Where are you from?

Four years ago, or maybe a tad bit longer, or rather older, I moved to Bengaluru. This charmingly beautiful city with it`s never ending traffic and never ending rains. When you hear the word rains, and if you belong to a part of this subcontinent where it rains in the monsoons unlike the more dry arid parts. then be warned, Bengaluru loves to charm it`s way and trick you into believing that it did rain. So I ask: Did it rain? and then pat comes the reply, Yes, it did, look at the soggy clothes and wet faces. But well, alarmingly enough, you see the sunlight right away.

Over the years, I have been curious to read narratives of Bengaluru, written by its locals. Narratives of an honest depiction of the Bengaluru of the bygone days, of the post-colonial days, wherein you could hear the sounds of birds nested on a brick white window sill of a mansion with beautiful tapestries. I didn't want to read the contemporary narratives, for the present is quite jarring, with looms of dust descending upon us like a never-ending nightmare, poor kids wheezing in jam-packed streets addled with potholes. These descriptions don't make a coffee table read.

What I have forgotten in this whole narrative is the simplest answer to the question, I have been asked quite frequently over the past few years: Where are you from?

I have grown up in the monsoon clad humid Visakhapatnam, known for its harbors and beaches. I, however, stayed away from Vizag for a period of seven years, living in Hyderabad. The city I returned to after these years was barely recognizable. The city I left, didn't have flyovers, manicured beaches, and malls. The city I left didn't have chains of food joints splattered across its radius, beckoning consumerism further in. I do not for a second rue the development, the city has seen. However, it baffles me to greet an old friend with a completely unrecognizable makeover and warmth just on the fringes, barely there.

So when the good ol' Bangalorean here, tells me, they miss the Bangalore they knew, I understand. I can relate partly to the changes that happen in a city. that grows at a mind-boggling pace. I would love to have a time-turner to just flip back to the good days back in time to have an energetic banter over hot filter kaapi and idlis sold at tiny stores under the shelter of trees, adorning a street with Sampige and mallige blossoms. 

Recently. I was in an auto with a friend, thinking of my years in this lovely city, recounting the roads I cycled in the North Bengaluru on a cold breezy day like the one today. I came to this stark realization that, over the past years I indeed developed a rare bond with this city. That rare moment of joy you experience when you know the potholes of the road as perfectly as the back of your hand. When you walk in the pavements of the road, knowing precisely where you need to be wary of the sludge dislodging from the streets onto the clothes; and when you can occasionally follow a heated conversation in Kannada without looking for translations, you know that you have got the whiff of Bangalore around!

I write this blog on a pleasant Sunday evening, with a cup of tea in my hand sitting peacefully in my home, watching green parakeets occasionally whir away, surrounded by beautiful Torenia blooms. So, trust me, Bangalore is not a dry sad place devoid of nature.

Signing it off, 

@Namma Bengaluru

Rains in Vizag, a yesteryear charm?

I hear thunder!
I hear thunder!
Oh! don't you? Oh! don't you?
Pitter, patter raindrops,
Pitter, patter raindrops,
I'm wet through!
I'm wet through!

This school rhyme brings back  memories of reading  the rhyme in school,  looking at the huge droplets fall down the school  windows. Those early school days donning yellow and pink translucent raincoats. The restless hunting for a umbrella to not get the sleeves wet. Avoiding nice trips on a scooter with Dad in that heavy brown raincoat, just to avoid mud splashes. Getting up early to collect parijata blossoms that won't get crushed by the rains.

Rains awash the roads alongside the sandy beaches of Vizag. The few scattered coconut trees wave to the gales. When you see the clouds darken you can expect torrential rains.

Clothes which never dry,  and finding the nooks and corners in the home to dry that tiny bits and pieces. Dreading Fridays at schools because you need to wear an all white uniform with matching white canvas shoes, and wondering how the neighbourhood Navy uncle always wears his whites like Nirma white.

Getting drenched in the rain, and trying to avoid any adult till you sneak in the home to mask any signs of having been outdoors. Piping hot mirchi bajji and aloo puris make the staple evening snacks. Not to forget, annoying your dad till you get the samosas from Gautam's or Sukh Sugar near RK beach with the tangy tamarind sauce or probably better, convince him to get bhel puri off the beach road.

The beach road of Vizag, scantily lighted, very breezy, where the intoxicating smell of salt invades your very being. Convincing someone else to accompany you to play in the waters since you are at the beach anyway has to be marked off the Checklists.

On the grim scenario, that you fell sick, folding papers into nice tiny boats and looking at them raft across the muddy waters, taking care to not get yourself too muddy and failing miserably. Assuming you reach home early,  and not allowed to leave the doorstep, reading Ruskin  Bond to step into the imaginary rains of the hills of Dehra, or probably find a cosy squishy chair and daydream of Enid Blyton's Anna and George off with Tim to Kirrin's island. If that doesn't work, go asking Mom why there aren't tiny Islands like them off the beaches of Vizag cos it's a coast too right?

