Blogs R Us?

In a deconstructed way, most (good, great) fiction and (all?)
great poetry has an element of raw truthfullness in it. Whatever
it is that's being played out, articulated or storytold, the
great written word has an air of confessional finality and
innate believability in it. There are times when you, as the
reader are overwhelmed by the impact of a sentence here, a
phrase there, and there are times when you feel for the writer,
really live his or her experience, and realize that below all
that literary construction is a story as real as yours. A
story as common as yours too, but made unique -- in all
probability -- because of the ruthless objectivity and
frankness with which it is told.

This happens a lot with those who read poetry. In fact, for
many people for the poem to grab them "by the scruff of the
neck" or for it to "leave them winded", as if by a blow in
the guts, the poem has to have intensity and be burst of
raw emotion. The refuge not resorted to by speech, the
catharsis that is expected to balm over a deeply ingrained
wound, the angst that is so guilelessly shared.

Not surprising then, at one time, most blogs also had a
similar spine of ruthlessness, honesty and "coming out of
the closet" kind of confessional spirit. Sometimes you in
fact, even felt as if you have intruded into someone's
personal space or are reading through an immaculately
kept "spare nothing, chronicle everything" kind of daily
diary.

Oh yes, it wasn't long back ago when many used to have
"livejournals"; a blog by any other name would smell as...

Then, as we all know, google happened and its search engine
got more and more powerful (read intrusive), Facebook happened
and a lot of the time that one spends "online" got eaten up
there. As also, pretty soon many undesirables (and the literal
types) became part of the blog-reading audiences and so on...

Which means, now most blogs have gone "under the radar" and
become as guardedly insipid as most of us readers who are
connected to the intrusiveness of the Internet all the day.

Unless one considers all those "bloggers" who are "below
the radar" as it is and choose not to be crawled by search
engines, don't really care for what the world thinks of them;
whose blog posts are more or less (in terms of intimacy, honesty and spirit) prefixed with the words "Dear Diary".

Hmmm...

A train to Delhi and Varanasi -- my gullibility travels (again)

A couple of days back, I have had the most peculiar dream;
that I am in a truck (or some kind of a cargo carrier, anyway)
wearing an expression of absolute tiredness, totally beat
and sweat-drenched and evidently in shock. Shock on
discovering that though I have my rucksack with me, I have
forgotten quite a lot of stuff behind -- namely my sleeping
bag, my tent, my camera tripod, a diary and so on...

Thankfully it was just a dream and I woke up to reality and
the fact that its been long since I have tripped in a way that
needed a sleeping bag and a tent.

But yeah, if you dig dreams the way I do -- this dream tells you
two things (or at least that's what I think);

i.) I have been planning a major trip and been thinking of
roughing it out too.
ii.) I am a bad traveler; at least in terms of losing things
while on the road.

And if you thought so, you would be right. Because I have been
contemplating a long trip up north -- starting from Kullu and
heading to Kedarnath and Badrinath and a bit of a bigger hike
into the snowy expanses all around. And yes, I am a bad traveler
and have lost quite a bit of stuff on the road. A list that
includes 2 pairs of hawai chappals, one set of gum boots
(this was in Ladakh in 2005 when my gear was bungeed down in a
fashion that would have made any tinker go green with envy), a
pair of Bermudas (this was somewhere after Pune when I was
returning back from a ride to Gujurat; I had the Bermudas spread
on the seat for some more comfort to my sore but and then they
just took wing somewhere), a Lonely Planet, a diary with detailed
trip logs (somewhere near Gira waterfalls in Dangs way back from
Ladakh in 2005), a tripod and a sleeping bag (at Barr in Rajasthan,
on way back from Ladakh in 2005 -- stolen while I was making a
STD call) and more helmets than I can remember...

Got to do with either the strain of being on the road, or not having
anyone watching my back or to do with my continued gullibility, but
then there you are, yes I have lost my fair share of this and that
on the road.

Oh well, while I am at it, I need to also make a clean breast of a
fact that would be downright criminal for any self-respecting
photographer (arguably also a traveler). I have also managed to
lose the lens hoods; of both the 18-105 and the 55-300 (Nikon
AF-VR) lenses I currently have. One was on the highway while I
was still getting used to the D-90 and the other was again on
the road (on a dirt track near my place, while I was on the
cycle -- way back from shooting nesting weaver birds).

So...ummm...well, hota hai yaar. Joke's on me and my gullibility,
you see.

