BANANAS IN THE TIME OF COVID

You will not miss it. A small, ramshackle tea-shop, balanced on rickety wheels, with packets of ‘ghutka’ streaming down the sides. The aroma of dosas roasting on the tawa, spiking the cool Bangalore air. A huge, steel-grey flask full of freshly over-brewed tea balancing on a pile of bananas. Good-luck charms representing myriad gods dangling from the tin roof. Valliamma’s mobile sustenance centre, parked in an empty plot at the entrance to the road where I live.

Every day at 7.30 AM, Valli Amma and her family would arrive with the cart. Parking it at the usual spot, the family would start work at a frenetic pace: brewing tea, frying pooris, roasting dosas, cooking rice, sambaar, bhaaji and chutney. All the while, the sinfully tempting aroma of chilli bajjis being fried would melt the resolve of passers-by like Sunny Leone in a wet saree.

By 8 AM, the guests would start arriving. It would be a trickle initially; the few gym-goers dropping by for a fresh cuppa, walkers picking up their morning fix of a Gold Flake King with tea. Slowly, the flow would pick up, soon ballooning into a surging crowd that gobbled up lemon rice, pooris, dosas, double omelettes and raw-banana bajjis with alarming speed.

All the while, unbeknownst to the milling crowds, the family would be enacting a perfectly orchestrated process of managing the operations. Production, supply chain, quality control, guest relations, public relations, housekeeping and collections would run in a seamless rhythm, managed by CEO-cum-chef, her husband, and two sons.

To even think that there could be a better-managed establishment in Fourth Block, Koramangala, would be sacrilege. And, without even discerning the Druckerian precision that made the outlet flourish, guests lined up – arriving on bicycles, two- and four-wheelers and even the occasional Audi.              

Somewhere along the way, I too became a regular at the tea-shop. Having always believed in the soul-settling combination of solitude, cheap over-brewed tea and cigarette, I would saunter up to the corner every morning for my fix and some gupshup with the family. Becoming friends with the family members was easy; such were their smiles and open-hearted, endearing nature. Soon, we started exchanging tiny expressions of friendship and affection: an extra poori for my wife, a box of chocolates that my daughter had brought from ‘Amreeka’…

Not that it was always smooth sailing for the establishment. A couple of times, it was evicted from the plot, as the owner lay claim on his rightful property. A huge canal being dug along the edge of the road reduced access greatly. But each time, the family would gently adjust to the new reality and inching back to full capacity.

Then one day, it happened. The fear of the virus gripped the world. The stall had to be shut down, and the family retreated to its hut a few streets away.

As I lived on in my privileged world, unhappy with the 20% cut in my fee that one of my clients requested for, and craving for my favourite cocktail, one day the thought hit me. How would Valliamma and her family be faring?

After days of playing with the thought, finally I made it to the hut this morning. It was easy to spot, thanks to the rickety old cart parked outside. Suitably masked and tip-toeing like an obese ballerina, I knocked at the door. An old woman - presumably Valliamma’s mother – opened the door. Soon, the entire family followed, smiling.

Yes, it has been hard, they told me. But they were fighting back; the husband was selling bananas in a cart at the junction, and they were helping a friend sell vegetables. They had no idea when life, and their earnings, would return to normal. But they were still smiling.

Gently, tactfully, I asked Valliamma’s son Murali: “Could I give you some money”? After a moment, he smiled again; I could see his eyes gleaming just a wee bit. He said, “Not now, Anna. If we need it, we’ll ask.”

As I left, Valliamma wrapped up three ‘Yelakki’ bananas in a newspaper and placed it in my hands. “This is for sister”, she said. And I saw her eyes, too, gleaming.

Without doubt, those were the three most precious bananas I had ever touched.

    

  

FLOOD  

Water splits muscles

smithereens concrete dams

lasers the pride of generations of

unseeinguncaringunmoving

imbeciles.

The children will never know

what split the water.

One half life,

the other, death.

One half Amrut

the other, Arsenic.

Children, dogs, grandmothers, 

earthworms, 

squirrels and butterflies will,

even after the flood, 

blindly believe in water.

The rest will

get flushed.

THE AMBER CELLAR

I had a friend

who used to tear

the edges off evenings

and weave mats

out of them.

He was a good man.

He locked up

his evening-mats

safely in the cellar

of his own house.

We used to marvel at

the  strips of evening-edges

turning into

the warp and weft of the mats.

