Bus Moments

I am 55, female, grey, skinny, wear jeans and short hair. I also commute on bus - all over Bangalore. Here are a few bus moments I remember.

1. Every Monday I head out from where I live, in Kengeri, to a meeting in Shivaji Nagar.There is only one direct bus every hour or so - and occasionally this also skips a beat. So, the other day, as I was crossing the road near Kengeri police station, my bus whizzes past me, a couple of hundred meters ahead, to roll into the bus stop. I run. Very few takers for this bus at 3 pm in the afternoon - I realize this and race to catch this bus. I can feel the cool breeze on my face, and wear a Tin-Tin tuft on my head, and a silly grin on my face. I feel I have never run so fast before - and its decades since I last ran. The bus rolls out towards the road and moves as I catch up alongside, grab the handlebar as I have seen many reckless youth do, and swing myself on board with a single swing - the grin still pasted on my face, hot and breathless from the most exciting thing I have done in a long while - and absolutely Cool. 
2. The other day, I found a Ladies seat on a bus back home and sat there - slumped, gazing out of the window, when I felt a shove on my arm. A buxom villager with huge bags of shopping had got on at the City Market and was shoving my arm, asking me to get up and give her the seat. I was utterly confused and must have shown just that when I heard giggles and laughter all around. Am not great in Kannada, but followed the conversation to understand this much: the young women were telling her that I was really a woman! Now it was her turn to look completely blank - and the laughter turned into a roar!
3. What I am going to say now represents a collection of moments, it has happened so many times, and not just on buses. At Majestic, I run between buses, asking for my destination. People helpfully point out towards a bus; I run and clamber on - to be told - its a wrong bus; get off and the bus rolls away and I ask for my destination, to be pointed to the same bus - which has now gone. Another time, I asked for a ticket to Malleswaram, but the bus went through Rajajinagar and ended at Yeswantpur; my protests were answered with derisive laughter "learn Kannada if you want to live in Karnataka". Prejudice of an outsider lives on buses, RTO, telecom office, police stations - where I have heard the same thing. It has been suggested that I wear saree, bottu, and my hair long..I rather be who I am and hope for a world without prejudice.

Malaysian Blues

Just came back from Malaysia. Had last visited it in 1984. Was a student then. Remember many things:
Gorgeous ornate boats lining the coast at Kota Bharu.
Zipping between rice fields on a scooter and an ornate reclining Buddha.
Our youth and our many excitements - new country, new people, and promise of a new love.
The silk of a chinese jade sea - floating face up - effortlessly.
My first bikini in red batik.
Strange colorful kites, amazing Indian food, many domes of masjids, my first duty free shopping. Bought many chinese silk sarees for family in India.

Went to Malaysia again with my daughter. Headed immediately to Pulau Perhentian Kecil - just off Kota Bharu. Reached by a speed boat - dense jungles framing limpid, dazzling, clear turquoise waters ; could see rocks and corals from above and also large parrot fish. Five days and nights; lots of snorkeling. Shallow turquoise became clear lapis - gold bits floated in and out of colorful reefs, also schools of brilliant fish, sharks, turtles, eels, wall of sword fish - meter long. Water so dense with salt - couldn't dive in - stayed afloat staring at all the wonder within.

I returned - floating and light, stained blue by the sea, and bits of gold in my eyes. 

Who Was He?

The Man was strange - although that might not be the best way to describe him. He carried himself with unusual calm, and an unmistakable confidence - which cannot be termed strange. But the story that I am about to tell you is definitely strange. Make what you will of it - I have stopped trying.

The year had been remarkably uneventful - no wars, no global gossip, no great calamity. We were all excited about the Comet's return - brilliantly tailed in the night sky. I was then working as an under-secretary to the Mayor of Metz. It was a job of some importance, grave responsibility and significant interest to me. I was in charge of his public relations and which put me in contact with many dignitaries, his calendar of public events and functions where I accompanied with him. There were whispers that the Mayor favored me...but let that gossip be. I was his confidant - and I say this, both because it has a bearing on this story and also to lend credibility to what I am about to say - for you may be incredulous.

The Man, for what else can I call him, appeared literally out of nowhere. He was found walking on the Strasbourg highway, towards Metz, when  was picked up by a highway patrol. The police, being an young and friendly person, decided to give him a lift and started speaking to him. That was when the first sign of strangeness appeared - when asked where he was going, the Man replied "Anywhere". The young police laughed and said he would take him to Metz, since that was the direction he seemed to be headed. I know all this from the police himself - and have no reason to doubt him.

It appeared that the Man did not care where he went, and was also very positive that he came from "nowhere". He spoke flawless french, was fully aware of current local and global news and was so amiable that he ended up joining the young police at the station on his lunch break, and later after work at a local bar. I was told that he observed everyone around him with utmost and friendly curiosity and was remarkably able to join in any conversation, in the language of the speakers. He joined in a conversations at the bar in English, Russian, Chinese, Hindi and even Swahili. When people questioned him about himself, he limited himself to a smile and changed the subject. Now who does not like the undivided attention of a stranger - especially one as amiable and cultured as this Man? Needless to say that he had no money on him, but that was not even a problem, since there were many who wished to buy him drinks, dinner and even offered him a bed for the night. That was when the young police started worrying. He felt the burden of introducing this stranger and did not want to be held accountable. He asked the Man to show some ID, while offering to host him at his home for the night. When the man readily admitted that he had no ID, our young friend was sufficiently concerned to bring it to the attention of his superiors.

