Treebark

Its only when you have written them,
only when you have consigned them to time
like a four or five letter word uttered artlessly
or a spicule of your spit
that the wind blows away into the night
of the road behind your motorcycle

Its only after putting the distance
of your years in between
that you know, your poems were preoccupations
a vain affair with words, even.
The earth has wrinkled, treebark has aged
while you were outgrowing them.

On a different kind of walkabout

At something close to 6 kilos, this is more bazooka (or LMG) than a lens.

But make no mistake about it, a lens it is and a bloody marvelous one at that -- as fine a culmination (and celebration) of physics and optics as is humanly possible.

I am talking of my newly acquired 600 mm f/4, I am talking of this 

So then, how did a poet who was flirting with financial ruin and poverty manage to acquire something as costly as two (or even three) cars?

Mostly because of another loan (like in case of the other 600, the D-600 -- a camera --that I had acquired).

So, in terms of relationships of the financial kind, I now have another EMI to add to my Housing EMI, but yes, it will get paid and it will get paid bloody soon.

Because the Birdman doesn't like owing anyone.

Especially not for a 600mm f/4 beauty.

Now that I have taken that off my chest, a few things about how this is more bazooka (or LMG or Rocket Launcher) than lens. The first day I tried photographing with it, my left bicep gave up on me, swelling up / cramping as if I have arm-wrestled with Hulk Hogan. I got back home within barely a hour, counting the steps back, worried that I will "drop" the deadweight of the monster thing.

The second time was better, the third more so. The morning after, as I write this, my biceps, shoulders and almost all of upper body still feels as if I have just got out of a grueling gym session, but then those are pains any birder can live with.  

Here's looking forward to more such walkabouts with this beautiful marvel of technology that lets me live the gift of my eye.

And as I am already saying again and again, if nothing else, carrying all that weight around will help me lose some. 

Thodi aur Koshish (akele hi sahi)

Paradoxically -- for someone who has always been afflicted by gravitas, has always been serious and aloof -- I have constantly seen myself as an eternal child, someone who hasn't really grown up.

Now firmly in my forties, with the hair on my head showing more salt than pepper, I feel no older -- maybe because of the more-than-a-decade of motorcycling ingrained in me, or because of the artless (and awestruck) poems that I write, or because of the borderline juvenile obsession with which I photograph birds (and nature).

But its not because of the way I am, or because of what I do that I feel most like a child, it is because of my ears.

Increasingly, across the last 3-4 years, it is when I have persisted in looking for a solution (while dealing with the light-headedness and headaches arising from hearing aid trials and audiology sessions) continuing to battle my aural frustrations, it is when I have been to institutes like AYJNIHH or AURED, that I have felt the maximum import of being Hard of Hearing; felt lost and defenceless (like a child?) and struggled to deal with the utter defeat -- of not knowing an adult way to come to terms with it.

But it is also at these institutes that I have felt like a child in another way, felt a kinship with the 4 and 5 year old kids running pell-mell in the corridors unmindful of the large hearing aids draped over their ears (technically called Behind The Ear instruments) wondering at how their ears can tolerate the din (simplistically speaking, most hearing aids are bad at filtering out noises; unless they are programmed -- but when programmed, they damp speech too). It is here again that I have met the amazing people who teach these children to do something that most of us take for granted.

Teach them to hear.

Teach them to speak.

Teach them that they are special, that they are loved, that they are expected to go out in the world and do wonderful things (like other normal children are taught to).

Teach them with a belief and selflessness that would touch even the most cynical amongst us, with a conviction that belies mainline epithets like "Children of a lesser God" or "differently abled" or even "hearing handicapped".

Teach them to never stop trying, to never give up.

It is because of interacting with teachers like these, because of being touched by their grace that I (in my own frustrated adult way) never stop trying to hear.

It is because of knowing them that I refuse to be deaf.

Happy Teachers' Day to all such teachers out there, to those who devote their lives to making special children's lives special.

Because, though love, life and the road have taught me numerous lessons in turn, it is only you who have inspired me to continue the Koshish, to make the most of the gifts that I have been given.


*First published on Facebook, yesterday -- on Teachers' Day.

Eyes

My dervish twin
blithely harlequin
soul is drowned
in the dazzling deluge
it sees. Deaf

It never hears
the clamorous whirl
of other things.

But only, only, only
the refrain
of a silence
a peace of being

Beautiful and growing.

Google, gadgets and other going ons...