Getting excited because the morning school assembly will remain canceled and you can read the school prayer individually. Using the pretext of a runny nose to avoid a muddy football match and delve into the cosy comforts of the school library to find a nice Nancy Drew adventure or maybe a new book of the rack to read in 2 hours, or convince the librarian to lend this book too cos you are already midway through it and without any more library cards(obviously, duh)

Someone asks me out of the blue,  so do you want to go see the Vizag monsoons?
Rains in this new city  are beautiful and pleasant. A nice walk down a park or the long clean  roads  are  charming indeed. Rains in a hotter city I lived in were refreshing,  but rains of the childhood years, well they just keep reminding you of how years strolled by, things changed, childhood metamorphosed and well the city,...

Watery memories

The sturdy mahogany door stood tall, befitting the entrance to a mansion decades old. It was a silent testimony to the years that passed by. I waited at the gates,  staring at the door, probably in the foolish hope that it might burst into a garrulous talk of nonsensical gibberish. Or probably not. The door reminded me of what lay inside,  memories of childhood to be unearthed.

Apprehensions aside,  I waited as I heard the dangling sound of the anklets, Chinni wore. She had those tiny silver bells specially designed for her anklets. She doesn't let me get in till I have the customary saffron  smeared in a long line across the forehead and a huge gigantic plate with burning camphor in the centre to ward off evil eye.
Some things never change do they, well I enter in, finally.

The stiff hard backed chairs, and the brown red table with the empty vase. Dejavu, all over again. All days of my childhood comes flashing back in crystal clear memories.  The familiarity is painful.  I have stashed all the painful memories aside. Trying not to think about growing up and here I am.  Complete circle.  Back from where I started.

I left the house teary eyed. The time I felt pain,  the deep feeling of humiliation, Of being insulted in front of friends and family. Some people might say, it is too silly to hold a childhood grudge as an adult,  but I differ. I pledged not to return.  And yet here I am, why would I be back, you might wonder?

I felt I could not stand the oppressive silence of the long hallways of this rusty dreaded mansion.  I decide to take a walk, looking around till he arrives.  He had aged, and with every year, his health was on a decline.  My aunt unable to take it any longer, the silence, burst into tears over the phone.  She wanted me to be back.  She wanted me to be here when the surgeon pierces my father's chest open.

I do not understand why. He had never acknowledged my pitiful existence until it was inevitable. I never met his high expectations,  a son who refused to do everything the father desires. The father who never understood what his son wants.

Today I am on that very same river bank. The backwaters of Godavari, I sit in solemn solitude.  I hear the birds chirping returning to their nest as the sun sets.  I realise with calmness, maybe I do not want to call this place home. So I stare at the water, maybe it might change the course of time.

The silence is suddenly broken,  with a very unfamiliar sound. I hear the sound of metal clang on the pebble rocks.  Looking up, I notice him, my father. He looks so unfamiliar,  probably because of the metal contraption that is helping him walk. And suddenly, I felt the sense of guilt and selfishness overpower me as I notice years  of weariness on his wrinkled face. 

He looked tired, was it because of the walk? Or was it because of my return. 
I would rather not be privy to that tiny piece of knowledge.

I almost  begin to dread what he might  talk.  So I wait silently, and my heart beating wildly and eyes scrunched in consternation as I wait for his angry rant.  I kept waiting but it never came. I settle down back onto the lull and silence.

He calls me, Dev, no pet names, for I never had one. Strangely he doesn't seem to be annoyed. He ushers me close.  He holds me in embrace and apologises.  In a sense of shock,  I wonder if it's a dream, since my father would never admit if he's wrong even on the day of holocaust.
He asks me to walk further. We reach a country road, a banyan tree and a swing on it.  It looks very familiar except for the absence of the familiar motor pump and the wooden shed with metal frame.  In its place I see a small house and I walk closer to see a mailbox,  the old kind with the caramel frame and a white box on top with a lid.  In bright red letters, I see Dev plastered on the box.
I wonder if it's his way of making things right, but  I don't know what to do. I wait in confusion, as he slowly walks over to the other side.  He has the last word, as usual.
I slowly turn around and hear a loud noise.  I crunch my eyes.  I look wildly to see, there was no house, No mail box.  I wake up on a metal chair.  The blinding white of hospital, and the smell of antiseptic. I bring myself to the reality,  as I see my father behind a mass of plastic tubing, and beeping devices. Nurses bustling as I see the blank line on ECG.
He indeed had the last word. 

The journey

Rahul was on the beach.,  feeling the sand under his feet.  The grainy touch.  The waves crashing in synchronised chaos.  The sounds lending comfort to his ears.  It has become a daily routine. A task he has got fully used to. A task he thoroughly enjoyed,  watching  the sun slowly rise.  The golden hues of sun rays,  shimmering  like a  haphazardly cut mirror.  Just like any other day,  he was waiting for the sun rays to transform the waters to a  peachy shade.  The salt in the air was very perceptible.  It was his regular day.  He started walking slowly back.