So...ummm...well, it travels again, this time in the relative comfort
and order of a train. Heading out to Delhi (to meet a schoolmate whom
I haven't seen in more than 18 years) and thereafter to Varanasi and
the trip called Om Namaha Shivaya. And since a part of the journey
is unreserved, this should be fun :-)

No, for once I don't anticipate losing anything; but yes I look
forward to finding some poetry!

The fascinating world of my butterflies

Picturise a late morning -- 11ish -- setting, of grass that has a dazzle
that can only be called "green gold", along with a wealth of Lantana,
bramble and scrub and other wildflowers, under a wealth of sunlight
pouring in from dazzling blue skies. *

Amidst this "canvas" for the photographically inclined, now picturise
the flight -- of specks of bright colour -- hither and tither, this way
and that, now soaring up to be lost in the light of the skies, now
dipping down to vanish into the green of the verdure.

If you can follow the speck of bright colour long enough and do it
again and again on a daily basis (and google for it and land up at
places like this) probably you can recognize one of them as an individual "type" as opposed to "hmmm, isn't
that a butterfly?"

Okay, if you are an "old butterfly hand" kindly excuse me for
this whiff of what may appear to be grandstanding (it's delight,
that too childish, in fact) but yes, I have got good enough to
identify some butterflies in flight (and most when they are
basking) and in fact I already have a substantial list (one that
will hopefully grow) of my butterflies.

So hold my camera while I type them down, will you please?

Common Rose
Crimson Rose
Banded Swallowtail / Blue Bottle / Common Jay
Pale Grass Blue
Common Tiger
Striped Albatross
Leopard
Red Helen
Lime Butterfly
Danaid Eggfly (male / female)
Common Jezebel
Blue Pansy
Peacock Pansy
Lemon Pansy
Yellow Pansy
Chocolate Pansy
Striped Tiger
Plain Tiger
Blue Tiger
Tawny Coaster
Common Castor
Anderson's Grass Yellow
Blue Spotted Crow / King Crow (male / female)
Zebra Blue
Pale Grass Blue
Common Cerulean
Grass Demon
Common Gull
The Pioneer
Mottled Emigrant
Common Emigrant
The Baronet
Brown Awl

Yes, many of these butterflies have even resulted in pretty good
captures! Which is like an added joy on top of the fascinating
reward of just seeing and identifying the butterfly.

As I write this, its been almost three months of lots and lots
of painstaking field work, of being scratched in the bushes,
of being led a dance in what one thinks is stalking and the
absolute disregard of time in what is involved in
"chasing a butterfly", but nonetheless it has been worth it.

As has been the tanning of my sun-exposed body and bleaching of
the wilderness of my hair.

Because, for every proper "capture" of a butterfly, there are
countless more that take root in me in the form of poems.

And capture or not, poem or not, its humbling to "see" a
butterfly and both enlightening and delightful to thereafter
read up on it and know it as an individual, as yet another
lovely living thing that makes nature what it is -- a
fascinating world.

Here's to you -- my butterflies, may your tribe(s) increase!

* Sad, but true...it hasn't rained much in Hyderabad this year.
Normally I would tear my hair out and complain and bawl a lot.
But this time I was getting something built, okay? Also, you
cannot do much photography of butterflies. Ask me :-)

"You write well...your honesty is admirable..."

The nice people on the matrimonial website where I have had a
"paid" membership have given me an extension of three days. And
prior to the expiration of my "premium" membership, they even
reminded me to renew my membership fast...and to avail the special
spotlight feature for my profile.

Which is all very fine and in fact pretty forward-looking and
customer focused and market led of them. But "spotlight" on
what? Pray?

My ears? My poetic angst? Or my "admirable honesty"?

Oh well, probably I am just being strongly satirical here or
you may want to call this a mild case of gallows humour (of the
matrimonial kind) but yes (and I am sure you know it too)
matrimonial sites are where the action is, for all those intent
on getting hitched "fast" and "settling" down and it is where the
posturing and masquerading and marketing (that goes along with
showing oneself in the best light)is...

Yes, I have been on these sites before and no I wasn't expecting
miraculous results, but still...

And yes, as usual, I wonder if I am probably too open, easy-going
artless and unsophisticated for my own good. Or probably intent
on being truthful to a fault. And as you can very well expect,
these approaches don't work in a world that is getting more and
more literal everyday, when most of us are led to believe that
we are perfect (and virtuous and settled down) and should ensure
we stay that way by allying with others who are the same.

The company we keep and all that marketing jargon if you will...