Its a fascinating thing -- when you think of it -- that time isn't exactly linear and inanimate; I mean have you ever wondered why a microwave (oven) minute takes so long when you want it to be over fast and so short when your attention is elsewhere?

Okay, my observation (or analogy rather) is largely contextual because I have been boiling eggs in my microwave oven.  But the point still holds, no -- hard-boiling eggs in a microwave may be an art and all that, but its something as plebeian as cooking rice in a pressure cooker, and yet (probably because the former is far more hi-tech) the "minute" seems to become a lot more flighty and animate, almost as if it has a mind of its own, no?

Okay, before you think I have finally lost it, try cooking some eggs in your microwave. And TRY cooking them in a way that they are perfectly hard-boiled.

 ~~~~~~~

We (at the homestead) have recently gone wireless.  After having to spend almost half the time I used to be online fighting an iffy / dodgy / half-assed Internet connection (or begging brother for his data card), THIS is something else. Not that I am an "always online or always connected" person (the green light glowing on my GTalk "mostly" all the time, notwithstanding), especially in the "so many birds, so little time" context; yet its a relief to have such connectivity, to sit some 26 feel above the router and still get such stunning speeds...

Maybe I should look at opening a cyber cafe for the birds, butterflies and Bozo, in order to share this bandwidth with them all.

~~~~~~~~

The little man has grown up perceptibly in the last 6-8 months (and lost all his milk teeth). Naturally then (for a civilized, city-bred brat) he is nowadays totally into "video" games. This used to be "sweet" in the beginning when he would straight away ask for my mobile phone (the Nokia I lost in B'lore) immediately after he came home. I am not saying its not "sweet" any more, now that he has discovered that its far more fun to play games on the computer (it started with the venerable "home" Desktop  that still hasn't conked off -- after almost 8 years of use, went on to a "games" exploration of my "birding / writing" laptop -- without any encouragement from me -- and has now also extended to a fine tooth combing of my office laptop -- with my grudging approval) but somehow, its a bit of a pain to see that his interests are more into what's available and happening on the computer rather than outside, in the wide, wide world.

But then (though he still bounces a ball and even asks Amma to play it with him and makes the occasional drawing) he is growing up and at the end of the day he is a civilized, city-bred brat.I do wish, he woke up one fine day and decided that chasing a butterfly is more fun, or go back to wanting to throw stones into the water (I "discovered" most of the quarries around my place for him in the days when riding on the tank of the Bullet used to be his biggest joy).

Wishes can be horses, children should be children.

~~~~~~~~~

Some more ramblings on the little man and the other fascinating character in my life -- my father.

Not so surprisingly both of them know zilch about technology. Its my father's pride and joy to learn how to operate the PC and send e-mails (and since his son is Hard of Hearing, he's pretty good -- if  a bit absent-minded -- at sending SMSes as well) but his bugbear is that he cannot remember where he has saved what.

In case of the Little Man, in the days when he wasn't that "interested" in the computer, it used to be fun to make him sit on my lap and see his little (almost little enough to be a common kingfisher's foot, if I am allowed to take poetic license) hand driving the mouse and trying to click an icon, or to see him try to write something that I would be voicing for him.

I can bet that the Little Man doesn't know any more about how the computer works or how to save files (he is a MS-Paint artist, among other things) than my father. But then, he has a sharper brain and is far more bloody-minded as well.

And oh yes, not so surprisingly, they both use the same term to indicate that they want to get online -- "Google".

~~~~~~~~~~~

As I have already chronicled on this blog, I lost a Nokia in B'lore and I managed to put a Samsung out of commission (it survived a hit-and-run) in Delhi. And though I had contemplated a lot to stay phoneless, even someone of my far from social nature needs to stay connected, hence I read up a lot on "Smart" phones, and almost bought various snazzy smart phones, at various points in time. But, I don't listen to music on phones, I wouldn't play games on it either, and ummm....using the phone for taking photographs would be like riding a Luna with a garage full of vintage British bikes (thanks to the costly and weighty DSLRs that I own).

So.

So.

So.

I am back to my Micromax Q3, the very first QWERTY phone that I ever bought.

Not only does it work commendably (which in my case means, it sends the 3-4 SMSes that I need to send pretty well and is capable of even letting me jot in the odd poem / note) and lately I have also relearned (thanks to the help from an old friend who was a hotshot phone sales entrepreneur in the days of  JT Mobile) how to lock it up safely (after sending garbled SMSes and making "bum" calls to people whom I have never been in touch with -- for more than 3 years).

