Lord Bruno

Mighty Bruno,
Lets out a growl so low.
He is lord of his alley,
And wont let anybody pass by,
Without the close scrutiny,
Of his condescending eye.

His only weakness,
A momentary glimpse of meekness,
Is a bowl of milk,
Or a delicious mutton bone.
No sharing with his ilk,
His lordship will have it alone.

The neighbor’s new dog,
Would rather sleep like a log,
For each time he slyly,
Tries to step out,
Lord Bruno quite emphatically,
Barks, “You lout!”

At night is when,
In Bruno’s majestic den,
A primal calling,
Nudges his lordship from slumber,
He starts his incredible yelling,
Rending precious sleep asunder.

(Photos - His lordship, My Beautiful Granny)

Free Spirit

Free spirit,
Like flowing wine,
Take the shape,
Of this glass of mine.

Roll with your fingers,
A mysterious charm,
To your gypsy eyes,
Do I disarm.

A look of wildness,
In your eyes,
A beast within,
For freedom cries.

A dance untamed,
A song so free,
Cast a magic spell,
That enchains me.

Little Red Kite

Little red kite,
Bobbing up and down,
In the big blue sky.

White clouds,
Dodge birds,
That scatter about.

Red kite,
Pulls hard,
At the little boy.

Look,
There goes the little boy,
To the sky.

(Photo - With my school friend Pratik in a roadside restaurant in Singapore.
By the way, if you have a taste for short stories, try http://prawncurry.blogspot.com)

In the café

There isn’t much to say. The voices in the café are distant and incoherent and the music too low. But then the silence is just as annoying to my ears as loud noise can be. Which is why I speak. They are fillers, more like bubbles in the air, which the cartoonist forgot to type words in. But that will do for now.

Her gaze isn’t very reassuring. It is an entreaty and a question. It speaks louder than the bubbles I draw in the air. It makes the sound of a ticking clock waiting to strike the hour. Everytime I look away the clock doesn’t move. It waits for me. And each time I look at it, it starts ticking again.

Even the coffee smells of something else. Somebody has put too much anxiety in it along with sugar. I try to drink it with apathy, but it grips my throat and forces me to consider this and that. I smile at her and pretend that nothing is wrong. And she smiles back at me pretending nothing is wrong.

There isn’t much to say anymore. But there is a little hope. That she will walk out of this café and find herself waiting outside for her. That she will smile back at me through the glass door and perhaps forgive me.

Photo: Vijay at a Starbucks in Palo Alto

Hypocrisy

Non-conformism has been my mantra for sometime now. When it comes to tradition or convention I always ask why. Social mores and customs lie neglected under a pile of clothes in my wardrobe. What society thinks of me, doesn’t really bother me. I have always been an outsider anyways, looking at society like one looks at fishes in an aquarium. Every now and then something happens and I plunge into life with a splash and am surrounded by it, but that is so rare. Those rare instances are very memorable, but that’s not what I am talking about.

I am talking about hypocrisy. Of how I pretend to be just what I am not. How non-conformism fades away every time life comes calling. It is there somewhere inside me, in some part of my body. Its physical form is not known, and its chemical composition is ambiguous. It was passed on to me when I was born – like a birth defect. A part of it came from my father and the rest from my mother. And now it is a part of my identity. It is the way I look, I think, I act even though I seldom betray it to the world.

It is my deep love for tradition. For that old house where my grandmother lives. My love of that smell from the kitchen when my mother cooks. It is my respect for my grandfather’s principles and my father’s sense of dignity. It is the memory of that winding staircase that leads to a place called home. It is my love for my mother and all her beliefs and superstitions. It is the smell of incense sticks and earthen pots. It is the sound of dhak (drums) and conch shells. It is my love of art and poetry. It is my love of values. It is my deep-seated respect for tradition and convention.

Photos - The Udaipur Lake Palace

Blue Eyes

Wish I had blue eyes. Beautiful blue eyes. Cobalt blue eyes. Blue eyes that look like the ocean. Where waves of emotion would wash against the shore, splash themselves on distant rocks and become droplets and mist. Blue eyes as blue as the sky spread over high mountain peaks that tower over clouds. Proud blue eyes so happy in their blueness.