So I guess -- by extension -- I am a misfit on matrimonial sites
too. Or maybe the ladies (or their chaperones) I have been
fortunate enough to interact with google me and land up here.

Well you do the math thereafter.

"Angsty poet" + "rootless motorcyclist" + "romantic tree lover" +
"unsettled consultant" + "obscure writer" doesn't add up to much,
no?

And then again, there would be the other stereotyping at play,
(since this blog mentions my being Hard of Hearing, rants about
my troubles when employed, questions my employability and so on)
making me a prospective minefield, I guess...:-)

Whatever it be, the sum total is that I don't probably weigh in
as substantial enough to be pursued as a prospective alliance.
Let's leave all that jazz about intelligence, compatibility,
common interests, etc.

Or, everyone is just too tired and expects to find the "finished
item" who has excellent phone skills, travels extensively (which
not only means he is culturally polished -- and has hotel napkins
et al to gift -- but can immediately "come" meet up) earns
big bucks, etcetera, etcetera...

Who knows, I am certainly not a woman intent (allegedly) on
getting married and I am certainly not someone who
understands them that well. Nor am I someone who is unaware of
what an average reader's reaction would be on reading "hearing
aids" on a matrimonial profile.

But then, this blog post is not about all that and in
fairness, to each one his / her own. What I find surprising is
that of a substantial number of those who "liked" my profile,
(and went on to praise it too) not many showed any interest in
taking things ahead. A bit indicative of a mindset that goes
like -- "Poetry, travel, photography, motorcycling is fine,
but I would prefer someone who is a regular guy doing a
regular job".

Oh well, like I said before -- to each, his / her own
and (no, I don't go by gender stereotypes) maybe that is
what is called "feminine logic" or whatever else...

I do know that I have been a bit too frank with that profile,
but it will stay that way, thank you.

And yes, if you have seen it and said / felt "you write well..."
hey...why, thank you! And wish you all the best for a happily
married life!

P.S. -- This post is not taking any potshots at matrimonial sites.
I still feel they are the best way to meet people; else I wouldn't
be a paid member on one. This post is about my own experience
on a particular matrimonial site and indicative (if at all) of
what confounds people like me or indicative (if at all) of how the
marriageable among the fairer sex (or their chaperones) look at
"getting married".

P.P.S -- This one is not needed -- especially if you know me :-)
Yes, I don't believe in gender stereotypes and I also believe
that it is the man who should do the wooing. But there is only
so much one can do, without "phone skills" and if the other
party gets literal and panicky...no?

The glittering happiness of three Goldfish

I just changed the water in the Goldfish tank. Meaning, I just
poured out all the water (after transferring the fish out into
a small bowl), gave the gravel and the inner surface of the
tank a hand scrub, gave the plastic plant one, set it in again
and filled up the tank.

With common tap water.

And then -- when I put Tonu, Gonu and Donu back into "their"
tank, it is as if I have put them back in a paradise of bliss
and happiness. For one, their glitter has the sparkle of a
beatific smile and for another they are stiller and calmer then
before. You could say that they are floating serenely in the
middle of the tank, enjoying and thrilling in the
purity -- of water.

Even if it is common tap water.



Oh well, am telling you half the story? Yes, the other half is
when they keep making a beeline for the surface, very evidently
distressed if you see how they "blow" bubbles; it almost seems
they are coming up to breathe. This is all of course when
the water has gone all cloudy and bad, almost like a cesspool.

Well, if you keep fish and have a bigger tank than mine, you in
all probability have an aerator and some kind of fancy breathing
apparatus, but even in that case I am sure you will agree with me.
Fish in fresh water glitter their happiness, don't they?

Incidentally, this is not the first time I am keeping (and caring)
for fish at home. My earlier experiences were in Orissa, when
I was 10-12 years old and used to get pond water and half-dead
fish (from the fry and fingerlings left over when nets teeming
with Pokhuri fish are drawn in) and a attempt creating aquariums
from one and two kg Horlicks and Maltova jars. To wonder why
the fish would belly up and die, sometimes just overnight.

It wasn't all that bad either, I also used to "breed" Eels and
Catfish in the ditches all around my place when I was a bit older
and learned; and those fish lived longer too -- before disappearing
in the give-away smell of fried fish from a stealthy neighbour's
kitchen.

Anyway, if my memory serves me right, these three little goldfish
have completed more than 100 days. Or rather the fish bowl has. Oh
yes, one of the first two fish died within 4 days. Then I got another
two and they too died. And then I got another two. I am happy to say
that all seems to be well in fishland, with the last two of them here
for more than 2 months now.



