Going Away

I've left the little home on the hill right where it pauses a bit before hurrying down to meet the road below. I've left the crisp, cold dawn crackling with freshness, like laundry just back from the cleaners. I've left the cup of morning tea tickling my nose with its cinnamony fingers. I've left that busybody of a starling crooning way ahead of dawn: hey, wake up, wake up, you lazy bum, the sun's crossed the hilltop. I've left the little walks on the forever climbing hill road edged with yellow raspberry brambles and frail white roses. I've left the black tufted bulbul dancing in the tall grass, singing perky love songs to his disdainful mate. I've left the red strawberries dotting the road edge, waiting for the bulbuls to find them. I've left the restless swallows swooping and rising and swooping again, searching for God-knows-what treasures in the woodland grass. I've left the sparrows dancing in impatience for their morning birdseed bonanza. I've left the chubby bees somersaulting amidst the baby China roses, their black bodies sprinkled with yellow pollen. I've left the blossoming jacarandas in a profusion of purple and the flowering Grevillias spouting ochre fire. I've left the pigeons on my rafters cooing lullabies to the brand new baby upstairs. I've left Badal, the errand boy whistling cheery, tuneless songs as he runs up and down the hill in his shiny pointed shoes. I've left him waiting for my promised goodies for his 'bachcha', the mountain pup he has just adopted. I've left that large black koel trying in vain to balance itself on a single stalk of grass. I've left Knight, the black dog with the proud eyes to dabble for some more time with his beloved azadi. I've left the brown dog on her perch atop the gate guarding her mountain world. I've left the deep red sunsets splaying across the darkened Western skies at dusk. I've left the town lights twinkling secret Morse code SMSes to the stars all through the silent night. I've left the cool, cream, curtained rooms with their clean smooth floors, restful, tendrils of lavender scented smoke coiling up from the incense sticks, lit at every dusk. I've left the smell of cakes baking, vanilla and nutmeg and cinnamon. I've left the melting snow as it trails down the hill in thin streaks, feeding the mountain stream behind. I've left the great swathes of grey white clouds, gathering in ice cream swirls at the mountain's crown, foretelling a night of storm. I've left the demented winds rushing down the mountain slope, howling at windows and rattling across roofs, bringing relentless rain and hail and snow....I've left the skies recovering from the storm, flashing deep cloudless blue once more. 

I've gone.

But I've left my words with them:

" Stay. Just the way you are. I'll come back to you. One day!"

A REJECTION

Let your disdain drip:
Hot candle wax.
Scalded. Still I’ll mould

My stories with it.

Let your slight swing:
Sharp cold knife.
Cut. Still I’ll carve
My poems with it.

Let your evasion swerve
Screeching brakes.
Crushed. Still I’ll ply
My daydreams in it.

Let your forgetting settle
Gray dust-haze.
Choked. Still I’ll whistle
My songs by it.


Let your silence drop:

Black amavasya night.
Blind. Still I’ll paint
Pink wildflowers with it.

PS: Bored completely with my recent writings on littering, Swachchh Bharat, Diwali crackers and others of similar 'conscientious' nature (which anyway could do naught to bring about behavioural change), I'm back to my escapist writing ways. 

Its Love again this time, always a versatile subject. This one's about unrequited love and its aching tenacity.

Do leave a note if you liked it. And also if you didn't.

A Cracker Free Deepawali

The snapshots above are some posts from netizens against the ban on cracker sales this year in Delhi and NCR. The sheer intensity of the retorts prodded me to ask:-

So what is it about a cracker-free Deepawali that is so, so abhorrent?

Forgive my temerity in asking such juvenile questions but its just that I want to know. Silly curiosity, of course. That’s all. I swear. That’s all. No Communist agenda. No evil ‘Sickular’ design. And no anti-Hindutva scheme.

So, for this blog’s sake (and only for this blog, be assured of that) lets picture a scene. A Cracker Free Deepawali scene. A scene that I have conjured up with my abundant and hyperactive imagination. Its hypothetical of course, please be amply clear on that. This scene is purely a work of fiction and any resemblance to any situation or event is completely (I swear to you) unintentional.

This scene is more like something filched right out of a Karan Johar script.

Chocolate-y. Bubblegummy. Unreal. Impossible.

So, here it goes. Take a dekko........

A Cracker-Free Deepawali.

You wake up to an early winter morning. There’s a smell in the air, a cool fresh kind of smell. The sharp smoky odour of crackers that you are used to being greeted with every single Diwali morning of your life, is missing. That is because yesterday, on Choti Diwali there were no crackers burst. Not even one. Today too, would be the same.

But you have no time to spend musing on crackers. There is so much to do........

Get the Puja room ready for the evening’s worship.