And hey, the MMX Q3 is a smart phone as well. Now tell me, what does that make me?      



          


        

    

Collected Poems in English -- Arun Kolatkar

Okay, here's the first notable thing about this book.

Its a Bloodaxe.

I know that may not ring a bell in a lot of heads (and not necessarily in the heads of those who don't read poetry -- considering that a lot of people who read poetry, just read it online), so let me clarify.

Bloodaxe is probably the world's most premier publisher of poetry books and if they publish someone's poetry, that someone could consider that he / she has arrived.

I don't know if I am being irreverent here, or if I am being mock irreverent -- in a way what I said above is a fact.

Then again, Bloodaxe probably commissioned this book around the time that they came to know that Arun Kolatkar is leaving (as opposed to having arrived) when he was diagnosed with cancer and counting his days.

Then again, I am not blaming Bloodaxe for this either, Arun being Arun and legendarily famous for not signing contracts, wanting total control on his books, wanting to design them, choose the paper, etc, etc.

All of which is neither here nor there, all of us are mortal and poets are more so -- since they die a thousand deaths even when they live -- what matters is that this book is probably the only such collection of Arun Kolatkar's oeuvre and yes, it has Jejuri in it (try buying it), it has Kala Ghoda Poems in it (try buying it), it has Sarpa Satra in it (TRY buying it) and it has many a poem that you never heard of (even if you are a dyed in wool Arun Kolatkar acolyte) like the poems presented under "Translations" and those presented under "Words for Music", poems that seem totally alien to Arun Kolatkar's laconic and very pithy voice.

But then, this is a collection of all his life's writings and while many a poet struggles to find one voice, someone like Arun could probably manage a lot more :-)

All of which is neither here nor there; I am not reviewing this book here, nor am I asking you to buy it. Or whatever.

As people say on FB, "Arun Kolatkar in the house".

And to think that I have been denying myself this pleasure for more than three years -- years during which I have gifted his books to some "special" others and also introduced some close friends and all and sundry to him.

Yes, to think that I was indulging in social service all this while, instead of enjoying his poetry again and again.

But then, I had promises to keep.

And bring out my own three books of poetry.

Somehow I have the feeling that up there, asking for another Chhai and Bun Maska in the cafe where dead poets sit and while away their time, Arun Kolatkar would chuckle to know that I have his life's work with me. And that I am nonplussed -- unable to decide if a book that weighs half a kg is all that someone as prolific as him leaves behind, unable to decide if that is less or more, for a poet that is.

All of which is neither here nor there... 

Happy Birthday, Chandra!

You would have turned 35 today. Or 36.

If you were here today, maybe (in all probability) I would have as usual forgotten to wish you on my own.

But I am sure -- dead sure -- that you would have remembered to somehow get in touch and fix up a meeting somewhere. Probably to treat me to Beer and Biryani or something else befitting of a birthday party / treat for one's best friend.

And you would have wondered about the amount of grey my cranial and facial hair, laughed about being younger than my younger brother and pulled my leg about a birthday card, or a gift.

But then, I could have gifted you a book this time, one dedicated to you.

Cheers, Chandra and many many happy returns of the day.

Drink with the Gods up there, my friend.      

Bhubaneshwar Diary -- This and That

My good friend and host at Bhubaneshwar, S is a poet / journalist and the editor and publisher of a Odiya "little magazine", Samakala. S also happens to be a voracious reader and someone with an eclectic taste, which meant that I had a lot to choose from when it came to doing some "quality" reading.

And I did read a book, as in finish it, in more or less one sitting, the way it ideally should be, mostly because the book was gripping (and not that thick) and partly because I wanted to finish it in one sitting. Somehow, in keeping with the atmosphere of  S's place -- almost choc-a-bloc full with books, largely in Odiya, it was somehow apt that the book in question was It Rained All Night by Buddhadeva Bose originally a Bengali novel (with a lot of infamy, if I may so add -- banned when it was first published in the Bengali in 1967 on charges of obscenity)  in a masterly translation by Clinton B Seely.

What a lovely story (honestly it doesn't seem worth all that infamy, even in the 1960s) and it is certainly not graphic or obscene (at least not in translation) and seems just right to be called a "quick read", though the language is not what Chetan Bhagat will ever be capable of.

Also, what an indicator of the excellence and talent that lies hidden away from mainline English readers in India!

Definitely worth a second read, maybe I will get it and do a bit more of a blogpost on it soon.