Some more facts about the fish fellows -- the names were given by
the little man; or rather I proposed and he seconded the same.
I may be wrong but Tonu is the original "survivor" and a bit aloof
and the biggest of the three.

And oh yes, like any thing that needs "doing", cleaning the fish
bowl is a chore. Also, a responsibility, because "before you know why,
fish could belly up and die!". And responsibilities are scary and
painful. In my case, the pain happened as I slipped and fell (on my
behind) while changing the water at around 2.00 in the morning.

But still, its worth it all to see the glittering happiness
of Tonu,Gonu and Donu. Especially when they catch the sunlight,
streaming in from the skylight, over the landing where their
bowl is.

Tripping -- travels and travails

Coincidentally enough -- as I have been procrastinating a
blog post about an amazing road trip being undertaken by two
friends -- Prabha and Harsha Koda, I have been beset by a set
of related travails; the Enfield needs a new Carburetor (and the
type I want seems to be out of stock)starter coils and some other
TLC, the Schwinn is getting either its front or back wheel
punctured more or less with as much periodicity as the moon's
waxing and waning. If that was not incapacitating enough --
in between the Enfield being unable to keep up with the 100 CC
commuters and the Schwinn making serious holes in my pocket,
I also managed to go ahead and puncture the sole of my foot.

Which (naturally) led to a poem and a lot of wonder(even more
naturally)on my part -- that of seeing my blood dropping and
drying on a decrepit and sizzling hot (and rain-washed and
spanking clean) road and that of finding that the tear in the
"leather" of my sole more or less mended itself in barely 4-5
days. How's that for being well-worn, eh?

But then, this blog post is meant to be about Prabha and
Harsha Koda's trip all along the border of India, starting
from Mumbai and ending at Mumbai.
And yes, as of now they are in Leh, eating up the miles
steadily in their beloved Scorpio


And yes, in keeping with the confessions I routinely make
on this blog, here's another -- I was invited by these nice
people -- to be part of their trip and be with them from Srinagar
to Leh.

But I am here in the Deccan itself.

#$@%!!

Coincidentally again, I got around to finally cleaning my room today.
And found a bunch of receipts, visiting cards, bills, etc. from
a road trip that I had undertaken in January 2009 on
the Enfield -- down to Kanyakumari (and Rameshwaram) and then
up along the West Coast. Didn't have the heart to throw them,
maybe I will try and find some poetry in those bills, receipts,
et al...

A lust for life (and lenses)

I never learned how to paint. And, I am sure the little man
can sketch / doodle better than me; I mean he would have done
it far better than me even before he started going to "drawing
classes". But it has been said by some of my readers that there
is a bit of the imagist in my poems. Or rather, I have been told
that some of my poems are rich in "starkly vivid, photograph like
imagery" and that I "juxtapose allegory and metaphor with images
to draw pen pictures".

Is it because I am trying to paint with words? Or is it because
when (I take a photograph) or try to drink in a landscape / view
with my mind's eye -- immaterial of if I am already "writing" the
poem or gazing at the beauty of the outdoors in

awe, the poem has already taken root in me?

You know what this means. Yes, it means that everything that I
see is potentially an image that can be drawn in words, a poem.
And from the very time I have realized that I have been
boggled -- not at the prospect of what masterpieces I may be
destined to draw but at the scarier one. Of not being fast enough
or receptive enough to draw all the poems that come to me.

For being unable to focus all my being into the poem, for
doubting it, and for so on and so forth...

But then, all said and done, its a good problem to have;
its better than being totally closed to poetry and being
unable to write (drafts) with originality fed by immediacy.

Or so I feel.

I don't know if I can "devote" my life to poetry. Its tough
as it is dealing with the trickles that my "self" lets in.
Its tough as it is dealing with the epiphanies that come
unbidden, but still the greed remains -- for more. The greed
remains -- for more "writerly purpose", extended periods of
"writing in the zone" and for the overwhelming lust for life,
one that teaches a complete focus on art, to the point of being
madly obsessed with it -- Van Gogh like.

And yes, the greed remains; for better lenses. Yes, lenses that
give me a wider angle on life, and lenses that let me zoom in
and block out all that is irrelevant too -- for though I may
not be primarily be a photographer, many of my poems come to
be through my eye.

As I go down on my knees, in reverence and awe.

A room with a view

In Telugu, there is this saying -- illu
kati chudu, pelli chesi chudu. Literally meaning -- build a
house and see, conduct a marriage and see. I wouldn't know of
marriages (though I am arguably a Shaadi.com veteran) but now I
can say I know a bit about building an "illu", even it happens to
be on the terrace of another and nothing very grand.

