NIGHTFALL


A tiny crimson smudge on the horizon was all that remained of the sun.
All of a sudden, the park emptied.
Gangs of strays noiselessly slunk away into the growing dark.
Visitors, young and old, made haste to leave,
Even the usual stragglers began trudging their way home.

I quickened my pace,
Trying not to look at the now forbidding Banyan that loomed in my path.
Trying not to think of its invisible inhabitants,
Trying to subdue the growing disquiet in my heart amidst
Trilling cries of strange birds
And mournful howls of unseen hounds  Sounding more like disembodied voices
Urging me to hurry on and not stop
Or look back,
Lest I confront my own demons.

                                                                                 - Renuka Rane

A Visitor at Night

I spotted him from the window close to midnight. He was a brown long-haired breed. Although the terms 'long hair' and 'short hair' are usually associated with cats, in my cat conscious mind, it seemed fine. He was gaunt and hungry and had obviously not eaten for days.

After a bit of whistling and coaxing he followed me up the stairs to our flat on the second floor. He stood waiting patiently outside the door. Luckily there was an unopened pack of Parle G biscuits at home. He looked up expectantly, cocking his ears. I poured out the contents of the packet in a plate and placed it under his nose. He looked at the biscuits longingly. Sniff he did, but eat he wouldn’t. That was certainly puzzling behaviour for one whose ribs showed through an emaciated frame.

My more perceptive sister brought a bowl of cold water. He jumped up at the sight of it and lapped it to the very last drop. His thirst quenched, he settled down contentedly to finish the biscuits in peace.

The Hands

The hands
They reappear again
This time in a multitude
Clutching wildly at the handles
Flailing
Swaying with the motion of the train
Some fair and plump
Some with red painted talons
Others brown and gnarled with leathery skin
Stretched across the knuckles
Marked with pigments and freckles
And badly chewed nails
Hands that have seen better days
Decorated with gaudy baubles and bangles
That speak of dull marriages
And even despondent lives
Hands that hold on
For dear life

The UR series…

Ursula: My new phone has a wonderfully relaxing alarm tone unlike yours that literally shocks you out of your sleep.

Rebecca: Ok. Let’s hear it.

(Soft lilting notes play in the background as Ursula gives a demo)

Rebecca: Doll, this is more like a lullaby than an alarm!

Ursula: How rude!

Rebecca: No wonder it never wakes you up!

Ivy

That somnolent branch
Bottle-green, solitary
Dewy and alive
After a drizzle
Sits on a red brick wall
And moves with the balmy breeze
Breaking my morning reverie

I gaze at it
Framed in the grimy window
Of the Mumbai local
As toes in battered chappals
Scuttle up and down the bars

For a moment, I forget
The repugnance of reeking
Filth on the tracks
And the jostling-for-space human flesh
As the babel of screams
Turns into a fading echo

Not Quite Toeing The Line

This is a first. I haven’t been inside a mall for a month now. My broken metacarpal doesn’t permit it. Now I feel far too restless. Nobody at home pays any heed to my demands for that particular variety of organic brown rice and green tea infused with lemon, mint and honey. For weeks I have been a sitting duck for their ministrations.
Sigh.
I never thought a spot of spot jogging would put me under house arrest. Or “a compulsory holiday,” like my doctor declared. Just like dear old Reggie who would ski all over the slopes without incident only to come home and slip on the bathroom floor. I guess it is after all like Ram says, “Es Muß Sein.” It Must Be.
Besides the pain and the terrible inconvenience to me and the family (to say nothing of the two crutches), I must admit it hasn’t been all that bad. No rush hour traffic, no smelly trains, no malodorous commuters, no grubby platforms. No sprint runs to catch the local, no gymnastics to get in and no sukha bhel.
There were of course friends to regale me with tales of paranoia, hypochondria, matchmaking and summer recipes. Some even paid a visit. It’s a pity that my synthetic blue plaster did not allow for any autographs. The faraway beau, for his part, sent sweet nothings for the beleaguered bone.
I have an appointment scheduled this week. May the X-Ray show healing. Then it is back to the grind. Not that I mind.
Mind it!

Wuthering Heights: A Prelude to Ecstasy

In two different worlds
We roamed the moors
Together
Hearing the anguished words
Of doomed lovers
Merge with our own
And ricochet off
The pauses in our dialogue
And the eternal rocks beneath

LDR Musings

Late night calls.
E-mails.
Kisses.
Lost And Found.

(I didn’t know about the acronym till I got into one.
The beau is back)

Luckless

Darius' eyes finally met those merry brown ones whose attention he had been seeking for a fortnight. He had stood in the aisle unable to control himself from staring down at her. Even as passengers pushed and biffed him in their rush to alight, he stood mesmerised. That was the first day. He had gathered curious looks from passengers at the time. Since then he had exercised restraint.

