow the path of your Karma, without pondering on the fruits of that path.
This mythological battle described in the epic Mahabharata has often been seen as an allegory for the battles that we constantly fight-the good versus evil, right versus wrong, raging within.
Or maybe, it is a guidepost, a beacon, shining awareness that lines must be drawn, and battles must be fought, in order to follow, conscientiously the path of right personal action, correct conduct through this passage called life. Krishna warns Arjuna against weakness and cowardice, in facing his enemies, internal demons, in name of caring, and compassion-since both arise from attachments-or Maya, illusion, in the great, eternal cosmic theater.
As the new year begins, I jump into my own Kurukshetra, to play hide and seek with Maya-to run from her laughter and clasping hands, be caught, and then run after her in joy, seeking her flitting, illusionary form, for as long as we do not tire of this Karmic game.
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