Oh yes, it has gone over budget. As any wise man would have
expected it to. And it has taken a lot many days than was
estimated. As any wise man would have expected it to. But then,
what matters is that it is finally done and now I have a good
idea of what it takes to "build" something. Even if that "something"
is but a sheet-roofed writer's shack designed and built (for lack
of a more "builderly" term) to be a penthouse.

How exactly should a newly built place feel? Overwhelmingly
impersonal? Silently spacious? Finished and foreign? Fragile
enough to inspire handling with care?

Whatever it be, I wouldn't know much about "new" spaces -- being
very low maintenance and afflicted with a sense of aesthetics
that borders the spartanly minimal -- I have not much of an
affinity for the grand and glitzy (in terms of spaces) and I
haven't been in that many of them -- at least long enough to be
considered a resident.

And then again, though the walls are new, the tiles are new
and a lot of time, money and work (at least by my standards) has
gone into creating this space, I am certainly no stranger to
it, this being the terrace of my "illu" after all. So maybe
this feeling of guarded strangeness is nothing more than what
I feel when staring at an empty page in a much used diary...the
diary is familiar but the page is still new and empty.

And yes, now for some background on this writer's shack :-)

If you know me, you would know that I absolutely adore open
spaces and just love being close to nature. So then, its not
tough to guess that a shack for someone like me would be either
on a cliff-top or besides the sea or out in the middle of trees and
other wilds. But then, I haven't got any closer to owning any such
space for the shack to come up there.

So...

If you know me, you would also know that I am rain mad and just
cannot have enough of getting drenched or being close to the rain.
And then, for me there is another far more crazier (and probably
primeval) level of associating with water, inasmuch that it is in
many ways my very ink. And, since we had a very very wet season
last year, I spent a lot of time getting drenched in deluges of
water; be it on my expeditions into the city, to or fro from work
or on mycycling trips. In fact, the first time I had the terrace
seen by an architect was on August 15th of last year, a day I got
totally drenched six times (inclusive of once on the terrace).So,
once I decided on getting a "room with a writerly view" here itself
on the illu, it had to get ready in time for me to get high on waters
that fall from the skies*.

So...

If you know me, you will also know that I am unschooled and
decide on things in my own patented illogical way. And another
strong motivator for getting the shack done ASAP was one of
the little man's sketches. Of a structure that has one door,
a conical roof and another door up there on the roof. And oh yeah,
it got done in a jiffy too!

Now, for the view. I would of course have wanted some more
elevation, maybe some 3-4 floors into the skies to see more
of the sunrise and the sunset. But yes, there are guaranteed
views of both (does that sound like advertising copy?). When a
bit more footloose, I can walk a few steps on either side and
get an eyefull of bursting blooms. A (tree of a) rosebush that
doesn't respect or care for the boundary that separates my
place from a nice neighbour's (ok, it is their rose bush, but
they have never made us feel so) and a yellow flowering tree
which I think is the Golden Trumpet on the front
of my place which runs riot with more sunbirds than I can
count, describe or capture :-)And yes, the junction box, too.

And then, there is the view on one side. Of trillions and
trillions** of lantana flowers and 8GB cards full of butterflies.
How long the butterflies stay around and how long the plot
stays that way, wild and overgrown with lantana (and other wild
flowers) is anyone's guess -- especially since there are rumors
of a water pipeline being laid to my so far "developing" and
suburbian colony.

But as long as it lasts, I would love to drink of it.

Maybe I will put little bird houses all over the terrace
(with blinds in place too) and shoot bird portraits. Or
maybe I will do some cooking. Or I will do what I have been
doing all this while, a bit of this and a bit of that :-)

But anyway, it's a bit of a kick to have a room with a
view. And yes, the little man agrees too.

* -- Call me an optimist (as opposed to being pessoan or
angsty) but I am still hoping there will be a bit more of
rains this year. And a cloudburst does seem and sound out
of the world up there.

** -- Lantana flowers in an inflorescence arrangement. Also, I am
not being literal.

A dray of squirrels

It was on either the first or the second second day of my
Shiva Deeksha, towards April end, that I had got my first
sighting of a squirrel in my neighbourhood. The credit for this
mostly goes to the degree of early morning bushy-tailedness of my
eyes (the grogginess from Coffee deprivation kicked in from the
fourth day onwards), or probably to the fact that I had been peering
through a 55-300mm lens for almost a month, and had developed a
naturalist's perspective, in terms of detecting movement in what
probably constitutes the nearest plane of sight for the eye.

