Fourty-five Minutes

There were fourty-minutes in that day
everything else grayed out
like a chimney blackened with soot
except where the flame shoots through

From beind the ledge
a snow leapard leaps
into the air
majestically
her eyes transfixed on something
bright and focused

Fourty-five minutes
of thrill
to watch
to be

Fourty-five minutes
to think together
dream a dream in color
sleep lightly, without fears
forget worries and dance
cook a meal
eat a meal, albeit very fast
watch a snow leopard leap
a tiger to defend its cub
a baby to be born
a room to be painted
a new wall to be broken and
light to enter
to worship
to get a foot massage
to go for a walk
or a run
in the rain
with cars honking
without a jacket

Fourty-five minutes
to wait for someone
for a phone call
to see a painting
to watch a flock of seagulls to land
to cuddle together behind a rock
to huddle together under a tree
to solve a riddle
to make a riddle
or to jump of the saddle and lead

If you had just fourty-five minutes
and you had to choose
will you watch a snow leopard leap?
Will you be a snow leopard leaping?

Miffed

I am miffed after missing the morning flight. Entirely my fault and without excuses. This is what happens when one gets by with so little sleep. Coffee is not a substitute for sleep no matter what they say.

Reminds me of the day i went swimming with the dophins in bahamas. Actually, come to think of it, it was not dolphins. They were sharks. And swimming is a euphamism for flailing about shamelessly trying to get out harm's way. and today is nothing like it. So, strike all of that.

So I am not in Rome, where I am supposed to be.

I am here.

And here is not where I want to be.

Paris, Bombay

Sitting outside, on a chair facing the Champs-Élysées
I get called "a bloody Paki" by a young kid
no more than twenty, on his way to unemployment
walking with his friends, as I smile.

(He had a shy smile, even as he tried to look mean
inviting a fight, while covering his own shame
I feel no rage, no urge to fight
just a mild disappointment at his confused geography)

It is a loaded word, this Paki
that conjured up a lot of emotions,
frustrations and memories
but the slight of the obelisque transforms it all

My parents' flat in Bombay, where I have spent
more time than any other address in all these years
had windows overlooking silhoutted mountains
and far away views of slow-moving trains

(It is a pity how I think so little of it these days
even though I remember those books I read on my bed
facing the ceiling, legs up in the air, balanced
against the wall, thinking of distant lands)

where in the morning the bai brought in the day's milk
and my mother, still half-asleep woke up
and started the noises of the household waking up:
milk cookers, rustling of the morning papers,
other evanescent noises of the morning,
yielding themselves furiously to purpose,
then by ten, abate their fury, I imagined,
to a daylong stupor breached only by servants

In the evening my father, an irascible man, drank
gin in the company of himself while I read
locked up in my room, listening quietly to
far away sounds of clicking metal of trains

(how strange all this is, sitting in a cafe outside Gare Montparnasse
thinking of Bombay where I read Somerset Maugham
writing about Montparnasse, truth and fiction, present and fact
all co-migled like a Bollywood movie set in Paris)

It is raining, outside the Louvre and the small starbucks
near the Nations where I nearly choke on a pastry,
before hurrying off to Pere Lachaise
to sit by Oscar Wilde and wither in the storm
Literally steps from Wilde, lie the Tatas
those doyens of Indian industry, right here in Paris
whose interest lie thousands of miles to the East
where my memories lie, bedraggled and suffocated

There are no simple ways to remember, except to just
let it all fall in place, one memory after the other
until nothing is left except a deck of cards of yesterdays
that precariously wait for a breeze from today

There are tears and rain and failures and betrayals,
Like the friendly shop keeper in Sakinaka who made paan
To the bus ticket inspectors in white uniforms
who tried to molest me when he mistook my general enthusiasm
for something else, I wonder if the boy who called
me a paki was ever molested, I wonder if you ever woke
up listening to the rumble of trains, if you ever understand
why the rains make me cry the way it does, especially
when it pours as if Gods themselves are crying

Sweet dreams, even if those are not meant to assuage
but the night is still young, even for this weather
Those boys have disappeared, and Bombay vanishes,
all the remains is an airport coffee and an uneaten steak.

Bullets Over Janpath 2

Bullet looked like a prune when he came off the train in the morning. The train stopped briefly before the platform at Muzafarbad giving the passengers false hopes, but giving enough time for the ticket-less urchins to jump off the trains and scoot away to safe horizons. Bullet hesitantly alighted at the station from his air-conditioned sleeper couch and looked hesitantly across the horizon for some one from the office to fetch him. There wasn’t anyone on the platform. At least anyone that looked as if he could be from the office. Old men in moth-colored pajamas skulked away to the door and women, with their heads covered appropriately as the religions dictated ambled about behind their husbands or other men practicing suffucnt husbandry skills and disappeared as well. There was a station master bloke who stood around waving the flag, part out of boredom and part out of practice, in his oddly fashioned uniform; he had traded his white trousers for a loose fitting white pajama to fit with the locals.