Wish I had such blue eyes, that you would love me for them. That you would look into my eyes and lose yourself in them. That you would ask no questions. Blue eyes that would enchant you mesmerize you. Blue eyes that you would never forget. That you would dream about. That you would think about all day, so far away and miss my blue eyes. That you would long for them. Blue eyes that you would see each time you close your eyes.

Wish I had blue eyes that would say all that I have to say. That you would look into them and know just what I mean. Blue eyes that say so much more than words. Blue eyes like a thousand pictures. Blue eyes as sweet as music. Like the song of birds at dawn. Blue eyes like rain drops. Blue eyes so blue that they would shimmer from a distance. That you would see them from far away and come running into my arms.

Impermanence

When I was lying there,
Where the stars shone brightly,
And the moon,
Gazed back at me,
A cloud went by.

She paddled her feet,
On rippled water,
The waves rose up,
To greet her,
Before deciding to subside.

A sweet song,
Hummed its way,
Into my ears,
Before it was hushed,
By a careless smile.

A moment passed,
Before my eyes,
I held the moment,
For a while,
And let it fly.

Octopus' Garden

I'd like to be under the sea
In an octopus' garden in the shade
He'd let us in, knows where we've been
In his octopus' garden in the shade.
-The Beatles

It is a serene feeling, to be among the sea lions at fisherman’s wharf. They make strange noises and slither on top of each other. Noises that sound like grunts or groans. It is a language without words. And hence its meaning is so clear.

I have come to fear words. Words mean different things to different people. That shows how easy it is to misunderstand someone. Sometimes I think it is best to be silent. The language of eyes, smiles and expressions sends messages so universal that they are easily understood. The sea lions make me realize that. I can spend hours gazing at them.

Sweet Simplicity

Will you teach me,
The sweet smile,
Of your soft sensuous lips,
And free my mind,
Of thoughts,
So futile?

Will you rid me,
Of my reason,
And that insufferable,
Miserable question mark,
That doubts,
Everything beautiful and pure?

Will you tell me,
How to live,
How to wonder,
And be amazed,
At this glory,
All around me?

Will you save me,
From my mind,
All its intelligence,
And shameful arrogance?
Will you fill me,
With sweet simplicity?

Hide and Seek

A strange interplay,
Of light and shade.
Leaves cast their shadows,
On my face.
Wind whispers softly,
Into my ears.

Rollover on my back,
Watch the clouds,
Swim about in the air.
In the corner of my eye,
I see you standing there,
But as I turn around,
You are gone.
Who are you hiding from?

A zephyr stirs up,
A bunch of leaves.
Each fluttering,
Shimmering, glimmering,
Golden leaf,
Happy in itself,
Carefree, full of glee.
And then a glimpse of you,
A fleeting glimpse,
Gone in a blink.
Who are you hiding from?
Show yourself to me.

(Photos - A lake in Redwood Shores, Statue of Liberty )

Blinded By You

Can’t get you,
Out of my head.
So dazzled,
By your whimsical ways.

Can’t comprehend,
Your setting me aside,
Yet your earnest longing,
When I am not beside.

Can’t see,
That self-evident truth.
These days,
I am blinded by you.

(Photos - From Empire State Building, Times Square, and Broadway)

Central Park

It’s been a while since I read the book. But I remember that I had sketched vivid images in my mind while reading it. “The Catcher in The Rye” means different things to different people. Over the years lots of people have sworn by this book – people both famous and infamous. The book has had an impression on me too, so add another one to the list (except I am still very ‘unfamous’). I had identified with the book so deeply at one point of time that I would imagine myself as Holden Caulfield walking down the streets of Manhattan and sitting in Central Park by the night.

But then it has been a while. That the images still lay intact in some deep recess of my mind came as a surprise to me. It came back to me suddenly as I walked down 5th Avenue somewhere near the crossing of 51st Street. I was alone on the street, and it was crowded as ever. Snow was melting around me, and the slush on the street made it difficult to walk. And then it came to me, like an epiphany, that it was just around the corner. A strange eery feeling I cannot explain. I walked on delirious with excitement. It had to be there, and there it was. Shining dizzily, dressed in snow. My Central Park.