Here's a good take on it   

I also read Arzee the Dwarf by Chandrahas Choudhury and it was a good read, with parts indicative of a good eye for detail (and the description of it) but somehow I did not find any high-points in the book; maybe I need to read it again.

******

There is this thing expected of me, whenever I go to Odisha. Yes, you guessed it right -- in case you know me or read this blog -- visits to Jagannath Puri and Lingaraja temples. I don't like a lot of things about going to temples -- the crowds, the lack of hygiene, the almost "not there" in terms of basic facilities for pilgrims and so on -- especially if the temples are famous / holy / revered (all three aren't exactly the word I am searching for) but I am Hindu and I believe, so I have the ability (like most pilgrims, I guess) to shut out all that is irrelevant and line up for darshan.

I couldn't make it to Puri (though a visit was penciled in and also "planned") but I did make a trip to the Sri Lingaraja temple, managing it there on my own, to reach it just at it started to rain in a steady drizzle. S had suggested that I go to Bindusagar (the Pushkarni at Sri Lingaraja temple) prior to darshan and that meant I had the pleasure of walking -- from the Prakara of Sri Lingaraja temple to the lake -- through another familiar milieu, a pleasure made more thrilling by the rain. Odisha has been lucky enough to have most of its famous temples left more or less intact (unlike in what is now UP and Bihar, unlike at Kashi and Mathura) by the Moghul and other Islamic hordes and the grandness of scale and planning was evident all around Sri Lingaraja temple -- as I walked from one Chokko (Chowk in Hindi) to another, through the ubiquitous Rickshaw stands and Sondhos (Odiya for Saandh), the un-castrated bulls who are largely left on their own, to regally plod down their "territories" in most of provincial and luckily-still-not-urban parts of Odisha. The rain meant that I had to squint for a sighting, but of course I had an idea of the peripheral presence of countless Paan, and mithai-cum-tiffin shops (with their cauldrons of blessed Ghuguni), even as I hurried on to Bindusagar.

By the time I reached Bindusagar it was raining heavily enough to be called a respectable drizzle and as scooted and I found some shelter (incidentally, under the plastic sheet awning of a closed Paan shop) right besides the lake and in front of a temple -- from which there emerged a steady procession of Pandas and Sevayats, most laded with Mahaprasad. Whichever way I gazed, I was overwhelmed by the sheer presence and visual atmosphere, the aged and much weathered stone all around -- the temples, the paved roads and the ghats bordering Bindusagar...or maybe it was the mystique of the rain.Speaking of visual atmosphere and rain, I just had to turn my head towards Bindusagar -- to see a green expanse of stillness broken by the incessant pock-marking of the rain. And as it happens to me whenever I am gazing at an expanse of water, I fell into a reverie, a calm that I can never explain, which in this this specific case was further heightened by a familiarity (I do a lot of birding around lakes and ponds and quarries in and around Hyderabad that look the same, algal / spyrogyra induced shade of green) and the nostalgia of countless such gazings...across the Pokhuris of my childhood as they were pockmarked by rain.

By and by the rain let off and I broke out of my musing / reverie too, to go down the ghats of Bindusagar and very courageously anoint my head with some of that dirty, algal green water. What a pity -- that this lake which should have been a Pushkarini in more than just name has to be this fetid pool of water, worse in upkeep than the uncleanest of any village's pond or Pokhuri.

I was at Sri Lingaraja temple on a Tuesday; a day of relatively less importance from the viewpoint of Shiva worship and as such there wasn't much of a crowd when it came to darshan. Which meant I had adequate time for my own darshan (with no one hurrying me) and prayers and could also come back and pray on behalf of A. Both the times while in the Sanctum, in keeping with my recent strengthened "strictness" of faith, I did not make any offerings to the Pandas (and I must say they weren't intent on me, since a busload of pilgrims were around) and I am happy to say I didn't feel stampeded or rushed either.

That -- not being stampeded and rushed -- is in all probability the key to enjoying a visit to any temple and in keeping with the leisurely pace with which I live these days, I had enough time to even look up at the temple. To truly get overwhelmed by the scale and magnificence of that spire, seemingly towering light years into the sky, optically leaving an impression of being far taller than the 55 or so metres that it is -- thanks to its architecture, design and construction (I hope to write more about this someday).

Not that I was rushed or stampeded while I was here last, or the time before that -- but somehow I never looked up at the spire. Maybe that should be standard practice at every Hindu temple?