Or, as my brother said, it had to do with my Shiva Deeksha and
divine intervention -- since Lord Shiva is considered the lord of
all beasts, birds and praanis -- and the squirrels were "visiting"
me.

Whatever the reason be, that first squirrel sighting led to a
second squirrel sighting and then -- before I was a week into
my Shiva Deeksha -- came the discovery that a pair of squirrels
were living in a cable junction box fixed onto the electric pole
in front of my gate. Naturally, in the days that followed, the
squirrels were more or less a constant daily object of my attention,
while I got more adept at using the camera and learning the ropes of
"wildlife photography". And, the reason for a lot of wonder and joy
too, because there were times when I had to blink and pinch myself
and question if Coffee deprivation was making me see double
(or quadruple), because there would be days when four of these
little fellows would be looking back at me, watchfully and
squirrely in their mien -- perched on the junction box, peering
out of it or just curled around the coil
of cable, bushy tail hanging, shooting the breeze...

And oh yes, life wasn't exactly a picture perfect
portrait -- ensconced in a cosy and safe junction box and
the object of attention of a harmless poet -- for the
squirrels. There was much drama and pathos too.

Most mornings all through May the junction box used to be
visited by a pair (and at times three or even more) of
Brahminy Starlings (a bird related to the Common Mynah) and
all hell would break loose. Because (unless the reason for this
attack was some running feud at the family level or the species
level) the Brahminy Starlings seemed intent on grabbing the
junction box for a nest and determined on driving the squirrels
out by hectoring and dive bombing them at every available
opportunity.

In retrospect those attacks by the wildly fluttering and
airborne Starlings seem a bit comical, but when it was happening
it was quite an eyeful for me to silently observe and mindful
for me to understand and digest. Especially on days when the
Starlings had a glint in their eye that bordered on the evil
and a body language and demeanour that indicated a total
siege mentality.

For all I (or you) know probably the junction box was a nest
for these Starlings and the squirrels had moved in without
permission. However as you can very well guess, I was totally
rooting for them and completely biased towards them, and even
joined the battle on the rare occasion when (as if to break the
siege, the squirrels would emerge one by one and slither down
the pole, quickfoot; to forage) an airborne Starling seemed
close enough to hurt one of the squirrels.

I mean I would shoo away the Starling.

The attacks stopped after a while and (having shot gazillions
of squirrel photos) I ventured onto focusing on other
"wildlife", namely birds of the feathered variety, ranging
around my place barefeet and cycle-borne. And getting capture
after capture of Sunbirds, Little Egrets, Great Blue Herons,
Great White Herons, Cormorants and so on..

The Deeksha ended, life became a bit more laid back (in terms
of getting up in the mornings) a bit more caught up with this
and that and then with the first hint of rains, I discovered
that the camera and lens combo I have is good to take pics
of butterflies too.

So you can very well guess what I have been busy with these
last three months, in terms of being creative that is, when
not writing poetry that is.

Yet, all this while not a single day has passed without a
sighting of one of the little fellows; either shooting the
breeze on the junction box, or in a clump of Lantana (seems
squirrels eat both the flowers and the ripe berries)
or -- in a very mock navigatorish pose -- perched atop
the pole surveying the horizons for tidings of the weather.

And yes, I have also been taking the odd squirrel picture
here and there between captures of Common Roses and Blue
Pansies and Mottled Emigrants.

These little fellows are of course cautious to a fault
or it must be that my dark visage and bearded face makes
me look like a thundercloud. Whatever it be, at the very
most we are neighbours and I have not been anything more
than a very curious observer of squirreldom. Which means
(though I agonized about what they eat) I did not stuff
down almonds or peanuts or whatnots into the junction box
or requisition a thumb sized AC for them to deal with the
heat of May and June.

But then, two days back something happened that has
changed the equation.

On Friday evening, the cable repairmen came and got
around to doing what cable repairmen do; with a nice
big ladder propped on the pole. The first I came to know
about this domesticus interreptus happening in
squirreldom was when I saw the junction box totally opened,
the lid hanging down, a cable repairman perched on the
ladder near it and another down below peering at the ground.
As if hunting for a coin that had fallen there.

I really have no idea of how much I bristled. I also did
not knee the repairman where it hurts a lot. I just asked
if they saw any squirrels. And I was told that a couple of
them bounded out and away. So what were they searching for
then? Enlightenment struck me when I noticed what looked
like matted brown hair on the ground below. And I
realised I was looking at a nest of squirrel fur!