Soon, evenings laced with a palette of scarlet, amber,

saffire, saffron,

and emrald green, became mats;

piled high

one on top of another

resting upon

the floor of his cellar.

But,

the insides of the cellar

which sheltered the mats

were filled with darkness.

Those who sauntered by,

Seeking the tones of

a lilting flute,

birdsong,

twilight mantras,

and adhans

were greeted

by a deafening silence.

My friend departed

a few days ago,

leaving behind

his evening-strip mats.

Just the other day,

the wind swept by,

bringing back

some evenings from the past.

None of them had

edges.

Self-doubt in F Minor

SELF-DOUBT IN F MINOR

I like having a drink

On my own,

Elbows on the greasy pinewood table-top.

Like having a meal

Alone, watching the kitten

Fight its shadow.

Am I weird?

I love it when my exes’

Kids have kids,

I forget the wedding dates

Of in-laws' cousins,

Can't make a decent coffee

And let my dog with his dirty feet

On the bed.

I keep confusing mint leaves

With coriander

Buy unnecessary hundred-rupee trinkets

Drink gin with my son

And quietly write my will.

If there is an exam

To get on to the pedestal,

I guess I would be
an F minus.

Let Us

One day, beloved,

Let’s measure the path

From sand to sky,

From moonbeam to sun-ray,

From shark-fin to eagle-crest.

Let’s hold each other

By our little fingers, and

Dream together

Till the gripe water

From our babyhoods blend.

Let’s lie on our backs

On sawdust, counting

The feathers on each pink

Cloud.

Let’s lie on our faces

On a whale-back fountain,

Waltzing, for a change,

With our eyelashes.

Let us.

Under the Siesta 

Aluminium

discarded

angelic and reflective

catches a glint of saintliness.

Spry as a caterwauling neon sign,

it settles

before splitting

lengthwise.

Froth.

From the needles to the pines,

the swamps to the sled-tracks,

it reigns.

Spilled over from bilious exhausts;

made, shrewdly, by the

white-clad, scheming, roof-light-laden

tramplers of pride.

Let's light a fuse,

the imbecile says.

The wise spit on his sentence

with a studied snarl.   

Sockless

I’ve never seen you

in socks.

Flip-flops, sandals, boat shoes…

always.

Or, nothing at all.

When did you last

wear socks?

Not at a business meet,

not at a wedding.

Maybe in your school,

which I had never stepped into.

Today, I look up

and wish

 for your feet

at my door,

sockless.

Silent Monsoon

Remember the sand that boiled

in our hands as we dug into the earth

together?

Remember the chain

that stretched to its limit

when we pedaled hard on 

our cycles?

Remember the shards

of skin that fell off

our knees, blending

into the soil, becoming

the feed

of earthworms?

Remember the round stains

our lassi glasses made

on the housefly-ridden

café counter?

Remember the future

that had crept in stealthily

into our words,

as we talked about

those high-flying glow-worms?

As I had smoked that

one Gold Flake King,

drinking the tea you had made

from a glass tumbler,

you had watched the raindrops

fall on the banana leaves

and roll off quietly.

Now, only the puddles remain,

and their song is lost

in the monsoon.

    

Hyphens

Tom’s teacher told Tom,

‘A hyphen connects’.

Before Tom took off

to the hills,

He mixed all his hyphens

into a glass of juice

And gave it to his friend, Roy.

This poem was written by

the very-well-connected

Roy.   

Wrinkle

Meeting you in

The hallway of pretensions,

I notice how you look

So out of place.

You break your steps

For a drink of water

From the mud-pot in the corner.

The crow watches.

You step over the shadow of

The minaret

That creeps in from across

The road onto the floor.

It tingles as it gets

The breeze, rustled down from the folds

Of your sari.

Tell me, what did you think of all my lies

When I had told them to you?

What do you think of them

Now?

Did you ever see anything

At all

In my gray and shameful ramblings,

In the repainted tin toys that

I had kept on your doorstep

And window-sill?

As we lay, face down,

On the cold ugly mosaic floor

With mismatched tiles,

Did your heart ever keep a feather

Over one of mine?

All our kisses we never tasted,

The hands we never held,

The wrinkles we never etched

In the grey, badly-embroidered sheets.

The goodbyes said early.

The hellos whispered with hope

And hung to dry in the monsoon sun,

The touches born of a hunger that

Never left its safe dark space…

All speak to me in

Braille today.

I close my eyes, my tongue, my ears,

My skin, my nail-tip,

Saving for another rainy day that

Will never arrive.