It was all slippery, sloppery and I flip flopped several times trying to keep my balance. A carriage passed me by, pulled by one of those big hairy horses. A golden statue looked on at me with a sly smile. Children slid by on sleds and parents nodded approvingly. Lovers slipped their hands around each other and stared at the tall buildings in the distance. Freaks jogged in the snow (yes freaks, just imagine jogging in the snow in that kind of weather!). Where was it, where was the lake? There it was almost frozen. Where were they, the ducks? There they were, some of them, cringing in the cold, under the bridge. Is it real? Am I dreaming? My mind was going wild – Penn Station, Edmont Hotel, Greenwich Village, Grand Central Station, Broadway, 5th Avenue, Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was all in the book wasn’t it? And where was that “Little Shirley Beans” record that he had dropped that night when he walked out of the Wicker Bar and roamed all around Central Park. Where did you drop it Holden? It broke into pieces. Did you grab them all and take them with you Holden?

Where was Phoebe?

I felt so damn happy all of a sudden, the way old Phoebe kept going around and around . . . It was just that she looked so damn nice, the way she kept going around and around, in her blue coat and all.

There I was, all alone. Like I have always been. There I was walking down the street away from it all. The golden statue looked on. It was cold.

Gem of the Ocean

It is a play I saw last Friday. Written by two-time Pulitzer Prize winner August Wilson, the play is set in the year 1904, in Pittsburgh. The play is very engaging, almost a fairy tale. The protagonists are Afro-Americans primarily. Naturally it touches on topics of racism and the disillusionment of Afro-Americans after the abolition of slavery. The situation in which we find the characters is nothing short of extraordinary. Factory workers have gone on strike because of low wages. A black man drowns himself in the river in front of a crowd of people to show that he hasn’t stolen a bucket of nails. There is news that afro-americans in Alabama are undergoing extreme persecution and have no way out.

In the middle of all these extraordinary events is a small set of Afro-americans that have seen so much in life that nothing seems to surprise them anymore. Hardship is so much a part of their existence. Misfortune follows them at every step. And it is this that brings them together – a strong feeling that they have nothing but themselves to depend on.

A young man from Alabama finds his way to Pittsburgh and is sucked into the city’s vicious grip. At work his employers cheat him and pay him less, and at home his landlord charges him much more than market rate so he just can’t make ends meet. But all that is fine, until he does something wrong (steals a bucket of nails and unknowingly causes the death of another). His guilt consumes him and he needs his soul washed. This is the beginning of the story. Through a series of events that changes everybody’s life, the young man undergoes a metamorphosis. He finds a cause to live for. He finds himself.

The play is so natural and real. It is easy to put oneself in the shoes of anyone of the characters. It is easy to understand their helplessness, to admire their courage and their perseverance that makes them take every setback in their stride and strive on towards true emancipation and equality. More touching to me is the fact that I could not point fingers at anyone. Everyone is justified in his/her actions. Even the person that brings on suffering to this group of afro-americans is black himself. And he too is merely obeying the law. His eccentricity and his arrogance are forgivable if you take into account his background and ideals in life. He is after all a self-made man and a man who knows his job and does it well. Everybody is so caught in a web. From an angle it seems society is doing all right and yet from another it seems everything is disintegrating into something uncontrollable. The plots and sub plots merely play a side role. The essence of the play is something that hasn’t even been said explicitly. I found it brilliant.

Photos - Poster of Gem of the Ocean, Denver Center for Performing Arts, Larimer Square, 16th Street

Colorado Rocky Mountain High

The chill seems to follow me around. I missed my flight last weekend and was stuck in the blizzard in the northeast. Manhattan was frozen stiff and central park was a pearly white. It was cold there but Denver is worse. They recorded –13 degrees Fahrenheit! So today when I got ready for my trip to the Rocky Mountains, I wore 5 layers of clothing and an optimistic grin.

