Hello Goodbye

Said my goodbyes to Malaysia. Jalan Ampang and Bangsar will be soon forgotten, along with Penang, Taman Malawati, the Kelana Jaya line, KL central, Bukit Bintang and many other euphonic names that had been a part of my life for so many months. The country that opened its arms to me is now thousands of miles away. The sun that beat down on me will now be sorely missed. It doesn't rain like it used to, the drops of rain have shrivelled in size and I haven't heard the thunder in months. The termites won't knaw at my cupboard, the fungus won't grow on my damp clothes, and the taxi drivers won't nod and say "ok la!"

My office was on the 39th floor but it was dwarfed by the KLCC that stood next to it. Everytime I looked out my windows the towers stared down at me like a big bully. The annoying presence of the KLCC (Petronas towers) will also be missed. The smelly food courts will be missed, and the thousand shopping malls will be missed. The beautiful Penang beaches will be missed. My lovely Malaysian friends, who adopted me as their own will be missed.

Last night I dreamt that the city had left me behind and moved away. I opened my door and found that the city was gone. Whoosh! Not a soul in sight. That's what happens when you leave your cities behind. They begin to leave you too.

In between the lines

I scribbled roughly into my notebook,
Dark days daubed with charcoal,
The sun can be an underclerk,
In a worn out gray over coat.
On such days my alphabets,
Have a language of their own.

The realm of horizontal lines,
Here is a place for the reasonable mind,
To twist and turn every time,
To the whistle of a toy train,
Meandering to a certainty,
Through tunnels of circumstance,
And hills and vales of happenstance,
To the finality of a shape,
Precluding the possibility of millions,
And millions of other shapes.

Consummation is a warm handshake,
And a cloying smile,
That can be brushed aside,
In all its levity,
Nudged outside just as,
The million others that clamored,
For a chance at the limelight.

Unconquered

Unconquered

Thailand has never been conquered in history. Its palaces and temples glow with undiminished glory. The beholder is left speechless. There is so much to see in Bangkok alone. Buddhist temples can be found in every part of the city, each one more splendid than the other. The Chao Phraya River navigates the city like a serpent. It is an earthy brown in color and carries hundreds of boats across itself everyday.

There is more than one palace in Bangkok. The most famous one is the Grand Palace. It has been around for more than 200 years and kings have continually added to it. The Thai are proud of their kings. On the birthday of the present king Bhumibol (and in fact on every Monday) people wear yellow T-shirts. I was surprised to find a sea of yellow T-shirts at lunchtime on a Monday. You will find portraits of the present king on every street of Bangkok. They really love their king.

I spent most of my time at the Grand Palace. It is incredibly beautiful, and it takes a long time to see all of it. Every bit of the palace is just exquisite (as you can see from the photos). I haven’t seen anything like this before. It also houses the temple of the emerald Buddha. One isn’t allowed to take photos of the emerald Buddha. It is placed at a height on a pedestal that seems to cascade down towards the viewer. It is not a big statue, yet one is attracted to it because it is made of emerald.

I visited many temples while I was in Bangkok. I remember the temple called Wat Pho. It houses a reclining Buddha that is 46m long and 15m high. Besides the statue of the Buddha, I loved the stone statues of warriors placed outside the temple. They look proud and unconquered.

Where he had left

A boat came back to the quay,
The sun calls it a day,
The rain clouds drift away,
Gently. Sagged down like udders,
By the weight of,
Their own self-consciousness.

The old tree that clutches,
At the red earth, sucks in,
Every leaf that goes astray.
The red earth blows,
From her pouting lips,
To smudge all footprints away.
Flotsam that drifts into,
The unforgiving waters,
Is returned with the lowering tide.
No one can get away.

A contoured, cartographic face,
Navigable features and eroded gaze,
He came back to where he had left.
As he spoke, words that left,
His mouth went back in again.
The same way they came.
Memories won’t matter to anyone else.
Thoughts came hurling back at him,
Like a stone thrown skyward with vengeance.
His hands felt empty, yet laden with weight.
His practiced feet walked unswerving,
Tired yet continuing,
As he emerged unscathed,
From a journey around the periphery.

The King is dead. Long Live the King!

Malacca

The King is dead. Long Live the King!

And so it was that kings died and sprung back to life to die again. At the Straits of Malacca. The natives ceded power to the Portuguese. Who ruled for a century only to be driven away by the Dutch. Who signed a treaty in Europe, and transferred Malacca to the British as they withdrew to Indonesia. Then the British, who ruled for a long time until they scuttled away from the Japanese only to be reinstated again after World War II. Later when the British left, Malaysia decided on an innovative form of Monarchy. The rulers of the 9 states choose a King by rotation for a period of 5 years only. But that’s unconnected with the history of Malacca, and I won't digress.

Malacca is one of history's favorite ports. The straits of Malacca were ideal for trading ships to dock for a few days and trade their wares on the river that trickles into the straits. Malacca was famous for spice trade. Militarily too the port was of strategic importance. That is why Malacca has seen a lot of bloodshed.

The city of Malacca is built around a hill. On top of the hill is a chapel. Then around this decayed chapel are placed palaces, gardens and old houses. In recent times the city has crawled down the hill and spread farther and farther landwards. The sea of course has never capitulated to the city.

Those Hands

When you return to humanity,
With your wizened reasoning,
You can explain most everything.
The necessity of shriveled legs,
Of hunger, of crime, of social inequality,
Of unborn babies and your moral probity.

Yet those lips, those kisses,
And those hands that go astray.