He took the same bus, the 714 from Dockyard to Marine Lines. The bus lurched heavily, thrusting headlong into the traffic. At every signal, it stopped with the motor still reverberating and then picked up speed overtaking tiny two-wheelers till its next halt. It’s intermittent motion mirroring Darius’ thoughts. He knew that she eyed him, or at least he liked to think that she did. Maybe surreptitiously, her spectacles helping her to steal furtive looks at him. And now as she glanced at him over the sheaf of newspapers she held in her hands, he felt the blood rushing up to his ears. And why not? Wasn't he good-looking, well-built and decently attired?

Her hair was tied in one tight knot at the nape of her neck. Her exposed ankles were always fastened with thin brown straps. Wasn’t her footwear like that of a schoolgirl’s? Brown shoes and black buckles. Only the socks were missing. He smiled. Why did the picture of a homeless owl enter his head whenever he thought about her?

The bus felt unbearably hot. At every detour it took, Darius cursed inwardly. How long would he have to undergo this ordeal? He had saved enough to buy one of those small cars. He lapsed into a pleasant reverie, thinking about driving his car to the bus stop where she’d be waiting. He would roll down the windows in style and offer her a lift. She might refuse at first, shyly and timidly, he would insist and then she’d accept, smiling. He would drive her to work, breathing in her perfume, listening to music, talking and laughing. And then he would do it everyday. Well, almost.

He felt comforted to see her safely ensconced in the place reserved for ladies. It was always the same—the window seat in the third row on the left. She looked oddly familiar. Today, he would get off at Marine Lines and follow her, only to see where she lived. Maybe with her parents or better still in a hostel.

She shifted in her seat, folded her newspapers, collected her bag and got up, wading through the crowd to get to the door. He followed, hoping to alight immediately after her. In his effort to be right behind her, his right foot came heavily on her and left an ugly imprint on her dainty brown shoe. She eyed him with disgust. "You creep! Are you blind or what? Can’t you see where you are going?" she snarled at him. Some passengers snickered. "Sorry," was all he said, before he slipped away.

Zephyr

In the desolate fields lies a tree that’s dead.

Charred to the roots with scavengers for blossoms.

The heat is oppressive, the breeze engulfs you, leaving a film of dust.

Two old villagers have furtive eyes.

And only the birds fly into the yellow haze

with cries that pierce the sun.

Mayhem and Sadness

The attack by Shiv Sainiks at the Nallasopara function is shocking, horrifying and brutal. I read about the incident in the papers, saw the video on TV, and it was disturbing. And the function was not even held to celebrate V Day, which people assembled tried to explain.

A crowd of hooligans broke down the door and barged into the hall. Some of the men, groped at women, pulled them by their hair, pulled their clothes, slapped and kicked them. The men who tried to protect the women ended up being whipped themselves and were beaten with iron rods. A distraught girl clung to other members in her group, and one man went up to her and slapped her hard. She cried in pain, and he would have kept hitting her had someone not intervened. The DJ who had taken a loan of Rs 4 lakh for his equipment, now just has the broken pieces to behold.

Among the attackers were four councillors of the Nallasopara municipal council. How could the TV crew just film it so nonchalantly? Only a handful of the goons have been arrested.

And these vandals have the gall to say ‘Jai Bhavani’ at the end of it, chanting slogans, and laughing after molesting women, hitting men, pilfering the jewelry and watches and even pocketing the samosas and cold drinks at the party. Why this dislike for V day celebrations? What can be achieved by the utter denigration of some citizens who just assembled to have a good time. Are there no other pressing issues—poverty, education, unemployment? Why leave this trail of destruction? At least stick to the ideology of Shivaji Maharaj if nothing else.

Shivrayanchya nakhachi pun sar nahi ahe tumhala. Kharach, parat ashya jantya raja chi garaj ahe...

At Kala Ghoda

Finally, I could go for Kala Ghoda Arts festival after two years. Anya and I reached CST station at 10 in the morning. After an exceptionally refreshing cappuchino we cabbed it to the Kala Ghoda intersection. And arrived just in time for the heritage walk.

The guide, a cheerful young lad, lead our very enthused group through Elphinstone College and the David Sassoon library and garden. We gazed at those Neo-Gothic and Gothic wonders, with their corinthian circles on pillars and steeples on the rooftop. Elphinstone college for one, had a most impressive facade and an even more beautiful lobby with antique chandeliers. And it also has a staircase that looks straight out of The Haunting.

The exterior of DS library resembled a quaint holiday home more than a typical heritage structure. The peaceful garden within its precinct was where I later came back to in the evening. A wooden spiral staircase on the second floor led to the terrace which afforded a pretty good view of the city.

And after that we somehow managed to lose our group. So we went to Westside instead and while away a good hour there. Then it was looking at all the displays on the Kala Ghoda Footpath. From paraphernalia resembling bollywood sets, cartoons on ghise pite Bollywood dialogues, to astrology, mehendi, shoes, bags, clothes, papier mache, puppets, nameplates, jewelery—and lots more. It was a very carnival like atmosphere. There were some exceedingly eyecatching sketches for sale-those of the Gateway of India surrounded by a flight of pigeons and another of Flora Fountain in all its minute details were truly unforgettable.