Today,  he felt the urge to do something different. Something he had been yearning for ages.  A desire left unfulfilled. A desire which he believed must come to fruition right away. 

He was a kid. He remembered that day vividly.  The day his grandpa was telling him tales of the hills.  He was sitting in front of his grandpa's chair,  the old,  brown reclining one.  Grandpa, his eyes sparkling  with delight as he recounted  his youthful days and the grandson with the delight of learning something new.  Grandpa,  told him of the  day, the day when he went on a safari into the woods.  The woods were very dark even on a bright sunny day.  The woods had eerie sounds of bats,  and haunting spirits,  waiting to clench their grip.

Grandpa wasn't scared. He parked the Jeep and started the trek.  Rahul could feel his hairs stand,  and hear the rustle of dry leaves as his Grandpa went on.
Grandpa went on  to traverse the rocky terrain with a strong grip on the ground underneath.  Rahul wanted to know where Grandpa was trekking to. It was noon.  The rays weren't visible but the heat could be felt.  The trek was fairly challenging.  Sweat rolled across the face and palms. But grandpa was not daunted.  He walked till the destination was reached.  And today, Rahul decided to go there!

Rahul was now at the start of the trek.  He could see the dense woods.  It was the start of another day. He walked the rocky terrain, with his nerves pulsing with feverish excitement. He was  trudging up the rocks, not taking a minutes recess. The rocks were loose at times, so he stumbled and steadied himself. Bruised,  scratched,  a bit famished, but not any less enthusiastic.

Rahul was nearly at the end of his trek.  He could now see bright light, not too blinding but warm. The rays of the sun were casting an idyllic haze.  Now he was on a paved terrain,  rocky steps leading the way as the sun was slowly casting it's shadows. He felt cool breeze rush.  He could hear the sounds, not of dry leaves but of water rushing.  He reached his destination.  He saw the lofty descent of water.  A magnificent view .  The water descending from the jagged cliff,  frothing in a white mass.  He could feel the force, the force of water gushing.  He took a long breath and shouted in jubilation. The journey was done and the destination a memory to be treasured.

Brevity of 4

This blog is a collection of 4 line poems that I wrote.

I watched the sunset,

casting its rays on a shimmery surface

of water and moss

As she took a gulp from the frothy mass

I watched the dawn, 

babies cry and yawn

cradled in arms of a mother

whose rags were torn

I watched the noon,

sun in an angry swoon

as fumes of dust and chemicals rise

he gasps and coughs for a rupee 

I watched the night,

as moon dazzled on sea with all its might,

Plentiful, Serene and Bountiful

`cept for the sad eyes of a mogra seller.

#harsh #grim #urbanexperiences

Hyderabad chronicles-Post 1

I look at you. Dark and dingy,  even on a bright warm sunny day. You reek of death.  You smell of gore, Of violence and blood.

You scare me to no extent. There was a time,  a point of time when I used to look at you,  shiny yellow and blue. I found your presence bliss.

I found you to be a regular companion. Steady and unmoving. But then,  obviously,  like me,  you too enjoy a change,  in dress and style.

Unfortunately, you don't really get to choose what style  you may like, do you? They decide to deck you up when we have visitors in town. Sometimes bubblegum pink,  and other times a dash of white,  saffron and green,  with dirty red streaks here and there.
There are those days,  when it's just years of dust piling up on you, making you look older.
But today, you aren't old,  you aren't young.  You are just hideous. I don't perceive the old emotions,  the pleasant days,  when I found your presence to calm me and remind me that I am halfway through the journey.
Today,  I want to run away from you.  I want to go as far as I can from the echoing screams that have marred your presence, from the blood that is so gorily staining the prim blue seats.
I would rather not wait for a bus near you. I would rather not recollect the pleasant memories of school kids, stopping by with their heavy bags, heads tilting  with smiles and laughter after a regular day of bickering on books,  maybe some exams. I would rather not think of lovely old Sitamma who's no longer selling jasmine and chrysanthemums.

I hope you disappear.  I hope the new development schemes HUDA comes up with,  may push you off into thin air,  transforming you into rubble and concrete dust.  Dilsukhnagar bus stop, I hope you don't exist. 

Ides of March

So here goes my first poem on the blog


'twas the Ides of March,
As we study the verses of the Bard,
Learning English with an appetite large,
While Few said  theatre was absurd.

' twas the Ides of March,
As we watch our teacher enact,
Caesar saying, Et tu Brute?
We students loved to take charge,
Pretend to be on stage like fools with skulls cracked.

'twas the Ides of March,
When I fell in love with the bard,
No soothsayer around,
We were jumping up and down,
Friends in the backyard,.
All of us free of negative charge.

It's the Ides of March,
Tonight I recount,
Memories of school afresh,
A student devout,
Dedicated beyond measure,
was there any greater treasure?

Thinking back of the sweet days,
When all you had to do was feign to act,
Miss the days,
Of ignorance and lack of tact,
When 'twas on the Ides of March.