Dejected, Bullet headed for the door and almost bumped into the ever worried Parashuram Singh who had come with the express purpose of affording him a warm welcome befitting is circumstances but was late much to his own chagrin. Having observed that Bullet is unlikely to yell at him, he assumed a more relaxed posture and guided the overlord from the city on to the sufficiently fitted Ambassador car with red lights and other accouterments.

Slinking back into the cold comfort of its back seat with parashuram Singh, part orderly part confidante, two parts slime sitting beside him, Bullet had one thought, this too shall pass.

The well aerated yet genuinely impoverished surroundings where he was deposited without much apologies told Bullet that in spite of all the ceremony, he was generally looking at a time resembling of hell that he has read of, and the hell was going to be delivered to him in hand basket which was going to be carried by none other than Parashuram Singh, part orderly and so on. He sat on his rock hard bed and contemplated his armpits, which were of the texture of lime meringue pie and the color of crushed raspberries. His felt that his slinky puppet between his legs hurt as well, from sitting and lying in very tight underwear all night. There was nothing good that could come of anything except a hot shower. But in Muzafrbad, such luxuries as hot showers often came only attached with two or more pair of servant hands that did the necessary chores in a manually satisfying way.

The pair of hands in question belonged to Shaddo, the village bell-esque middle-aged woman, too young to be old and too old to be innocent. If that is confusing, just contemplate her breasts, quite oddly pear shaped and lovely peeking out as an outline from the flimsy duppatta and the worrylines on the forehead that he only saw when she occasionally lifted her head in his direction.

He viewed this with satisfaction. After all, there was something he could look forward to. Shaddo came in the morning, (he was later told) cleaned the house, did odd bits around the house and made his bath. And if he was so inclined, I mean not the type that shivered at the thought of a Muslim making his meals, Parashuram said, she could also make him his meals. If he was, on the other hand, caste-minded and so on, there could be a Brahmin maharaj whose services could be availed even though he was not sure what sort of availability he had.

Shaddo will so, Bullet immediately retorted, with the sort of over enthusiasm he was immediately ashamed of. Unlike with Coco, he was in his element, and Shaddo’s kajol-filled eyes and her expansive yet flat stomach made his slinky puppet raise its head a little bit.

Saab, Parashuram Singh warned in the sort of way slippery eels tend to warm urban cowboys in these parts, just so you know, her father is a butcher. Not the kinda girl you want any trouble with. If you are interested, we can arrange for others. He then flashed a yellowing smile.

Bullet stretched himself on the bed and thought of the vast vanishing skyscape of Washington DC. Then standing up, he carefully opened up the suitcase and changed into a lungi, freeing the tightened external organs in the process. Then settling back onto his rock hard bed, he smiled an officious half smile and said, arre Parashuram ji, what are you saying? I am a respectable Brahmin man. I am perfectly happy without such things.

Then having dismissed the slime with a nod and a half smile, Bullet got ready for the ablution.

Shaddo was quite a helper to Bullet. She cleaned and cooked, cooked and cleaned. And then every now and then glanced at Bullet as he sat about doing his business.

And he found the attention wandering as he read through papers on RDC and RCC.
RDC and RCC on the other hand held no such charms. As the ministerji correctly predicted, he found himself in the middle of the eyebrows of ferocious caste-warriors who sized him up and tried to kill him with sticky-sugary kindness and oily-shoily chicanery. Over mouthful of dal, which chewed with rice with an open mouth, hence dripping down back into the plates causing much revulsion to Bullet, the MD of RCC, lets call him MD 1 shall we, in order not to give so much importance that his caste equation with the Ministry already has given him, straightened up and muttered many a convincing arguments in his favor. Bullet tried to scoop out dal with his roti and solidified his hand with some thickly-sauced curried vegetables and then swallowed the whole concoction in silence. Between them sat a bottle of Indian-made foreign liquor that kept company for the whole spectacle as it has for ages.

Bullets Over Janpath 1

Bullet Balasubrmaniam was quite furious when he heard the news.

He was being transferred again.