Were there any baby squirrels? Oh, yes, three of them, a
bit littler than my little finger with lizardly tails,
curled up and looking as defenceless as three coccineas,
but for the three stripes on their backs...

The cable repairmen seemed to be nice guys, as considerate
as me and concerned about keeping the squirrels alive. So I
did not have to resort to any story-telling about their
lineage and refer to Lord Shiva or anything. Yet, the question
that was evidently top of mind for all of us homo sapiens now
was, "What to do?"

The cable repairman was of the opinion that the nest
could be left on the ground and that the squirrels will
come and claim their own once we all left. But, I could
think of half a dozen species including snakes, geckos,
cats, dogs and bandicoots who could make morsels out of
the baby squirrels. So leaving the nest on the ground was
ruled out and I ran home and got a shoebox. The nest fitted
snugly into the shoebox and I could have said bye to the
cable repairmen, taken the shoebox home, punched some
ventilation holes into it and then left for a drink.

But, wait, wait...I did not know what grown up
squirrels eat, what in the blazes would I feed these
thumbelina sized mites? And evidently they were still
suckling...would the mother squirrel visit my home and
feed them?

Would Pakistan give us Kashmir back?

So that ruled out the shoebox too.

Thus, only one option was left.

Put the nest back into the junction box and hope
that the squirrels would get back and take care of
their own. So, the cable repairmen did just that and
left. And I looked up at the junction box, then a bit
more upwards at the heavens and (as it was getting
dark and I was getting thirsty) went in search for
that drink.

For most of Friday evening the thought at the back
of my head was -- will the squirrels return back?

For most of Saturday morning, I had a hangover of
the same thoughts worrying my being.

Till I saw a familiar sight -- on Saturday
afternoon -- the right revered Squire Squirrel of
the lineage blessed by the son of Dashratha himself,
quickfooting it down the electric pole.

Dunno which squirrel it was, mother, father, uncle,
whoever...but it was a squirrel and it was moving
with more or less squirrely matter of factness.

Oh joy!

Sunday brought some more sightings and I have seen
the fellows busy with affairs of squirreldom today
too.

Which means that either they have gone back to the
junction box, or they have moved somewhere close by. Which
more importantly means that the thumbelina squirrels are
(in all probability)being taken care of by Mama Squirrel.

And I will be peering closely at the junction box, for
some more time to come. Hoping to see the thumbelinas
make an appearance at the "door" soon.

Okay, go ahead have a laugh on me, the big bad biker, the
intense poet sounding like a godfather.

But also wish me, that my own menagerie of all things
small and beautiful and wild will still (hopefully) continue
to include a dray of squirrels.

In addition to three goldfish at home, the birds and the
butterflies.

Rhetoric Red

Afoot again, somewhere
on the ill-defined travail trail
between unemployability and the stillness
of my soul. Footloose. Shall I travel
for distance -- from prosaics
and an easier way to while away time
than the angst of dealing with words?
What do you say, O road?
the altar this day, of a blood libation
from a hole in my sole?

If Kafkaesque is, why can't Pessoan be?

I will be the first to admit that I am one of the least well-read poets
you will come across. And no, that doesn't refer to any genre
in particular; I am as bad about reading poetry as I am about
reading fiction. Maybe because I just don't have the time I
used to have. Or because when I have time, I would rather
write than read. Or this, and that. Ad infinitum.

But it wasn't always so. I still remember my days as a
struggling copywriter in a small, one bedroom flat (does
anyone make them still here in Hyderabad?) at a quaintly
named locality called Golkonda X Roads (near / in Gandhinagar
and nowhere near Golkonda fort) when my daily diet used
to be of books bought cheaply at Sunday Market (Abids) or
carefully (selected, weighed, half-read and then) bought at
Walden or (highly recommended and) lent by this or
that "intellectual" or "radical" friend.

For, I used to have quite a few of "intellectual" / "radical"
friends, mostly left-leaning and socialist / naxalite in
terms of ideology who used to frequent my place as a BYOB
destination for conversations dealing with anything and
everything under the sky and for sessions where rum-loosened
tongues would be raised in unrestrained singing. And while
they would bring down the roof with ballads like "Long March" and
poems by Sri Sri and other notables, I would pitch in with
soulful and sombre (or so I would like to believe) renditions
of "Dil hoon hoon kare..." and "Aa chal ke tujhe, main le
ke chaloon..."