Make the rangolis: one with flowers and leaves on the front porch, one with coloured dust in the Puja room, a Kollam you have learnt from a Tamil friend on the floor of the living room.

Wash and dry the diyas from last year and put them out in the winter sun to dry.

Wake the children up and hustle them out of their beds with promises of coconut laddoos, malpuas and of course an iPad for the older one and a toy Robot for the younger.

Set the clothes for the evening on the spare room bed:  His, yours and the kids. A beige sherwani, a burgundy lehenga, a little girl’s fluffy pink gown and a young man’s shining tuxedo.

Take out the crockery for the evening’s get together, wipe them clean and lay the table.

List out the gifts, placing tiny labels on them: Papa, Mummy, Tanu, Josh, Lovely Bua, Shefali Didi, Sinha Uncle and Aunty, Ghai Uncle and Aunty, Shaloo Bai, Paperwale Bhaiya, Doodhwaali Amma, Ruchie, the Aiyer family, the Sharmas from across the street, the PG bachelor from the opposite flat.......

Steep the rasgullas, fry the gujiyas, sauté the matar curry, slice the salad, garnish the meetha pulao...

Help Him string up the fairy lights.

And as the sun sets in the beautifully coloured Western sky, gather in the Puja room with the Family for Deepawali prayers. Close your eyes in reverence before the Goddess of Prosperity as old beloved arti bhajans, the sweet smoke of chandan agarbattis, the glow of the clay diya and the warmth of people you love washes over you in gentle waves......

The door bell rings and the children rush, behind Sugar Candy, your beige Labrador....There are old friends at the door that have come to spend Diwali with you. The adults gather in your living room. The children rush off to the porch. Soon your house resounds with laughter and giggles and happy talk. The kids run in and out of the house playing strange games that only a child would understand. This time you are not much worried about them playing outside. Inside they might break a few of your prized crystal figurines but outside its completely safe.

A least for Tanu.

You didn’t have to take out her claustrophobic N95 mask this Diwali. Nor bring down the oxygen concentrator from the loft. She has Childhood Asthma. It gets worse during winters what with the cold and the city’s traffic fumes. But during the Diwali week, it preys on her little lungs, her endless cough and heart rending wheeze echoing louder in your mother’s heart than all the patakha in the world. You remember how your Diwali evenings mainly consisted of endless battles with her over wearing that stifling mask and over prohibitions on going out to celebrate with her friends. But today, both you and Tanu are breathing, free of anxiety.

The door bell rings again. You glance at the clock. Nine pm. Wonder who it is this late, you think. You go to the door. But Sugar Candy is there before you. She loves people and this evening with your house full of friends, she is happier than ever. The ringing door to her means more people and that is why she has rushed out, even before you can react. For this Diwali she does not have to cower, shaking like a leaf under the bed at its farthest corner, as her world is ripped apart again and again and again with deafening, ear splitting explosions, whose ‘why’ she is unable to fathom. But this evening there is no stopping Sugar Candy from enjoying her Diwali. For today her world is filled with only the sounds she loves, sounds of her favourite people laughing and talking and simply being happy. She stands at the door, wagging merrily.

You peer out. It’s Ghai Auntie. And oh, there’s Ghai Uncle too. All wrapped up in shawls and caps and carrying along with their walking sticks, two stainless steel dabbas of home- made mithai. You are so pleasantly surprised. This old couple never ventured out of their little corner flat during  Diwali. Ghai Uncle had had a heart attack four years back and had been operated for it. Since they never left home during Diwali, you would make it a point to meet them the next day to hand over their Diwali packets. Ghai Aunty would tell you worriedly, Beta, patake ke awaaz se aapke Uncle ko neend nahin aati. Poorie raat jaage rehte hain,  headphones kaan mein lagake. Kehte hain ki jaise hi pataka phat ta hai, unka dil ka dhadhkan tez ho jaata hai...

You can remember the fear in her eyes, Darr lagta hai kahin phir se attack na aa jaaye.......

You smile at them today, Aaj baahar kaise Ghai Aunty?

It’s Ghai Uncle who answers as he hugs you and steps over the doorway, NO crackers, Beta, it’s a Cracker Free Diwali, he announces grandly.

Ushering them inside, you catch a glimpse of Arati your neighbour placing lighted diyas on her window sill. Her little daughter is helping her, handing over the oil filled lamps carefully to her mother as Arati lights them and places them over the sill.

So late, Arati, you call out.

She calls back.  Had gone to the Club for their cultural show. Just come back.

Preeti had gone with you? You ask. You remember last year how she had refused to come out of her home, clinging in abject fear to her Dad’s arms as the older children exploded deafening crackers in the courtyard.

Her mother had rued to you that evening. She is terrified of Diwali, Didi. Hates it. The noise really scares her.
Today Arati answers you. Yes. She really enjoyed the show.