But he could not react. The news came to him in secret; a little bird in HR whispered it to him. He waited for the meeting with the Minister for the official surprise. It was not such a big surprise to him what with his falling out with the Minister-in-charge. But where could they now transfer him which was worse than his current dead-end post/

It had been quite a few days since he came back from a trip to America lovelorn and sick, to the desk job that neither provided him with satisfaction nor showed any reason for hope for a better tomorrow. He could not tell him that his official trip to America had been a complete disaster so he did the next best thing; he made up stories on how truly busy he was and how they loved him there so much that he could not even tar himself away to visit new York.

“’ The president leaned to me and said, “Bullet, we need more people like you in the development agencies. If I tried to get you a posting, will you come?’ What can I say, hey? I said, I am so flattered, but will have to consider the needs of the family before I can commit,” Bullet told them.

They nodded in agreement, while inside they felt the stomach convulsions of envy. They contemplated their status as workers who are not sought-after in the West and therefore had no chance of making it out of the dark damp halls of files. So they did the next best thing they could do.

“Of course, Bullet saar. Family has to come first. Besides, look at our India. What a fantastic opportunity these days! These Americans are so envious of us, I, for one, will not go to America. Too much pride, you see. Besides, the missus is very happy in this set up. She can’t manage without at least three servants.”

Thus having inserted the existence of three servants (two of who are shared with other eight households and the third is permanently absent because of a salary dispute meant very little to him) thus raising the status, e made a mental note to start looking for assignments in the west.

“So true. Look at Paliwal’s brother-in-law’s chacha’s son," he said, "The same Paaliwal, Under secretary of Commerce, next in line for Chief Secretary. we are very close you see. Totally getting invited to the parties and all. Well, anyway, Paliwal’s nephew went to New York on a development assignment. I am hearing the man is struggling to survive. These agencies don’t pay well, yaar. I can’t risk it anyway. I keep getting offers from London to teach at the Economy school there. But you know, the minister can’t live for a day with me. But you could do
with a change, old chap.”

Every now and then, the memory of the lost love would come up like a burp from the deep inside of Bullet to escape into the world. His wife, Parvathi Ammal was just thrilled to have the husband back now that he was an internationally traveling-sort of officer.

But bullet knew better. He knew it was going to be another dead-end job until he found a ministry staffed with someone from his own caste. That is how things worked.

He was not sure how to react when he stepped into the Minister's office.

" So Bulletji," the minister began smiling a fake smile, "how are you these days? Hope the work is interesting." He flashed his betel-juice stained teeth and paused.

Bullet noticed with some discomfort that the thick gold chain around the minister’s dark and wrinkled neck meandered like a snake as the veins moved when he spoke. The minister farted rather noisily as he spoke without bothering to apologize.

"I am quite enjoying Minister saab. Quite thoroughly enjoying only. This ministry is fantastic, what with you leadership style and all. When I was in America, I was remarking to the President of the Agency for International Aid rehabilitation how your style is also American. "

The minister nodded and smiled in perfect self-satisfaction. People notice these things; he thought to himself, I try to be American in these matters. Then he picked a toothpick and started cleaning the gaps between his teeth while talking more indistinctly.

" I know Bulletji. I try as hard as I can. But I am not really American that way, too brash those fellows are. I am a bigger fan of how the Aussies are. When I was in Australia, I was so impressed with their quick decision-making. We Indians need some change only. Too much traditional vaditional, we are. Nahin?

"I totally agree. When I was in America… "

Minister cut him off with a slight wave of hand. This America thing was getting on his nerves. I need to get invited to visit America, somehow, he made a mental note to himself.

" So anyway, Bulletji, I was a new assignment for you, you know how things are." he tentatively began while wiping the back collar with a hand kerchief. Then on second thoughts, he left the kerchief right there and continued, "only you can do what we need you to do. You have the right amount of tact and vision. "

"Whatever you want me to do, Minister saab," a sinking feeling came over Bullet. it had to be really bad for him to begin with suc pep talk.

"I know that Bulletji, isiliye tho I am coming to you. We have had our past differences, but I am very impressed with your intellegence and hard work. We have a little problem with the Road Development Corporation. The new MD we have appointed is a cousin of the deputy prime minister. The chap wants more power. Too many PWD contracts you see. He wants to merge the RDC with Road Contracts Commission."

"Why sir?"

"Because RCC hold the tender power," Duh! The minister said dismissively.

"Ah. Minister saab, but what would you like me to do? I don’t know a thing about roads. "

"That is OK. You see Bullet, we need someone to take a short assignment and smooth things over. The guy running RCC is of the same caste as the finance minister and we can’t just move him out. We want you to go and find a nice happy way to get this done. What you say?"

