King Jack

I have been told once or twice that it is impossible to be ambivalent about jackfruit. I’ve come across people who shudder and blanch at the smell, but I unequivocally love it. I have even tried on a couple of occasions to use the seed – peeled, boiled, peeled, chopped and put into sambhar. What an amazing fruit it is! Such perfect packaging, its smell the very embodiment of tropical lushness… I wonder at its audacity in growing so high up on a tree. Surely something this enormous should grow along the ground?

I’ve confessed here and there that I’m a city girl with deep country love. Then you will understand how much it galls me to eat halasina hannu out of a packet thus. Five measly pieces sold for Rs 10. 

There are whole fruits available but it is impossible to convince my father to buy one. He baulks at carrying it home from the local market, for which he has my sympathies. Besides he jibs at the possible waste, which is nonsense. I would eat it, cook it, pickle it, worship it. Also he suspects (with good reason) that he’ll be lumped with the job of disembowelling it. Which, as anyone who has experience in these matters knows, is a very difficult business. The hands must be oiled; considerable muscle, skill and patience is needed.

   

What I need is a Man Friday. To cut up jackfruit, peel coconuts that have fallen in the garden and disappear conveniently the rest of the time.

Azaan

Do you find that it tugs you just there?

The cavity below the ribs, a throbbing hole

Every evening as dusk falls and then, a few minutes after,

The azaan goes up.

Plaintive, my neighbourhood muezzin!

His voice soars and dips, and I soar and fall in sympathy.

A grief grips me sometimes, a sadness, a trembling –

Call it existential angst.

A few brief minutes and he trails away,

And I return, blindly, to my computer screen.

Dhuan dhukhay mere murshid wala…

….jaan pholaan taan laal ni*


My heart was cleansed anew two or three days ago. It had gathered debris, a film of dust perhaps, or to borrow and stretch a metaphor: like a lit cigarette that has a thickness of ash still clinging. A small flick and the ash has fallen – the flame breathes and smoulders red again.

Earlier this week, I attended a lecture on Daag Dehlvi and the speaker quoted this evocative sher by Sauda, which appealed very much.

Aadam ka jism jab ki anaasir se mil banaa
Kuchh aag bach rahi thi so aashiq ka dil bana

आदम का जिस्म जब भी अनासिर से मिल बना
कुछ आग बच रही थी सो आशिक का दिल बना
 

When the five elements blended to form Adam’s body
A leftover flame went to making the lover’s heart.

========

*From Farid's Mae ni mai kinnu aakhan
[Trans. My Master’s fire spits and smoulders
Red hot, everywhere I blow]

Cleaning Day

Have I told you about Oome, ever? That's not his name - but he's this deaf and mute man who comes around, has come around to do odd jobs for decades now.

His name is Mohd Something, but if he ever managed to communicate it to any of our households we have forgotten it. Oome is Tamil for mute and somehow (without the least intention to diminish, I assure you), that is what he has stayed. Or, if you prefer (as my maid seems to), Umesh - either  Sunita's attempt to civilise a name that appears insensitive to her or she likes to finish the word off properly.

Oome is a character - quirky, whimsical, self-willed... a fakir-like man. Silent for the most part - I don't mean that he can't speak because he's chatty enough when the mood seizes him - but keeps hisself to hisself. He has got the most amazing work ethic. Such a solid worker that his services are in demand across several colonies. He knows precisely what needs to be done, goes about hunting for the tools he needs (and knows which household can be tapped for large shears or that extra large hammer) and so enormously effective at any, but any task you put him to.

Once Oome's on a job, you can retreat to making him tea and snacks, coming back occasionally only for the joy of seeing him work - which he does with intelligence, economy of movement and quality. You know, the feeling that THIS is the best way to do this. He's a great beloved of Shweta's. She had a workshop for a while a few years ago and he helped her set it up with an amazingly intuitive understanding of what she required.