And then Anya decided to get her face portrait done. A scrawny old painter sketched a very lifelike pretty Anya! Our next halt was at cafe Samovar. Indeed, a delightful eatery at the Jahangir Art Gallery, we pigged out on parathas, green mint chutney, an assortment of pickles and dessert: strawberry parathas with ice-cream. Yes, we reacted just as you did when we came across the food item in the menu. But to our disappointment it was nothing exotic, just rotis stuffed with jam and served with halved strawberries and a huge scoop of vanilla ice-cream. But sinful nevertheless!

We then spent a quarter of an hour gazing at some totally inexplicable paintings. Only the nudes needed no deciphering. The art works on the terrace were mostly landscapes. One depicted a cart passing through a foggy street in Old Delhi—although done in warm colours it looked very desolate.

That done we visited Max Mueller where Arzan Khambatta’s ‘I’m Only Human’ stuff was on display. Hmm, unusual, eyecatching, some spikey, others round and all in shades of brown.

And there was this other exhibition dedicated to the ‘Crow’ that had poems, essays, animations and paintings truly capturing our dear scavengers in all their glory! We headed to K R Cama for the screening of Arth, an arthouse women-oriented flick, with a great performance by Shabana Azmi. I really liked the song “Tum itna kyu muskura rahe ho?” Hmm.

Then Anya left, and I went to David Sassoon for the Non-fiction writing talk by Darryl D’Monte, Dilip DeSouza and Dionne Bunsha. Discussion revolved around books, media, journalism, falling standard of newspapers and blogs. Amongst the hundred of things that were talked about, D'Monte remarked that the MMRDA itself is situated on a bend in the Mithi river and so is the NSE. That was part of his reply to a question concerning 26/7 amd development issues in the city. Pretty Scary.

Then I sat through a few short films that were part of the 'Beats, Bars and Air Guitars' theme dealing with music in the UK. Ho hum.

All in all a very fulfilling and a happy day.

The Year Of The Dog

Came across a horrifying news item today. Dogs are eaten in China. They are brutally butchered, most of them subjected to a slow and agonising death which supposedly tenderises the flesh and enhances the flavour of the meat.

As of now, the French SPA is crying out against this heinous crime. In fact, newspapers and magazines refused to publish pictures of the severed bloodied body parts of dogs as they were too shocking. It is speculated that thousands of dogs are consumed annually. Even Koreans eat cats and dogs. Dog meat is believed to have aphrodisiac and other beneficial qualities. Which weirdo would subscribe to this line of thought? And this practice is centuries old.

The mere thought of eating dog dumplings is enough to make me throw up. As if killings goats, cows, pigs and birds weren't bad enough, even those furry affectionate darlings have to come under the knife.

New Year At The Cross

I could not have imagined a more glorious way of welcoming the new year.

The five of us stood on a desolate cliff that overlooked the ocean. At a place called The Cross. And indeed, a pale white cross does stand out from the overgrown heather covering the hilltop. Known only to the locals, The Cross is the favourite haunt of couples. No wonder, Goa police keep patrolling the area.

We shivered in the wintry breeze. Nonetheless, we were glad to be away from the noisy carousing and come to this quiet spot that afforded such a breathtaking view. It’s a sheer drop from the cliff. There are rocks below, and then an endless stretch of the sea. Only faintly can you make out the horizon, the sky and the sea seem to merge. Like someone remarked, the night sky really looked like a blanket of stars.

And in the distance, were the lights of Dona Paul, then there was Vasco up left and a tiny row of lights lining the private beach at Cidade de Goa on the right. The landmass before us spreadout like an arc, and hundreds of fireworks erupted along that semi-circle.

Oh, the fireworks! I have never seen a more spectacular display! One after another, rockets burst into the dark midnight sky shimmering brightly in all the colours of the rainbow. Some glowed silver and golden for many seconds together. The sky became a riot of colours. Every time a rocket appeared, it would be like daylight. Some rockets flew high up and shone brilliantly before dying out, while others were not so luminous. And with each firework that exploded, we could hear a loud crackle up above.

If one rocket went off at the far right, another would appear in the centre and more would go off towards the left. Our heads turned and our faces shone in the light every time a firework hit the sky.

This went on for a full ten minutes. Afterwards, as everything turnded peaceful again, it was the sea that appeared to glow. A deep mysterious orange colour started to spread on the dark waters near our cliff. Actually, the water was reflecting the lights from the shoreline.

We sat down carefully and tried to dangle our feet over the edges of the cliff. The wind was bitingly cold. Now, we could only hear the waves. And even they seemed serene.

Time Stops

A million specks of sunlight
Fresh mountain air
Bramble and cherries
Rustling of leaves
The whistling wind

Twilight followed by sundown
A forest filled with crickets
Faces dappled with moonlight
Under a starry night sky