You are the son of your father,
With his roving eyes and sensuality,
And your hands must seek and go astray.
Oh, the sweet baseness of your lofty thoughts,
They say your reasoning is just for protection,
A sort of explanation,
And despite all those words and lofty thoughts,
Those hands, they must seek, and go astray.

Communication

These are pictures from back in April from AT&T Park in San Francisco. We went for the opening night Pedros v/s Giants. The Giants lost the match, but the people stayed back and braved the chilly breeze from the bay. We wanted to see the fireworks, for it was opening night! Then after the match we went back to Tres Agaves (a place where I am drawn to almost every night) and had our Tres Margaritas with the nachos and chicken wings.

San Francisco is one of my favorite cities. It has roads that go up and down, wonderful parks, besides of course the beautiful bay. I love getting lost in San Francisco and wandering about like a nomad. I love the weather, the people, the day life, the night life and I have such great friends in San Francisco that I keep coming back.

Communication

Antonio: Noble Sebastian,
Thou letst thy fortune sleep, die rather; wink’st.
Sebastian: Thou doth snore distinctly;
There’s meaning in thy snores.
-The Tempest, Shakespeare


The sounds have been rinsed in water,
And the voices can be heard no more,
Now that we are on different sides,
Of the same surface,
Does my face look funny when I scream?
Do my words appear in little bubbles of air,
And kiss the surface like curious fishes?
Does my hair sway in the water,
Like the algae and waterweed?

I love you, and I think of you,
As our blood trickles through the surface.
Today I am the underside,
Tomorrow …

Little Paper Boat

Kodaikanal

This is a trip I did back in February, before I left Bangalore for good. Like most trips I make, this one happened unplanned and unforeseen. I just bought tickets online, packed my backpack and left.

The strange thing about Kodaikanal is that a jacket of fog covers the place every afternoon at 2 PM. This happens everyday, without fail, as if Kodaikanal had a perennial date at 2PM everyday with some maiden who prefers a foggy jacket. There are the usual touristy places – most of the much-touted ones (like Coaker’s walk) will let you down. You might try cycling around the lake in the center of Kodaikanal. But every now and then you will find solitude in beautiful wilderness. You might stand at the edge of a cliff and lean yourself on the shoulders of a wizened tree with gnarled roots. Like Munnar, this place is full of flowers.

I met this local in Kodaikanal. He speaks a little English, and I understand a wee bit of Tamil. He took me fishing to a lake in a remote area, 2 hours from Kodaikanal. We passed by his home and he showed me where he grew up (the little village in the photograph). He spoke about his life, his girl friends, his future and what he does on weekends. When I returned he called me several times on the phone. We could barely speak, as we hardly know each other’s language. I was supposed to send him the photos but I have lost his address. He doesn’t use email.


Little Paper Boat

She sat in a little paper boat,
And paddled into the Atlantic.
She said she had to live her dream,
As she applied her night cream.
I told her she would get wet,
So she wrapped herself in a towel,
She said she didn’t mind a shower.

Since she’s gone,
In her little paper boat,
(That can barely float),
The waves swim away,
From this desolate shore.
I turn towards the west,
My mind won’t rest,
My eyes look yonder,
For that little boat of paper.

O little paper boat,
Trying to stay afloat,
Bobbing up and down,
Amidst the mid-atlantic waves.
When she looks in her bag,
For her blue plastic cap,
Turn around in quick motion.
In the middle of the ocean,
She won’t notice your rotation.
Then skim across the ocean waves,
And bring her back to me.

Persistence

Munnar and Thekkady

These pictures are from a trip I did back in February. I traveled across the entire district of Idukki in Kerala. I did the beautiful hill station of Munnar, the Eravikulum National Park, the remote villages of Nedumkandam and Ramakalamettu, the Periyar Wildlife Reserve, parts of Thekkady.

It's been a while since I did the trip but surprisingly my memory of the people and places hasn't blurred with time. I still remember the friendly local with the bushy moustache who sat next to me in bus. He didn't speak a word of English but explained everything through sign langauge. I remember the boatride on Periyar river at the crack of dawn. I remember the spicy fish curry I had for lunch and the look on the face of the hapless french lady whom I mistook for the watchman and asked for a matchbox. I remember the mountain goat that stood in front of me and refused to acknowledge my presence and the tea gardens that from a distance look like comfortable green carpets.

I might go back again someday. I have heard the Kurunji, which blooms every 13 years, is a sight to behold.

Persistence

As I chased my shadow in the darkness,
I slipped and fell through the elevator door,
And I have lived here ever since.
Everything stays the same in here,
As we go up and down the tower.
At an arbitrary floor we stop for a while,
To let summer flies inside.
They are welcome to stay,
Hum to the tune of the disenchanted fan,
That breathes out a wind of monotony,
In a black and white persistence.

Beside me is a board of buttons,
Like happy faces that smile at each other.
Each one speaks a different dialect,
Of a foreign language,
But I am sure they say the same thing.
Above the board the speaker coughs and sputters,
The same song over and over again.
Even when I question the speaker I get,
The same words, the same sounds,
Through dayish night or nightish day.

The light shines with a bored brightness,
And if you stare at it for hours,
Shapes lose their shape,
And sizes lose their size.
The floor plunges to an abysmal depth,
And the ceiling jumps to an unimaginable height.
It is then that I hear the knock on the door,
Of the stranger waiting outside.
Within the elevator, I exist,
Locked and trapped in measured space.
He always waits outside.