Great, you wave at them. Happy Diwali, Arati. Come over once you’ve finished with the lamps.

Ok Didi. Arati waves back as Preeti smiles at you.

You turn to get back inside but catch a glimpse of the kids playing in the courtyard. It looks like they are attempting a garba. There is music playing on someone’s cell phone placed on a plastic chair. Tanu it seems is the dance director. She is bossing over the kids, most of them older to her and many of them teenage boys. With some of the older girls in attendance, she is ordering them to line up, showing them how to clap the garba sticks together, teaching them dance steps.....You watch them at their innocent play for a few minutes, amusement and relief flooding your heart and then as you turn to go back, you spot the Western sky. It is speckled with stars on this moonless amavasya night. You stand back for a moment to savour this spectacular night sky, pitch black, pierced with little solitaires and think.

This Diwali has been good to you, for you. 

Your Tanu has breathed free this Diwali. Ghai Uncle has rid himself off his obnoxious, useless head phones and come to celebrate Diwali with you and his friends without Ghai Aunty scared to death for his health and well being. 
Little Preeti has lit diyas without being petrified of chocolate bombs exploding next to her tiny ears. She can now grow up carrying happy memories of Diwali and not fear it any more. 
Sugar Candy has been able to continue to indulge in her love for people this Diwali without being jailed under the bed, unable to understand why the world had turned into a nightmare of sounds. 

You have celebrated this Diwali for the reasons it was meant to be celebrated, in the way it was meant to be celebrated............with lights for dispelling of darkness and with the drawing closer of family and friends...

And tomorrow, on Christmas Eve or on Eid or on Baisakhi, or during Sharmaji’s son’s wedding or even when India beat Pakistan at a midnight match, you can stand firm and tell your friends, 
Wait! Stop the crackers! They are not good for us, for any of us. 

You know we had celebrated a Cracker Free Diwali this year. 

You can do it too.

Random Thoughts of a Random Respectable Bhadralok

I am a very respectable person. A retired public servant. From a good family. You know, a respectable family, of respectable society. I was a senior executive in a respectable government enterprise. An employee of standing, much respected. Now I am retired. But I retain my respectability. Today I am travelling. From Kolkata to New Dilli. By flight. Air India, Boeing 787 Dreamliner. Executive class. I am going to spend Durga Pujo with my son at Delhi. Me and my wife. My son is at the XYZ Bank. He is a very senior manager there. He will send his office car to pick us up from T3 airport at Delhi. I am eager to meet him and my grandchildren. But I have to wait for a while for that. So I am sitting at the Kolkata airport, waiting for boarding for my flight to commence. My wife is sitting with me.
A young couple is sitting opposite us. Probably a husband-wife duo. But you can't tell for sure these days. No sindoor. No shankha pola. No mangal sutra. And of course no sari. Skin fitting jeans on both. The woman is falling all over the man, touching his hand, laying her head in his shoulders, giggling.....No sense of propriety, no sense of what behaviour is correct in a public space...So much shameless PDA. I learnt this word recently. Public Display of Affection. A bane of our times. A disease affecting all youngsters of today. I glance at my wife, sitting respectably away from me in the next chair. She is staring somewhere ahead, eyes not quite focussed. I call out to her (no names), Listen, have you brought the Bingo packet? She pulls out an orange pack from the Big Shopper at her feet. I tear it open and pull out a piece. It's spicy but tasty. I crunch into it. Just then, the girl sails into view. My teeth grind to a stop in mid crunch. Tall and thin, she is wearing her long hair loose with a funny  bun on the crown of her head. Silver colored shades and a shining pink lipstick. A thin almost transparent top sticks to her body, her woman curves sharply defined in display. And her jeans! Oh my God! They are torn in at least four places, large merciless gashes through which the bare skin of her legs are on full display. Shameless, I verbalise to my wife, pointing to the girl with my half eaten Mad Angle. My wife shakes her head, agreeing. Such lack of  a  sense of respectability, I continue. These educated women of today! Don't they have any sense of what kind of behaviour is right, what kind of behaviour is wrong? Torn jeans, body on display.....like a hussy.....When will they learn..........to behave in public.....
Quaking with righteous indignation, I finish my Mad Angles, roll and crumple my empty packet and throw it beneath my shining chrome-faux leather airport chair.

Of Porpoises and Plastic...

Our boat is a sad looking thing, peeling paint and rotten rafters. It must be an old one, I tell myself. In contrast to the aging boat, our boatmen are young. Very young. Locals from the banks of the Chilika.One is in class nine and the other in class ten, as they tell us later. Babu and Raja. Fiesty little men who handle the boat confidently, laughing with much amusement when we voice our fears at being sailed around by two underage kids in the vast and beautiful Chilika Lake in Odisha. They handle the boat and us like pros, their confidence boosted by Dad in an orange lungi following us protectively behind in another tourist laden boat.