As we drove westward the altitude began to increase steadily. The Red Rocks Amphitheatre at an elevation of around 6400 ft was a sight to behold. People told me Red Rocks held the hallowed distinction of being the best natural amphitheatre in North America. The Beatles had played here. U2 will play here tomorrow. Some of the biggest bands of all time have played here. Gigantic Red Rocks (sandstone in composition) were the prominent feature of the landscape. Geologists would point out that the rocks of this area predate the Rockies and are hence not foothills, but actually “Ancestral Rockies”.

Moving on, we made our way through Clear Creek Canyon, an area marked by three frozen rivers and plentiful alpine forestation, into a snowy peak known as the Loveland Pass. Its elevation was a mighty 11990 ft. This was the great continental divide. The water on one side flowed into the Pacific Ocean and on the other side flowed into the Atlantic Ocean. The wind roared straight into the face at speeds of 50 miles an hour, and the conifers was conspicuous by their absence. This was the Tundra region where the vegetation consisted primarily of stunted shrubs on the leeward side of the slope. Nevertheless, the view was nothing short of spectacular.

Our next stop was the town of Breckenridge, known mainly as a skiing destination. On our way we came across a number of skiing spots buzzing with activity. High up in the Rockies, Breckenridge had a spectacular skyline studded with beautiful mountain peaks. The streets were packed with tourists who made a beeline for souvenir shops and restaurants.

Sometime later we turned back and crossed the Continental Divide again through what was touted as the longest and highest car tunnel in the world. The conifers bunched together so closely- evidently there was a lot of water and nutrients in the soil. Besides gold. Isn’t that what Colorado is famous for? The third great gold rush led to the creation of towns such as Idaho and even Denver. There are apparently 20000 gold mines in the region. We made a stop at one and marveled at the deposition and concentration of gold in the mines. Created in the 19th century the mine was carefully planned and rich with history. In those days miners (most miners in a mine were part of a single family as it was difficult to trust everybody with gold!) would labor for days with manual implements. Then came the drills, and later more advanced drills. Despite all the technical advances mining is very exhausting and miners are known to have notoriously short lifespans. It is estimated that around 75% of the gold in the region still lies untapped. The gold mining industry is dormant, and the euphoria is long gone. But with the gold prices rising, who knows?

Back in my hotel room everything is warm and cozy. The scenery around me however is not so great as my clothes lie in utter disarray. When I close my eyes I am transported back to Loveland pass. That scene won’t be easy to forget.

Photos - Red Rock Amphitheatre, Red Rocks, Photos from Loveland Pass, Skiing

Balcony Circle

We managed balcony circle seats. The view wasn’t all that bad. Craning my neck I could see the musicians waxed to their seats like statues from Madame Tussaud's. The curtains were drawn and people of all kinds of shapes and sizes were moving purposefully into their seats. All of ‘War Memorial Opera House’ seemed to be stooping forward precariously towards the stage. Before the balcony caved in with the weight of the audience still pouring in from different sides, the curtains decided to part. And there it was, like a painting of Vermeer, staring at us from the stage. Until it all came alive – with the familiar theme track. The dancers began to pirouette on their toes defying gravity at will.

Prince Siegfried floated in, as people made merry on his 21st birthday. They danced and entertained him. Hand in hand, so coordinated and balanced. Siegfried was obviously having a lot of fun, getting drunk on wine. Until Queen Mother paid him a visit and asked him to choose his bride by the morrow. His picture perfect life was now crinkled with uncertainty.

And so he walked away, to a lake, with a crossbow in his hand and came upon a flock of swans. Wantonly he aimed his crossbow at a swan but he couldn’t believe his eyes, as the swan transformed into a woman. A woman so beautiful and enchanting, like he had never seen before. She was Odette and Siegfried was madly in love from the moment he saw her. Thereafter Siegfried was passionate and earnest, he danced like a man possessed. Odette trode with caution at first, but she was swept off her feet and fell helplessly into his arms before she could realise what she was doing.

