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.

Fallen

Pondicherry

Pondicherry is a quaint little place with a lot of empty spaces. The roads are like regularly spaced alphabets in a french magazine, with names like Rue Romain Rolland, Rue Labourdonnais. The buildings are like starched white clothes, neatly pressed. The branches of trees are perennially green and laden with flowers. They adorn the houses but are oddly reminiscent of the matted hair of hippies and ascetics alike.

Pondicherry was the home of Late Sri Aurobindo, extremist turned spiritual guru, erudite scholar and an extraordinary gentleman in his own right. Pondicherry was also a french colony and is still home to a lot of French people. It is vibrant with culture, replete with jazz music, good food, wine and a lot of joie de vivre.

The best bit about Pondicherry is that the sea lurks in the background. They haven't got her yet. In the evenings she complains of indigestion but during the mornings she is fine. They think it is the tides. Large stones and boulders keep her tied. At night she is a mad lady who laughs hysterically and her laughter rings through the city. When I was there, I heard her sob silently.

Fallen

Let my life now merge in the all-pervading life.
Ashes are my bodies end. Om.
- Isha Upanishad

Hush, it’s the tentative tiptoe,
On a burning terrace. A sultry surface,
That singes every step into a muffled sigh.
Hop, skip, scuttle but before she leapt.
She stood at the edge and surveyed,
The cloudless sky for a hint of remorse,
A tinge of doubt, ever so slight,
Was there nothing in his eyes?
His head had sagged back like a punching bag,
Wagged like a tail from side to side.
She had watched it, trailed it,
Searched it for a sign.

“I give you these wings, you may fly.”
She spread her wings,
And noticed the world down below.
Those ants that race up and down the anthill,
Nameplates hang from their necks,
Faces are pinned to them and on their shoulders,
They bear a lonely burden.
She squished them too, with her thumb.

The gushing winds said that she had clutched,
At the sky. Her open palms revealed loose strands,
Of hair and a fistful of secrets,
That still clung to her hands and danced midair,
Like marionettes, to a melancholy tune.
She rolled, rolled, rolled in the air,
Like a cigarette rolled around her powdery,
Puffy soul. Roll some more.

Time would flow as blood from a wound,
That wouldn’t heal, but the blood had clot,
One day, when the curtains refused to be swayed,
By the plucky breeze at the windowpane.
Since then it hadn’t bled.
The kitchen tap still runs,
The saucepan is on a constant flame,
And the familiar smell still finds its way out,
To the inviting skies. As she fell, she smelt it too,
And rolled in her timeless feathery bed.
The wind was a conch shell to her ears.
He spoke of the patient sea and rows of,
Golden sunflowers and green paddy fields.
She closed her eyes and smiled,
When her fingers brushed the leaves.

She rolled, rolled, rolled in the air,
Like a cigarette rolled around her powdery,
Puffy soul. Roll some more.

Mystic Himalayas

The Intractable Yak

At Changu(Tsomgo) Lake, I rode the intractable yak. He was big and bulky. My friends would agree, he was as stubborn as me. When he was pulled to the right, he moved to the left. When he was pulled to the left, he dragged himself and everybody else to the right. At one point of time he almost dropped me into the frozen lake. The other yaks had all reached their destination. But the intractable yak chose to stand his ground, as if he had a point to make. What global cause did he champion, I couldn't quite guess. He merely looked at the Changu lake and shook his horned head. He was rather stylish in his obstinacy. There was something regal about his adornments, his gait, even his hairstyle all gelled up and styled like Elvis perhaps.

But the intractable yak had met his match. If he wouldn't move, neither would I budge from his back. After careful consideration, he came to a decision. He reasoned that he could champion his noble cause after he had dropped me to my destination. So he walked slowly by the lovely Changu Lake and even nodded his head in agreement with whatever I said.

A Prayer

Aditi,
Make the leaves shiver with your breath,
Of cold numbness and frigid solemnity,
Catch the moon undulating in a pool,
Of gentle nuances and half gestures.
Hear the river bubble upon rocks,
And roar in agony at every bend.

I still see you standing there,
Knee deep in water,
Cotton clothes that smell of cotton clothes,
Duly soaked, washed, rinsed, crinkled,
And baked in the sullen, smoky sun.
Still see the fishes around you,
That kiss the watery surface of moss-coated rocks,
And the drowsy, dewy-eyed breeze,
Laden with frangipani, bunches of frangipani,
Carefully woven into necklaces, wreathes and bands,
And recklessly stamped.
Those whorls of hair,
Pleated, permed, frizzed, curled, crumpled, lumped,
Flowing in the wind, for miles and miles,
I felt them last night, while asleep,
Twisted the idle strands of hair,
Around my fingers, and smelt them.
Look they led me here to you.

Aditi, grant me this wish Aditi,
They say your fat fingers,
Can weave a spell around the crescent moon,
Send the clouds into a tizzy,
Bring them crashing into the mountains.
They say your big eyes,
Can see through the night,
And seek out the somnolent sun.
They say you charmed the bees one day,
And turned them into butterflies,
Or was it fireflies?
Aditi, Will you do this for me?
Please listen to me.
The long winding forest path upon the gravelly red soil,
That churns the day into the night.
Lost amidst the similar trees,
May her eyes seek me,
At every corner, at every tree.
Where the silence echoes and the sound is still,
May she hear my voice in the rattling leaves.
The wind gushes in through the windows,
Scrapes the flaky walls of the lonely house,
May she wait for me at the creaky door.

Tide Country

In December, I went on a cruise to the Sunderbans. These are 56 islands of dense mangrove forest. They say it is the largest mangrove forest in the world. Hugli, Sattarmukhi, Bulcherry, Matla and Gusaba are some of the rivers that cradle these islands. Like the eternal mother these rivers give birth to new islands each year and submerge someothers like they had never been.

The river sustains the inhabitants of the islands. Mangroves suck up the salt water, and cover up like a monk's cloak, every available patch of uncovered land. Their roots bind the land together. Under their nurture and care, and the supervision of Bon Bibi(the tribal deity), prosper many species of flora, small animals, even the majestic royal Bengal tiger.

Our boat floated like a debris - we stood out in relief to this place so alive. If our spirits had been mottled by the city's tired breath, here we breathed fresh air, stared up in wonder at the blue sky and looked down every now and then at the glistening river. At night we looked at the sky and wondered if we had ever seen stars before.

Some of these islands are inhabited by humans. One of them is Bhagabatpur. Here we made a brief stop, during high tide. We took in some of their island life to survive in us as memories. They would remind us of life when we are back in the city, encumbered in our quiet, comfortable existence. When the tide began to recede, we went back to out boat and made our way back home.




Tide Country

Mangrove swamps on either side,
Eyelids of your sparkling eyes.
What childish dreams you dream all day.
Earthen houses, earthen pots and pans,
Even your hands are made of clay,
Every day is work and play.

Longish boats on brackish waters,
Are dark silhouettes before the orange sun.
Low tide and high tide,
Moonlight and sunlight,
Are two sides of an uneasy sleeper,
Tossing and turning in bed.

Mud children of the mangrove swamp,
Hide their melting smiles from the sun,
And flap their wings at dusk.
Evenings roar like a beast,
But the night is silent,
Like the ripples of the Ganga.

Hark the sound of the lonely boatman,
Paddle on, paddle on,
Turn every turn of the twisting river.
The mangrove swamp shall follow them,
And open wide her hungry mouth,
To taste the seawater.