We are on the trail of the Chilika dolphins. Chilika's dolphins are the Irrawady fresh water dolphins, Orcaella brevirostris: silver, snub-nosed and as cute as the bottlenosed dolphins of the oceans. They are though, not quite freshwater, living in the brackish waters of estuaries and are classified as 'vulnerable' with respect to their conservation status. We spot them after much questing, a brief view of a pair swooping in and out of the gray sea. Happy nevertheless, we return.

After an interesting ride over the choppy grey lake dotted with bamboo poles sticking out through its surface like Bhishma's bed of arrows, a few hungry seagulls, hoards of crows trying to negotiate the windy skies between two islands we reach a thin patch of land called Sea Mouth. We are to have lunch here in one of  the numerous palm thatched shacks. After the haggling over  the price and size of prawns is done, the cook tells us to walk over the opposite edge of the island for a view of The Bay of Bengal.

"Six minute to and six minutes fro" he tells us helpfully. "When you come back, lunch would be ready!"

We walk up a sandy path between rows of discarded plastic bottles, plastic wrappers, thermocol plates and thousands of coconut hulls, to the edge of the dune. Here we are rewarded with a view of a virgin beach and the deep turquoise Bay of Bengal surging at its Eastern edge. The golden beach is smooth and the waves perfect, topped by pure white surf and we are kids once again as we enter the water, giggling in chorus with the white surf.

After almost half an hour we are dragged reluctant out of the sea, like petulant kids on the verge of a tantrum, back to the shack for lunch. To compensate, this is a grand affair: mounds of rice, a yellow sea of mung daal with burnt jeera and slices of tomatoes floating in it, mashed potatoes, a single papad, tangy mixed vegetable pickle and of course the chef's special of succulent Chilika prawns in a violent red curry with explosive capabilities equalling that of an IED.

I am freshening up, standing by one of the wooden tables and as I brush my hair I look around. The little sand island, hardly 200 metres in breadth is pockmarked with mounds of plastic waste and empty coconut shells. Runners of hyacinth (well, it looks like hyacinth) on the sand bloom with guthkha wrappers, thermocol glasses and used nappies instead of pale purple flowers. The baby waves that lap the river side of Sea Mouth brings in more rubbish that tangles in the sand shrubs and remains, festooning the river beach with a garland of junk.
I find myself getting annoyed with an impotent indignation that needs urgent vent. The two young men, our boatmen sitting at the next table are easy victims.

 " What is all this?" I point to the dump next to the shack.

Raja smiles apologetically.

"Garbage."

"What about Swachh Bharat?" Derision drips like hot candle wax from my voice.

"You know about Swachh Bharat?"

The boy nods. He does. His class nine is at the local government school.
"Yes." He know it well.

I enquire again.
"So what's this?"

"Aswachh Bharat!" The boy replies.
No, he is not being funny. His voice is resigned.

But Babu, the tenth grader who looks like he is in class six is not one to get cowed down so easily...
"We collect these bottles and sell them to recycle. See..."
He shows me a sack full of plastic water bottles.
Somewhat mollified, I go on.
"You must tell these tourists not to throw rubbish like this. This rubbish will get washed away into the sea and choke your dolphins.........."
The boys listen intently, their keen eyes upon my face.
I go on.
"When you grow up and own your own boats, if this pollution continues unchecked, who knows whether there will be any dolphins left to roam your Chilika......."

I am aware I am full of hyperbole but it is all I can do.......dress my words with drama to sieze attention..

Two pairs of eyes follow my face and the desperation that I lace it with throws shadows on theirs.

"No tourists will like to come here then....."

I leave my words hanging like a portent in the salt heavy air.The boys look away meditatively, Raju into the distance and Babu at his sack of PET bottles.

That afternoon as I ride Raja and Babu's blue boat with its peeling paint and torn tarpaulin back to Satpada, I hope earnestly that my two bit words would not get blown away like Lay wrappers in the sea breeze or float away like Coke bottles at high tide....

Hope that one day if I am fortunate to return to this picturesque Sea Mouth where the river embraces the ocean, I'd find that a shrewd politician's nationalistic campaign for a clean country merged with a young people's dreams for a better future has worked to return Sea Mouth as Nature had intended it to be: clean, pristine, unsullied by human hands...


PS : There are other environmental issues plaguing coastal Odisha such as diesel boats on the Chilika destroying the Orcaella's habitat but I chose to write about this issue of littering of sea beaches because it is something that we as tourists are guilty of and something that we can stop easily if we have the will to do it. And I feel it is the locals who can play a major part in instilling this behavioural change in the tourists that visit them.