Swan by day and maiden by night, Odette’s life was governed by the spell of evil Von Rothbart. The story now had all the elements of a melodrama. The forces of good and evil, the element of love and ofcourse the suspense of what was to be. The balcony circle didn’t exist anymore. Nor did the thousands of people of different shapes and sizes. Prince Siegfried was being deceived and we all felt bitterly against Von Rothbart and his machination. I felt transported into the story – a character from the time of Siegfried, Odette and Von Rothbart. It all seemed so true – the swans, the villain, the story. It took some loud applause to rouse me out of my reverie. But why did they all have to die? Why couldn’t it have been otherwise? Outside the sun decided to take his leave for the day, but the ballet performance wouldn’t leave me alone. I wandered away in quest of my own lake of swans.

Everytime ...

Everytime I feel larger than life,
You set me down,
Put me back to where I belong.

Everytime I walk on air,
You nasty thing,
pull me down, will you?

Fate, I'll get even with you, someday...

More wild animals!

Travelogue Part 3 - Kaziranga

It feels strange on elephant back, towering over the rest of the animal kingdom. For the last 15 minutes we have waddled through blades of elephant grass that are so tall that they come all the way up to my waist, even though I am seated atop the elephant. Daylight hasn’t broken into the sanctity of the quiet night and the forest is a blur of ghostlike images, almost magical in the moonlight. The mahout (handler) of the elephant soundlessly guides the elephant to the right, but it all looks like acres and acres of elephant grass with some trees, here and there, reaching out to the sky like outstretched hands of a man buried under the swampy land trying desperately to come out. The mahout tells me that they burn the grass in springtime so that new grass can grow. Until then it is so easy to be lost here.

A solitary owl ensconced on a tree is surveying the forest. It looks at me with sharp eyes, as though to question me, “What brings you here?” Suddenly the forest is abuzz with noise. The high pitched “caw caw” of birds that I cannot see. We hear some wings fluttering. It is like a burglar alarm that just went off, and the forest is now aware of us. After a while it is silent again. The elephant waddles on into a small pond of water, unperturbed by all this. We sight a herd of wild elephants on the other side of the pond. The mahout tells me it is rare to spot a herd of wild elephants. We spot an elephant with beautiful long white tusks, and when it makes to move towards us it is a real cause for concern. Even the mahout straightens up, his face tense with concentration. But then the herd leaves to go and we move on.

It is then that the mahout points towards something moving in the bushes. We move towards it as fast as we can. The elephant expertly circles around it. The sun peeks at us from the east and the light shines through the bush and reveals two rhinos busy having breakfast. So this is the famous one-horned rhino from Kaziranga. Muscular and majestic. If it wanted to, it could ram into the elephant and knock us all down. Fearlessly the mahout moves in closer and furiously I work with the camera and gulp in as much of what I see, as I can.

The rhinos gaze back at us. The pair is not alone – there are more rhinos hidden in the bushes. The horns move up and the heads along with it. The rhinos won’t budge from their stance. The elephants hold their ground. The silent tussle continues for an eternity. It is a strange power struggle where so little is spoken but so much is said. I look on as the sun finally decides to emerge, shedding colorful light on an incredible scene, on an unforgettable day.

Travelogue Part 2 - Omnibus

“What time does the bus leave?”
She looks up at me and sees a face that doesn’t quite fit in with the people in the bus, the squalid interiors of the bus and the city of Shillong outside. In her lap is a book of tickets in which she mechanically scribbles the amount and tears off the receipts. Around her, three locals stand in abeyance, awaiting her next order.
She replies absentmindedly, “The bus will leave now. And that will be 60 bucks”. She hands me the receipt as I fumble for the money in my wallet.

“Now? Do you mean right now?”

“Yes!” she replies and dismisses me from her thoughts with a wave of her hand. The bus ride to Guwahati is good business and one can’t waste one’s thoughts on nosey tourists such as me. I would be getting down at Jorabat (on the border of the states of Meghalaya and Assam) and then change buses to go to Kaziranga, Assam. On the map the road looks fairly easy to navigate and if I were to calculate distance and assume an average speed of 60 km per hour it works out that the total duration of my transit would be around 6 hours and I would be able to reach kaziranga by 3pm.
But the map doesn’t show hairpin bends and treacherous mountainous roads. Nor does it show elevation, proclivity and declivity.

The seat next to me, which is now occupied by a squint eyed gentleman with a stony sphinx-like face. The humming of the engine and the cool, fresh air of the mountains make my eyelids feel very heavy. Every now and then through the corner of my eyes I check if my backpack is still with me. I notice that the bus is now very crowded and the engine is sputtering like a dying man with internal injuries.