Bullet exhaled deeply. The sun was setting. I will live to fight another day, he muttered to himself.

"Of course I will be thrilled to," he forced a smile.

"That's it then," the minister folded his hands and rang the bell for his PA.

Tokyo: Visiting the Meiji shrine

The shrine was a kilometer walk from the nearest road. I walked on the gravel path from the station to the main shrine in silence. The gravel path was wide and was framed by large ceremonial gates at some intervals. Around the path lush tropical woods stood guard to protect me from the urban assault just a few steps away.

The Shinto shrine itself was a simple impressive structure. It was a wooden courtyard which housed the main building. One could perhaps imagine that it resembled a rural Kerala temple. The courtyard had granite steps around it and upon it sat older men and women contemplating religion.

There were young women in simple kimonos tied together with cotton obis selling candles. They looked happy.

I am a loner. I have come to a temple as an atheist to pray. I have come to seek absolution from my sins and to pray for all that I love. There was a wide tree on the courtyard with a rich mintgreen capony of leaves. Upon it hung wooden plaques from believers asking for favors and thanking for favors granted. I too wrote a plaque and hung it.

I am happiest in these moments, when I am free from the burden of having to listen to my own voice. I have nothing to say and no words to craft. And no one to impress. I am neither rich nor poor, neither young or old, neither from the right nor left. I am just the truly insignificant me standing in front of the symbol of the universe contemplating what truly matters.

I like this stillness.

But like everything else, this cannot last.

I walked outside onto the crowded street and got into the middle of the shopping district. I was surrounded by throngs of young girls and women in really short skirts, tattoes and hair styles. Young men in crazy inventive hair styles and crazy attire followed them. Clothes and cell phones were on display at each shop window. I barely had to walk as I was carried by the crowds from one place to another.

Modernity.

Here I am alone, a gaijin with no identity.

With all the stress of the last few days and the most testing of work situations, I realize that what sustained me through that was the visit to the simple shrine.

We all need a little centering once in a while.

A little less selfishness.

And a need to pray more for the people we love.

Nippon Tekki

1.
It is easier to live a lie if more people believed in them.
2.
A sheep chooses boredom. a wolf faces loneliess. Which one would you rather be? make your choice wisely.

-----------------------
Four-hour dinner in a real hole-in-the-wall place in Enobu with co-workers. The last botle of sake came in an earthern pot.

Somewhere Over Mangolia

I am somewhere overall the vast expanse of Mongolia on my way to the Far East. The cabin is dark and comfortable. I tried sleeping but I feel restless. I do most of my thinking these days like this, reclining on an airline seat captive and restless, with compulsive focus. It is disconcerting and unsettling. Thoughts, unbeknownst to me, rise up from the undredged bottom of the mind and appear as if in a dream.

One afternoon, when my father was resting, I sat at the edge of his bed and asked him how his marriage had been, overall. He smiled and recited a poem by a lesser-known Malayalam poet called A. N. Kakkad. I don’t know anything about the poet but this poem I will remember forever. When Kakkad was dying of cancer he wrote:

Are there no memories? None at all?
Wearing and taking off bangles with patina* of so many colors
And greeting each other with so many faces
Being hurt and hurting each other,
How much bitterness did we drink up
Through these unknown paths of thirty years
Just to taste a few sugar cubes of peace?
Are there no memories, none at all?
There must be memories?
Otherwise how did we know that spring is here?

(Brahman women of Kerala wear brass bangles)

My father was dying of cancer and he knew it. Just like Kakkad, he had taken a real stock of his own life and he had decided to face his death stoically head-on. Whenever I think of him, I think of that afternoon Tuesdays-with-Maury moment we shared.

My father had been a poet and I am left with six notebooks of his poems. Other than pictures, the only things I have of him are two of his shirts and those notebooks. The life of a man reduced to a few props!

We had a difficult relationship. Like the poem above, we too drank a lot of bitterness just to taste a few sugar cubes of peace. He changed as he was approaching his end and redeemed himself. But the poem he was quoting characterized our relationship as well.

I never thought much of his poems and sometimes told him so when I was growing up. We used to have long furious debates about modern poetry at night when I was fifteen. We never managed to agree on anything. On poetry, on art, on politics but we debated everything. I don’t think he ever knew how to handle his son once he was no longer five. It must have been frustrating to have a son like me.