I also spent some time enjoying darshan at the Parvati temple, the minor shrines (at least the major ones among them) and in a search for the Hundi (for my offerings). The highlight of this unhurried stroll was getting to see a squirrel feeding on morsels of rice (probably Mahaprasad) in the temple courtyard. Every time it would pick up a grain of rice and sit on it haunches to eat it, it seemed as if it sitting with its tiny paws joined together in reverential Namaste, deep in prayer.

Oh, how I missed not having my camera along!                               

Muir, Thoreau, I ?

Yes, my dreams have changed, this
of my free will, I admit.
This too -- in me a content grows

From these days outdoors, amidst
the goodness of trees,
the soil and the dirt

And that tell, the smell,
of the open meadow, the wooded trail;
and the rich fortune of being afoot

On the good, unpaved earth.

In Memorium

Of all the things in life, ways death is the fastest. And someone you have known for years, someone who has been part of the trials, tribulations and (minor) triumphs of a substantial and important part of your life, can go in a "poof", literally in the blink of an eye. And yeah, however much you remember the good times spent together, however much you cry (or however much you pray) there are no lifelines or second innings after death has come calling.

Yes, he is gone and this has been so bloody fast, a realisation that still hasn't sunk in, even as countless old memories cascade through me and grief assails me, at odd times for odd reasons.

The most painful memory is his constant ill-health (he was prone to asthma attacks) and thinness. Something that used to bother me a lot, something that I used to blame his lack of appetite for, something that he used to overcome again and again through a sheer bloodyminded stubbornness and the intent to live up his life.

Another enduring memory is his fastidiousness in trying to understand whatever interested him. He was a great note-taker and would fill diaries and notebooks (and bar napkins) with beautifully scripted notes, capturing the essence of our conversations on all and sundry -- advertising and corporate communications, the location of various eminent Shiva temples, what he should eat to put on weight, various quotes dealing with corporate life, sensational one-liners for Tee-shirts and (intermittently for as long as I have nursed entrepreneurial ambitions and with increasing frequency for the last year or so) answers to "how to start something of our own"...

In his opinion, I was a great talker, passionately genuine and capable of convincing people. Maybe it was just because he was one of the most considerate listeners I have ever met -- full of empathy and understanding and someone who saw potential and uniqueness in everybody. Either way -- a lot of our time used to be devoted to planning road trips and incidentally it was he who introduced me to Srisailam. I have vivid memories of each of three trips we made to Srisailam together -- the first time by bus, the second by my Bullet (with him as a very alive and "in my ear" pillion rider) and the third in blazing Mid-May heat in his car. Srisailam and our many experiences (viewpoints on the stretch to Eaglepenta, my Obelix like ascent of the Paatalganga Ghat, coracle rides on the reservoir, Shikaram, Sankaracharya Ghat, etc.) apart, he also introduced me to Uma Maheshwaram -- one of the famed entrances to Srisailam and a place where a Jatara happens every year. A Jatara we both had planned to -- and failed to -- attend numerous times.

Then there are other memories too, of hiking and monkeying around in Narsapur forest and near Shamirpet Lake and (a lot earlier, going back to my MBA days) in the glorious boulder strewn grassy open expanses beyond Hayathnagar.

Looking back, I am not surprised to recollect that he was among the first to read my diaries (and the ravings in them) and my poems. And that he was again among the first to read the manuscript of Moving On -- speaking of which, he somehow made it to the book release event though he was in the midst of Ayyappa Deeksha.

I could go on and on, the memories seem endless and enough to fill a book. I could go on and on, but the fact remains that I couldn't spend much time with him or be of any help to him in his last days, when he was ailing.

I could go on and on, but its pretty evident that however deep my grief be, its not even a drop in the ocean of grief that his family finds itself in.

I do know that I will miss him for the rest of my life. And I know that I spent some of my best years adventuring, raconteuring and experiencing life with him.

I also know that in my own way I will never get over this loss; mostly because of the kind of person I am and also because of who he was -- a treasured batchmate, a long-time room-mate and a very, very close friend, one of the most private and yet liveliest people I have been fortunate enough to know.

And I know that when my turn comes and I land up in heaven (hopefully) Chandra Mouli will in his part school-monitorish, part hrvisionary mentorish way give me a guided tour of the place and introduce me to its highpoints, the way he did it for me when I arrived in Hyderabad.

I am not Jewish, and there is no Kaddish (or its Hindu equivalent) known to me. But I have been praying since 20th April, 2011 that my late departed friend's soul merge with Shiva. And find solace in Kailash.

Om Namah Shivaya.