Those were the days... when it was routine on my part to
finish a book a day. Or even two at times. And my reading
list was eclectic (as befitting a bright-MBA-turned-copywriter
who was willing to read any author at least once, and
picking up books at Rs.2 and Rs.3 each).

I confess to have continued reading the odd Nick Carter,
the little more occasional Harold Robbins, the frequent
Louis L'amour and a bit more frequenter Alistair Maclean -- in
keeping with my post-adolescent reading list (in addition to
all that a bright MBA would consider hot -- like Stephen Covey,
Jack Trout, etc.), but it was around this time that I read
voraciously of authors like Marquez, Naipaul, Krishnamurti (Jiddu),
Gibran (Khalil), Michener, Neruda, Raja Rao and others I sadly
don't remember.

And it was also around this time that I read Kafka for the
first time and probably had a brush with Pessoa too. I say
"probably" because while I continued to read Kafka off and on,
I don't remember having read anything by Fernando Pessoa in those
days or the days that followed (when I had the luxury of having
another well-read intellectual friend in my life -- one far more
prettier than the left-leaning radicals -- and was gifted both
amazing conversations and books), I somehow feel I
must have read him back then too.

Why? You may ask. Because on many days and most evenings,
especially those when there were no singing sessions, my setting
was spartan, bookish, labouriously slow (I used to maintain a diary
and also used to write poetry then) and Pessoan. When entire
days would go to recording the lengthy demise of a cigarette pack
or in putting down 8-10 lines onto a page in the form of a poem. Or
to sitting in a chair in the narrow balcony and observing the cows
and buffaloes in the sprawling khatal 5-6 floors below. Observing the
highlights -- being milked and washed down -- of a bovine life
comprising of the continual mooing for food and the mucking up
of respective pens / stakeouts.

Maybe most of those observings and most of the relative inertia
and ennui that I let brew in me -- in a one bedroom flat with
narrow windows to the world -- was because of my disconnect --
as a struggling copywriter -- with what was my immediate world
back then. Or maybe it was when I started developing a 'writer's
disquiet", but I somehow still feel I must have read a bit of
Pessoa those days. I mean, I am sure somewhere something Pessoan
must have contributed to making me "angsty".

Hell, I have nothing much to show in terms of writing from those
days, but (immaterial of whether I did read Pessoa or not) I do
consider those days as a formative phases in my life, when I probably
let my identity and location as a writer take root in me.

And in all probability, the credit for that could be a Pessoan
(or some other) page of writing with power (and brutal frankness)
as moving as that in the words below --

"I envy -- but I'm not sure that I envy -- those for whom a
biography can be written, or who could write their own. In these
random impressions, and with no desire to be other than random, I
indifferently narrate my factless autobiography, my lifeless
history. These are my Confessions, and if in them I say nothing,
it's because I have nothing to say.

What is there to confess that's worthwhile or useful? What has
happened to us has happened to everyone or only to us; if
to everyone, this it's no novelty, and if only to us, then
it won't be understood. If I write what I feel, it's to reduce
the fever of feeling. What I confess is unimportant, because
everything is unimportant. I make landscapes out of what I feel.
I make holidays out of my sensations. I can easily understand
women who embroider out of sorrow or who crochet because life
exists. My elderly aunt would play solitaire throughout the endless
evening. These confessions of what I feel are my solitaire. I don't
interrupt them like those who read cards to tell the future. I don't
probe them, because in solitaire the cards don't have any special
significance. I unwind myself like a multicoloured skein, or I make
string figures of myself, like those woven on spread fingers and
passed from child to child. I take care only that my thumb not miss
its loop. Then I turn over my hand and the figure changes. And I
start over.

To live is to crochet according to a pattern we were given. But
while doing it the mind is at liberty, and all enchanted princes can
stroll in their parks between one and another plunge of the hooked
ivory needle. Needlework of things...Intervals...Nothing...

Besides, what can I expect from myself? My sensations in all their
horrible acuity, and a profound awareness of feeling...A sharp mind
that only destroys me, and an unusual capacity for dreaming to keep
me entertained...A dead will and a reflection that cradles it, like
a living child...Yes, crochet... "

page 10-11, "The Book of Disquiet", Fernando Pessoa (translated
from the Portuguese by Richard Zenith).

Yes, I strongly recommend some Pessoan reading, or maybe again
I don't, this is deep and disturbingly "angsty" reading.

And yes, Pessoan certainly deserves to be a "word", I honestly don't
what it could "mean"; especially these days when every word has to
or is expected to have a literal meaning. Is there a singular meaning
for angst or disquiet?