We have been asking for an afternoon of his time for a long time now. But the man has been ducking out of sight, crossing the road when he sees us approach and, when actually pinned down, has made several false promises. We are very sympathetic. He has been this way ever since my mother died. He really liked her, and so, inarticulate as he is, we can see that he can't bear to come to our house. But there is this ominous growth of peepal protruding out of our water tank - and we need it removed quickly. It's also a job requiring intelligence because we don't want to damage the wall or we will have no water tank. Oome's the man to do it.

He came today and it appears that he has decided to allot the day to us. We had four smallish jobs but he looked around and set his own agenda. Our yard and garden tends to be a little unkempt - mostly on purpose, because wild, leaf strewn surfaces have more interest value for the birds and creatures about here. But Oome didn't see it quite like that - he wrinkled his nose and set to work. So we have been engaged in supplying gampas, screw drivers etc and been called forth to decide on a dozen matters. Excuse me, while I deliver him some Roohafza.

Paagalaan

Hyderabad is crazy sometimes. It is something like 42 degrees outside and we wondered, a little boldly, if we could catch the 2.45pm show of Vicky Donor. The movie has been on for four weeks now, it is a weekday and plus this heat wave business on... all things considered, we might get four tickets, you know?

What do you think? SOLD OUT. And people still streaming in, haranguing the man at the counter to try a little harder (this is our local stand-alone cinema hall where pressure or blandishments actually stand a chance), and when all their efforts failed, settling for Jannat 2.

+++++++++

I just caught the promos for the second episode of Coke Studio Pakistan. Looks good. Again. The first episode was excellent too - they haven't lost their touch.

Atif Aslam is going to be singing a version of Ghulam Farid's Mera ishq vi tu... and this wonderful troupe called the Chakwal group with Meesha Shafi.

Because I can't hear myself think

The children at the playschool next door are getting an enthusiastic education... a live band is right now playing 'Summer of '69' and other nostalgic numbers that must make a lot of sense. Too bad most of them will be deafened before they pass out into kindergarten.

I wonder at them, the people who're doing the educating, I mean. They ruthlessly cleared every shrub and tree from the place, laid down plastic turf, covered the play area with plastic corrugated sheets and greenhouse nets. Having gotten rid of the teeming birdlife that lived here, they have paper birds hanging all along one wall in the hope that their charges may be charmed and inspired. And to create an illusion of the green outdoors, they now have a large photograph of a rainforest forming a backdrop to their newly renovated swimming pool.

I'm not suggesting the children aren't happy - they are, they are! But I notice they're happiest when they're left alone, not being harangued to come inside and dance to Justin Bieber's Baby every day of the week, or plagued to put up drill displays (it's a pre-school playschool!) or indeed, being subjected to horrendous concerts like today's.

A tangent. About this cartoonist who knows a bit about kids, and dispatches regular reports on her own with warmth, lots of funny and insight.

My neighbours should take this leaf out of Oormila's book, but on second thoughts, it's probably too subtle for them.

Cartoon copyright: Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad.
Her page, Adventures of the Renaissance Mom is on Facebook. Take a look, she's hilarious!

Tanhaiyaan

Youngsters won't remember but a few years ago, when blogging was the thing to do, we played many jolly games, one of which was to tag each other. My cousin Gayathri had a lovely 'master-list of lists' tag for me that I thoroughly enjoyed doing - though I can't remember if I finished it. The first item was "Nine songs I would pick if those were the only pieces I could listen to for the rest of my life".

In my response, at #9, I picked two ghazals: तुम नहीं, ग़म नहीं (Tum nahin, gham nahin), and कौन आएगा यहाँ (Kaun aayega yahaan). This was seven years ago (!) and the list would read differently now but I am intrigued to see that I am still very fond of these songs by Jagjit Singh.

I've always loved his voice - it's gorgeous - but have been less happy with his lack of versatility, even vivacity. Like many singers, Jagjit Singh wasn't a great composer and I thought he'd have better albums if he outsourced that particular skill instead of doing it himself. I don't remember now who set these two songs to music but the arrangements are lovely.

Tum nahin from youtube, where some enthusiastic, kindly soul has strung a series of images to assist the imagination.

वो करम उँगलियों पे गिनते हैं
ज़ुल्म का जिनके कुछ हिसाब नहीं

woh karam ungliyon pe ginte hain
zulm ka jinke kuch hisaab nahin



And Kaun aayega yahaan, from my own repository.

