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.

Air /Time Travel ?

So a very late post in this year, could not really find time for blogging.
So this piece is interesting, because it involves contribution from a friend. We tried out a style of writing, which  can be colloquially called yin yang, opposite streams of thought, with me being the quintessential pessimist(to all obviousness) and my friend the optimist.


Leaves are strewn across everywhere.  I smell the fumes of acrid plastic burning.,  or maybe it's human flesh.  I just don't know.  I am confused.  I am totally lost.  I am unable to see or hear anything.  I try looking around. My eyes finally decide to let me see.
What do I see?
I see that I am no longer in a chair strapped in the aeroplane.  I don't see the elderly lady with her golden frame spectacles.  She was annoyingly chatty in the journey.  I was glad that she dosed off. I knew I had to bear her noisy chatter for 11 long hours.  I knew I had to be nice to her,  because that's what I usually do. Moreover,  she's probably scared to death, of flying like I am.

So every time I board a flight,  I remember airplanes getting  hijacked or crashing into runways.  I realised very early that I had a phobia,  a phobia to travel by air.  I get anxious,  I fidget a lot.  Sometimes I just play with the foldable footrest or sometimes I just take my pen out and pointedly stare at its tip,  with an intensity that ought to have burned it.  And then sometimes I try looking out through the tiny window.  I do it like a ritual,  cos everytime I book a flight,  I make sure I get the one under the aisle.  It makes me feel assured.

One of these days, I was reading a blog on social media,  which talked about runways that shouldn't exist.  Runways that open up into the sea,  or maybe exist around cliffs or mountains.  I just sit back assured that my flight  is going to land at Bangalore. It's one of the safest airports.  So I can sit back and stop hyperventilating.  I don't know when I drifted off.  I don't know when the flight stopped.
I don't know why I am no longer in the flight.  Nor do I understand why I smell flesh and blood.  I hear screams. I am in a pool of blood slowly losing whatever energy I mustered.

I couldn't even look down to see how badly I was hurt because of the shrapnel lodged in my collar bone. The last thing I remember is clutching my GLBT (Galactic Low Beam Transponder). The old lady had kept trying to take it from me. Obviously hers wasn't working and i guess she was having trouble finalizing her destination. I had made my selection before i boarded because of how anxious i get on flight and focusing on anything becomes difficult.

The sharp noise in my head was receding but the screams around were getting louder. What were they saying? Either something was wrong with my hearing or the voices around were speaking a completely foreign language. The word 'miles' was mentioned repeatedly. Given the surroundings, I was clearly miles from where i had intended to be.

I finally managed to get the shrapnel near my neck. Thankfully, I didn't bleed to death. A piece of cloth tied around like a scarf seemed to hold fine. I gingerly got up on my feet and got my first full view of my surrounding. This was not Bangalore or was it?

I had read that one of the possible origins of the name Bangalore is Vengaluru meaning military hold or township. Possibly barracks from over a thousand years ago. That's what it looked like. The strewn leaves, that burning smell which i just figured was boiling lead that was being poured to make cannon balls.

It dawned on me then. The old lady, the chatty old lady .. She kept trying to tell me something and wouldn't let me focus on my pen or the footrest. I found my GLBT lying near my back pocket. As I picked it up, a dread came over. I knew what the old lady had been trying to mumble through her toothless mouth. I had selected Bangalore alright but the arrival time was  wrongly typed. It said 3 PM, 14 Feb, 1016. I had landed in Vengaluru, in the middle of the forest clearing that in a thousand years would become MG Road.

P.S. Thanks Rajesh, for your contributions, and making this piece lively :D