a.k.a. This Townie Gets No Brownie
OJ: Hey, you went to Khandala?
BFF: Yeah, office off-site. Ghattu went too.
OJ: Oh fun! His first trip out of Bombay!
BFF: Not really, he’s been to [the Boy’s former suburban home], no?
Reserve your judgement, people. As a teenager, I used to have a pen-pal in Andheri. We even met once.
October already, and
the trees lose their damp;
Silently into the night
it slips,
taking umbrage in sleeping forms and steam,
picking its way through drunken brawls and
leftovers.
***
October already, and
the clouds are amiss;
Gone to their grandma’s across
the bay,
Family feuds incite migrations
But if you never look upward
you can pretend they’re here still.
***
October already, and
the guttural discontent
climbs out of our bellies,
loops over shoulders and necks,
stops by the iris to nod hello,
before strangling us smugly
in our beds.
…may I (insanely proudly) present to you….
Black Beauty doesn't have a thing on her.
No daughter of mine is ever going to match those waifish looks.
Look the other way now!
Now, now, no stampeding, boys and girls. Go git your own.
And no, that’s not two extra pounds I’ve put on since she arrived. It’s called being chuffed.
.
a.k.a. Treasure at your Leisure
***
OJ: What is this?
Little B: This is a nose.
OJ: What do you do with it?
Little B: I dig it.
What was that again about Monday mornings being crap?
Yes, again.
And this time she’s gone for good.
I love scribbling update-type posts about as much as the majority of you seems to love reading them (which is nada, for the unplugged among us), but I could do with some sympathy here. C’mon, people, gush forth now. I’ll even leave you with some neon wisdom while I dither between the possibility of an electronic successor and lifelong penury. These ears, they strain for applause.
***
Real strength lies in not hurting someone when you know just how easily you can.
a.k.a. Goodbye Ganpu
***
I’m not religious. That’s an understatement. If I had my intolerant way as Empress of the World, religion as a construct and a practice would be officially banned and I’d happily skewer secret societies out of existence. My weekly foaming at the mouth necessarily includes how stoned the masses are on ritualism, symbolism and the debilitating need to worship. Add to it the human penchant to vilify nature as part of the revelry and I’m ready to burst a blood vessel. Ergo, my reaction to socio-religious occasions like Ganpati is a resigned trip to buy ear muffs and periodic shuddering about sound pollution and the state of the sea.
So it took me more than a little by surprise when I found myself peering curiously at the crowds at Chowpatty a few days ago and patting the little idol I took to school today for show-and-tell when it toppled over. For the first time in the 26 Ganpati festivals I have been witness to, I didn’t shut my windows to the sounds of the streets. I let the reverberations stream in, pretending not to listen to the roar of the crowds and the insistent throbbing of drums, louder than the rain that poured on their upturned faces, watched the lights and the flowers from the darkness of my balcony, pushed back the faint stirrings of a vague something as I saw truck-sized statues trundle their way toward a watery grave and I wondered. About what it is that so many people seem to find in faith and belief that I cannot be a part of. About why I can only find higher power(s) in leaves and waves and certain people. About how the socio-religious propriety gene went missing in me.
But this once, I wasn’t the critical outsider. This once, I was part of that little bobbing universe. This once, I walked willingly into the inevitable, not away from it. And I write this to the rhythm of an insanity I have long disowned. Now, I’m unsure. And I guess I’ll have to wait a whole year to find out whether this was momentary madness or old age has arrived some decades early.
Bleddy popular culture. It’s finally had its way with me.
I sure have interpersonal issues. Even my Gmail attachments fail!
~Me to the Boy, only half jokingly.
Your blood is not your own, Child,
not of your people or choosing,
Its thickness determined in the trenches,
the color as lurid as rape.
Be not unduly proud of your lineage,
for you have contributed nought thus far.
(And merely add to the numbers with the straightness of
your nose and character.)
~~~
You are Aryan, says the lilt in Mamma’s voice, her
swarthy face mocking the delusion of tone.
There are none so blind as those who will not
see, and you must not wish for
The reputation of your bloodline,
your stories, your creed,
to carve your path,
precede you.
~~~
When, at the hour of reckoning,
they ask what you have done,
You cannot believe
that merely being spawned,
birthed among the anointed:
blessed thousands on stretches of prime earth and vaster benefits,
was your greatest contribution to the land that
embalmed you.
~~~
Be not of your blood, Child,
for they will anchor you,
in chains that beseech and soggy knots that shrink
until you morph-molt-manifest,
Your nose, height and hair
shrieking hosannas to history,
And the iron gates, they will creakingly close,
locking you inside, among the Sayers,
arrested, taut and proud,
forever.
We’re waiting at a light that will take a while to turn green. To my left is Chowpatty junction and the silver-grey sea surging forth this early afternoon. The road turns upward and narrow, winding determinedly to meet old limestone havelis, banyan tree compounds and the scent of theplas at Teen Batti. In the foreground are battered boats, scraps of torn clothing and greedy pigeons feasting on somebody’s idea of religion. The beach needs a clean-up. Eighteen dustbins should do it. It wouldn’t hold a candle to Venice and I know it.
In the distance, phoenix-like, rises Cuffe Parade. The monolith of the World Trade Centre, the soaring steeple of Afghan Church, the identical pygmies of Navy Nagar that house brilliant, impoverished scientists. A lighthouse clings to the island of Colaba, just before the world’s steepest real estate crumbles away into the Arabian Sea. Marine Drive shimmers like a mirage, framing the good bay* in a tolerant Sunday mood. Honks are notably absent, siesta has spread its picnic mat.
I turn to him, my heart filled with pride. “You’d like Hong Kong,” he says casually. I look back at the view and slowly shake my head. It wouldn’t hold a candle to my home and I know it.
*[Bombay gets its name from the Portuguese Bom Bahia, meaning good bay.]
Ultra Violet
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Vox populi