It was this that led eventually to my meeting the Man. Apparently no person was willing to punish this person for lack of ID or money or shelter or even a history. Is lack of any of these really a crime? Yes, yes...societies usually criminalize the ID-less - but only those who come from that different stock of the needy; usually immigrants from poorer countries. The request came from several high quarters, written and via telephone, directly to the Mayor's office, that the Man be granted a legal residential status in Metz.

On behalf of the Mayor, I agreed to meet the young police and the Man, directly after working hours, right at Place de Armes. I spotted them immediately - a young police officer in uniform and a nondescript Man, but with an extremely pleasant face, smiling bemusedly into the evening sky. The comet was  still visible and bright; I couldn't help but attempt to make a good impression by showing off what little I had read about this comet.  The Man watched me with undivided attention and a curious smile. Finally, he spoke "That comet is my home". The young officer and I laughed, uproariously - trying to hide our confusion; weird humor of a different culture? Perhaps. This time, I changed the subject. I was instructed to interview this man with the sole purpose of granting him his French residency. He had no idea how lucky he was - people waited for years, bribed, wept, even killed (yes!) to become part of our great nation.

I asked the man a few questions while filling out the necessary forms. It was then he asked his last question "How long will I live here?"
I was quick to reassure him with a smile "for ever". This he understood all to quickly. His face showed showed his surprise and dismay. He quickly muttered "Oh No" under his breath and disappeared - yes! you heard me right - "poof" he disappeared, right from under our nose, in the middle of Place de Armes.

Don't believe me? You can ask M. -, the young policeman - he will tell you the same - he was right there.

On Death

Death,
is only a
breath,
away.

when i die
who will cry?
why?

Memories
erased,
death
debased

die,
to be-
alive

honor the dead?
we don't honor
the living.

Death
finally..
now I'll sleep.

i agree-
die
to be free.

F***
death, life
and purgatory.

Sleeper Class: Bangalore-Delhi and Back

Outcrop of rocks-
peacocks.

Herons line
industrial slime.

green parakeets
green groves
of green mangoes.

Midget fort
dilapidated, camouflaged
on a midget rock .

Decapitated trees
in pyramids.

A stone in pious orange
under a scraggly tree
-middle of nowhere.

Brilliant bougainvillea
blazing
in vast arid land.

Fat tyre tracks meandering
all over barren land-
playing? hunting?

The gait of a goatherd.
slow, swinging, free.

pale green on pale gold
and chocolate land-
sugar fields.

Orange clouds,
lit from below
in violet sky.

First showers -
neon greens shade
grey and gnarled.

How to dare, to care?

Bent men, harsh sun,
small hammer,
breaking mountains.

Boulders on a barren land -
a flock of seated goats.

Indicting Nice

I live amongst nice people - people of gentle tones and pleasant smiles, helpful hand to ease small pains. People born into nice, or cleaving one's way to the creamy top to become nice.  Nice people accepting their deserved or earned privileges as also the depravity of the rest -independently. They practice being nice with other nice people, and soon believe they are the world.

 I am surrounded by people in cloaks of nicety and insulated by it. For, how else are nice people nice, without being blind - to the rape of this earth, or its daughters?? To the pervasive hunger and the wretched starvation? How are nice people nice without being deaf to the drones of wars, and destruction of rights - to live, eat, hope or dream? How are nice people nice without burying their hearts in deep rocky caverns that cannot be wrenched out to fly open skies and hear the weeping and the bleeding from all that nice people do?

Nice people are nice by giving up the belly laugh of the crazed insomniac, thrashing of the awake, inconsolable tears of a heart that feels and cannot absolve personal blame in the fate of the rest; nice people are nice when they clip wings of freedom and neither soar high, nor defy death to dive into unseen depths of unknown oceans; nice people are nice by living of moderate mind and heart, pre-occupied with the consumables of happiness which developing demands and are comforted by goods rather than goodness; nice people afraid to open doors and peek - at the awe inspiring wonder of universe and our own insignificance, or the broiling humanity of injustice and penury, to stare with eyes wide open at both the awe-inspiring and the gut wrenching; nice people afraid to suffer or soar.

I am learning to be un-nice.

Gifts in my Garden

My garden is my refuge, my delight, my utter and fascinated engrossment. Each visit presents new gifts, tucked in a corner, floating on jade, peeking from behind illuminated emeralds. I share some of these with you.

Big Sky

Today I burrowed myself out to walk in search of a big sky. I walked till I found a sky soaked in silence and girdled by a circle of  distant trees.  On this cold february evening, spring already swelled within a still winter. Old gnarled branches gleamed in brass and copper, steel buds swelled in velvets on charcoal, new grass shone in dew and carpets of tiny white daisies with mauve backs. My winter heart unfurled and and my pores swelled with new buds. My voice rang clear to touch this big sky  - the brook then gurgled and the birds also chorused - all in raga basant.

Lines And Colors: Time Pass in Metz