He once wrote a poem about coming home from work and watching his four-year old son dismantling a brand-new umbrella in the middle of the living room. He stood there watching this with great dismay as the son continued to take things apart quite unaware of the presence of his father. He was so angry and yelled, what are you doing? His son turned to him smiling and with great excitement said, “look dad, I am making a rocket to take you and I to the moon.” And all his anger melted away to a great broad smile.
I saw this poem recently when I was going through his notebooks. I wish I could take a trip with him to the moon. Or a trip to the center of the town. It doesn’t really matter where anymore. And I wish I could tell him it is a poem that moved me to tears and that he was not always wrong. I miss him so much.

Two days before he died, I phoned him. His kidneys were failing and I knew he didn’t have too much time. His speech was blurred and thinking unclear. At the end of the conversation, I said, “I love you, dad.”

He said, “Thank you very much.”

It turned out that those were the last words we spoke.

I love you dad. And thank you very much.

Barcelona: Travellers with real souls

1.
I burned as the day approached. I perspired under my calm exterior and well-ironed shirts. I was nervous. I wrote pointless letters and left them on kitchen table without posting.

There were no windows from where I was sitting. This was not entirely true. In front of me, a glass panel opened up to a cement wall abutting the road. I was thirsty and there were glasses of water in front. I didn't eat our food nor did I touch my drink. Later, I drank coffee with relish and observed people around me.

Then I wondered. Lately, I have been a curious witness to the wasting away of my own life.

2.
Maria Molina is a long way away from here, the old man said. Maria Molina is simply a state of mind, I countered. As Pessoa once wrote, to travel, you simply have to exist. So, I could be in Maria Molina walking through the office buildings searching of a tapas bar looking for a cool, endless drink of cerveza.

Here, where I sit, I can see the highway and construction projects. The earth is brown and freshly exposed. I am on the one side of a conference table. The woman who is speaking has large manly hands. I watch a train go by far away behind the highway traffic.

I searched for fellow travellers in that train past all what the eye could see.

Across the building, the port was calm.

3.
I woke up with a beautiful dream this morning. It was the sort of a dream that comes to you as if it was a giant cinema screen. For a long minute, I was in the dream and I forgot it was not real.

Then I woke up. Then I wondered if others in my dream dreamt the same thing.

4.
Tomorrow at eight, a whole wide desert will open up. I wonder if there are any stars visible from where the mountains look own at the valley.

converZation

don't apologiZe
mind is an unbending unyielding mirror
even against own judgement
it does not change but simply reflects feelings
like sky is reflected on still water

tongueZ lie
eyeZ refuse to see
earZ ignore warnings
but the mind just stands witness

so if you don't or can't
or can't or won't
there is no why can't or why won't
it is just is so

there will be licking of the wounds
and shedding of tears
but in the end
like a calm ocean surface
the storm will be hid within

without butterflies and lilies
there can't be a garden
don't cry over this barren patch
in the desert dates may yet grow
and a mirage will flourish

don't apologize
the mirage reflected in the mind
is just an expression of soul
reflecting its need

Mera Bharat Mahan - Bar Talk

Recently, I was in a bar celebrating the birthday of a friend. The bar was full of all sorts of people from all sorts of countries.

An Indian-looking couple walk in. They are young, in their early twenties. They are known to the birthday boy, it seems.

I acknowledge them, no more affectionately than I do everyone else.

- Uncleji, the guy says.

- who do you mean?, I ask.

- You, he says. She laughs.

- Nice, I say. And walk off.

A bit later, they are in no mood to let go.

- Where are you from? Aren't you Indian?

-Yes

- You don't seem to want to talk to us.

- Well, you are not my sister's son. So last time I checked, I am not your uncle. You were rude to call me that.

- In India everyone calls everyone uncle.

- We are not in India, are we? And no, no one calls me uncle in India. besides are you from India?

- he is really from Sri Lanka, the girl pipes in. She does not have an Indian accent - Where are you from? What are you? A Punjabi? A Bengali?

- Indian

- But where in India are you from?

- (I am from South India- But you don't look like a South Indian. Are you sure you are from South India? -No, I am from South Pole. - Why are you upset, this is what Indians do, when they meet each other, I have never had anyone upset at me for this. - May be I am not that sort of an Indian... - Why do you say that?)

- Sheesh, let it go. Where are you from?

- Delhi. But I have never lived there.

- Well then you are not from Delhi. You look like an Indian, but you are not. It takes a little more than watching ten Bollywood movies and eating some Indian food to be Indian. Sorry.

And I walk away.

My only regret. I was actually calm and not more condescending and icy. By the way, I deleted a bunch of other inconsequential barbs from them that is irrelevant. It was as if they saw some Indian stereotype sitcom and wanted to slot me in. The more I wouldn't play the game, the more they got frustrated.

I can't stand these second and third generation Indian-wannabe idiots. Get a life already.