A few hours later I change buses. Now I am in Assam. The people look different. They speak a different tongue. The seats are cramped and nobody seems to understand English. The man next to me with a royal moustache and an all-knowing expression is looking at me with suspicion. I ask him about where I should get down. And he tells me so much more, in his broken English and charming style. He tells me about how he goes every weekend to meet his wife in Nagaon. About his work in Guwahati. The politics of Assam. The economy. His childhood. He just loves to talk and I to listen. When we get down at Nagaon (where I need to change a bus), he offers me a lift in a ‘cycle rickshaw’ and invites me to his home for tea. He even talks about meeting me in Mumbai and his business plans if I am ‘interested’. I thank him, as he writes me his phone number in a piece of paper and asks me to call him ‘anytime’. And then he waves at me from the ‘cycle-rickshaw’ for the last time I will ever see him.

The next bus I change into is even more cramped. Next to me is a hefty man and we can barely sit. I crane my neck out the window and gasp for fresh air. The child in the seat behind me won’t stop yelling. I am surrounded by a plethora of human beings piled up all around me. I can feel a hand near my neck and notice a small child squeeze between the seats and sit almost on my lap while I hold on to my backpack with my life. Somebody is stooping above me and I can feel the enormous pressure of the people around me that is trying to jettison me out of the bus through the narrow window. The bus crawls along like an old mule pulling a heavy load.

The cheerful man next to me is smiling despite all this. I venture to ask him when I would reach Kaziranga. And he tells me about his life and times, and his family problems and the wonderful history of Assam. The trouble is I can barely understand his language. But he speaks slowly and often repeats the words for me to help me understand. We get along fine. The language of human beings is so universal. The lives are so similar. The problems and issues are the same. Just minor adjustments here and there.

By the time I reach Kaziranga it is dark. My watch reads 6pm. The air is foggy, my body is aching and the memory of my co-passengers still lingers on.

From top - Two sail boats in the Bay of Bengal, Dida - my beautiful granny

Travelogue Part 1 - Time Warp

Time started to whiz past from the moment I landed in Guwahati. Every time I glanced at my watch I wondered how fast the minutes were disappearing. Even the winter sun was in a hurry to go down making it so difficult for me to stick to my plan of reaching Shillong before sunset and making good use of the remaining bit of light. The cab driver tried his best to help me. Like everything else he too was in a hurry – he wanted us to reach Shillong in time, dead or alive. But as fate would have it, when we reached the gloomy and sleepy town of Shillong, negotiating the many perilous bends and turns in a road that seemed to go straight up to heaven, it was already dark.

Determined to make amends for the lost time, I roused myself early next morning from the shady hotel room, and plunged straight into the chilly foggy morning outside. Reached the bus station before everybody else and booked a ticket to the mystical town of Cherrapunjee – the wettest place on planet earth with an average annual rainfall of 12000mm. Situated in the northeastern state of Meghalaya, India, Cherrapunjee is not half as crowded and popular as the capital city of Meghalaya, Shillong. Consequently it is a traveler’s delight especially in the month of December when it rains less and most people find it too cold to travel in Meghalaya.

Sometime later I was in a rickety bus, speeding to different nooks and corners in the mountains of Meghalaya. Every corner had a spectacular view and a very unpronounceable name in the Khasi language. I went to the dark and dank Mawsynram cave, the enchanting Nah Ko Likai falls, and numerous viewpoints, lakes and gardens. When I looked at them through binoculars, the villages in the hills of Meghalaya, appeared to be scattered randomly, with no motorable roads connecting them. They were blissful islands of human habitation, isolated and so aloof.

The beautiful people of Meghalaya like to spend their lives smiling at each other, chewing betel leaves. To them the world seems to be speeding away from one place to another, in a perpetual hurry. They merely look on and wonder why all this haste. I too had to leave the next day. So they smiled at me and said ‘Khublei’ (Khasi for ‘God Bless’).

From top - Nah Ko Likai falls, Mawsynram cave, A lake in Shillong