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.

Other people, other jobs

"Had I really understood something of war, I wouldn’t have gotten sidetracked trying to write about rebels and loyalists, Sunnis and Shia. Because really the only story to tell in war is how to live without fear. It all could be over in an instant. If I knew that, then I wouldn’t have been so afraid to love, to dare, in my life; instead of being here, now, hugging myself in this dark, rancid corner, desperately regretting all I didn’t do, all I didn’t say. You who tomorrow are still alive, what are you waiting for? Why don’t you love enough? You who have everything, why you are so afraid?"

Read it all, here

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?      



          


        

    

For the Pilgrims of Uttarkhand

The earth flowed,
a river in spate, waters
churned in an inferno.

Death came to you,
sibilant, in a searching
wetness.

Why did my God,
He, the pillar of fire,
do nothing?

You were pilgrims,
utterly His.
Today, they will consign

What remains of you,
putrid and lifeless
to His cleansing embrace.

Consign you to fire,
if the rain wills it, weeping
wetness.

Hindu, I cry too.
And pray. Shiva, Shakti,
Amma, Bhoodevi

Mother nature be kind.

A dog called Bozo

Meet my only and most steadfast companion on my birding rambles (at least around the buffalo wallow near my place) -- Bozo.

I am not being disrespectful when I call him that, in many ways he's much more than a Bozo and then again, I don't know his name either. Not surprisingly, considering how intelligent dogs are -- and how friendly too, a cluck of my tongue is all it takes for him to come around to me, provided he is not away on some ramble already.

I have known Bozo for almost two years now, meeting him first when he was a puppy being pulled around on a rope and shown around as a toy / trophy by some kids who stay near my place (that was when I intervened and told them to not strain him too much as he is still a baby; naturally I also picked Bozo up and nuzzled him and held him for almost thirty minutes, till his heartbeat slowed down and he almost dozed off in my arms). That family ended up giving him to another family and then, again Bozo was given away -- to yet another household.

Naturally, every time I came across him I would pick him up and play with him and nuzzle him close to my chest as well -- as all little puppies deserve to be.

Bozo's current owners are a nice family and they neither ill-treat him nor ignore him, but for some reasons best known to him, he always keeps an eye on me. What this means is that for all purposes I have a dog without the attendant responsibilities. For he will come willingly, play with a boisterous abandon and always thump his tail up and down, even deep in slumber at 3.00 in the morning when from up in my writer's shack (waiting for either a barn owl or an errant poem to come) I would cluck my tongue.

I have never really understood what Bozo thinks of me; there are days when he will just lie in front of our gate, for hours at end, following me with his eyes when I come and go, totally desultory and somnolent. And those when he will follow me to the corner shop wanting me to buy him some buns, frisky as a two months old puppy. On other days he would refuse the same buns but walk inside the gate as if intent on following me into the house. And there would be other extended periods of 15 days and more when all he would do Is to resolutely walk up to me, stand up on his hind legs and plant his forepaws on my chest.

The most peculiar of his behaviour however was introducing his friends to me, approaching me with this or that stringy 5 or 7 month old dog and then standing by me expecting me to probably bend down and shake hands with the newest ( and obviously wary) mutt on the block.

Sometimes, things did not stay that humorous though. Like one night, when I was returning back late, Bozo ran up to me tail wagging and then left me to go and come with a dog I had never seen around before. I have never seen a dog try to speak with its eyes as I have seen Bozo that night, for his friend had a deep cut on his chest and was bleeding. There was a gang of borewell workers (along with their truck) that had been working in the neighbourhood that day who were now eating (and drinking) and if canine eyes can speak, I could see that they had done the dastardly deed. But, though I woke up a couple of neighbours and accosted them (with Bozo right at my heels) they naturally weren't admitting anything and meanwhile, unnerved by all the gesticulating and the chatter, the other dog just walked away somewhere, so there wasn't much in the form of evidence either.

As the cliched saying goes, I could write a book to recount my birding rambles with Bozo. Who knows, I may even recount some of them here.

Bozo got into a fight with some dog a couple of days back and when I met him on Saturday, looked mad enough to go bite an iron pole. And though I clucked my tongue enough for all country hens in this part of Hyderabad to hear, he wasn't interested in coming birding with me. The reason wasn't only mental, he had a very badly injured foreleg.

That day I slipped and fell at the buffalo wallow as if I was a two-legged Bozo.

As I write this both Bozo and I are limping, what a doggone connection, no?

As copies of Stray Birds head to Flipkart...

I have never really known what to say when the topic is my poetry or my books. I mean, I could probably talk a lot about why I write poetry -- talk in a ramble, a walkabout, a meander, a dogleg... -- but talk nonetheless.

I could also say what I have said any number of times, and what is the most basic and truthful part of my poetry, that I write primarily for myself and for release.

But ask me to sound articulate, measured and meaningful and there isn't much I can say.

Maybe I am too inward looking, or then again, I am probably too artless for being measured, etc.

**********

I have signed quite a few copies at Goethe-Zentrum (yes, the turnout was surprising and so was the involvement of the people) and now I have finished signing some more. This lot of the copies are headed for Flipkart, where (I am told) quite a few books have already been bought (on pre-order).

I should be happy.

I am happy.

But then, this is a book of poetry...

************

What exactly does success mean, in terms of writing poetry (and authoring poetry books)?

Who do you use as an yardstick to measure against?

Another "famous" poet whose book sold 100 copies?

Or someone like Amish Tripathi who has bagged a 5 Crores advance for his upcoming series of books?

Well, then again what is a poem that can be called a success? One with which everyone agrees, or one with which everyone disagrees, or one that just "works"?

*************

So a nice guy chases me again and again and finally meets me and asks some questions. That resulted in this 

Do take a look.

************

Another birding ghoom, another fall.

That, just about sums up what happened on Saturday. I slipped and fell / slid on the bund of the buffalo wallow. And have skin that's scraped off -- on my right leg, a bit below the knee and a bit besides the ankle.

I am like, bloody hell -- again the camera and lens survived it all, thank God!

Oh yes, they did not touch terra firma, either. But I did, I did and it burns like anything -- to remind me.