गुल से लिपटी हुई तितली को गिराकर देखो
आँधियों तुमने दरखतों को गिराया होगा


gul se lipti hui titli ko giraakar dekho
aandhiyon tumne darakhton ko giraya hoga

Play the song

Enjoy!

Mai zindagi ka saath nibhaata chala gaya

Moving from winter to warmer times, now that the planet positions herself this way. A change of header:

thumbing a coat
      over my shoulder
cloudless sky 

This haiku by Christopher Herold draws an evocative picture of the carefree man, unburdened by baggage, stepping out into the world with very little. Even the coat he set out with is not needed any more although he holds onto it; there is a spring in his step, as few pesky thoughts in his head as there are clouds in the sky he looks upon. There is nothing holding him back, the world lies ahead... a faint air of adventure pervades the mood but his joy is not dependent on exciting happenings - this moment is enough.

The mood suits me very well indeed. It is a state that I aspire to but, needless to say, it is nowhere near accomplished. But we try, here and there, now and again, to drop our chains.

Also,  this haiku reminds me so much of our film heroes of the 60s. Graduation complete (first class, Ma!) and voila, there's an appointment letter to hand, giving him a plush sinecure as the manager of a well appointed tea estate. A bag in hand, and brandishing a guitar perhaps, our hero would set off, striding up the hill roads with pleasant dreams of a world waiting to be conquered. Love will come his way, he hopes, a love with red lips, thick black tresses that will shade and shield him from the harshness that life will bring.

There are many examples but at this time it would have to be Joy Mukherjee from Phir Wohi Dil Laya Hun. Not the tea estates but the gardens of Srinagar. RIP, Joy.

Back! and minutiae

This last month has been hectic. Shweta and I were away at Isha Yoga Center to attend a series of events - the opulent Mahabharat, the magnificent all-night Mahashivaratri party (which is attended by lakhs of people) and another rather austere program to round it off. An eventful, whirlwind of a month.

Now we are back with several bags of unwashed clothes, a rather daunting water shortage situation and the summer stretched out in front of us. And once more, the familiar problem of bursting cupboards and not having a thing to wear. As the washed clothes come off the clothesline and are folded, I am having to thrust them into the shelves and bang the door shut... and put off the problem of tumbling clothes till the next time I open it. It is quite dreadful. I need to cull and I don't know where to start.

Hyderabad is nice and hot. And dry, thank heavens. It still feels a bit odd because it was cool, even cold, when I left here and now that I return to distinct summerness, my sweatshirts are still handily located, whereas the shorts and singlets are still packed away. Tomorrow, it will ALL be done. ALL of it.
Today, we blog.

Tech niggles

Blogging is, for me, mostly an impulse. I remember that I own a blog, visit it with distant but burgeoning affection, and then, if I have something to say, I click on the button for a new post. At least,  I used to, but now even that is denied me because I have an ad blocker that puts these blogger buttons under that category and leaves my page bare of such easy conveniences. I must now take the trouble to go to the dashboard and formally apply to make a post which is akin to touching my nose like so:

As I tried to upload this doodle, I discovered yet another problem - my Ad Blocker blocked the upload window and, like a overzealous terrier, wouldn't let go till I disabled it.

But an ad blocker I must, must have. Because I'm being haunted by a particular website that I happened to spend substantial periods of time on when I was required to review it. And I committed what the site owners no doubt consider a heinous sin - I lingered at the 'sign up' page and eventually didn't. Now I am being bombarded, harassed by advertisements of this site every direction I turn. The Ad Blocker recognises this site most thoroughly and I am most pleased with it. But in the meantime, what am I to do with its inimical attitude to blogger?

Against a deadline

Sixteen minutes to go to my 7pm soap. What can I say that's worthwhile? Incoherent again.
Thoughts - dark ones - on definitions, labels, the desire for solidification, self-aggrandisement. On how self worth often stands precariously balanced on an assortment of sneers.
Sonu Nigam, Chetan Bhagat, Paulo Coelho - easy targets for anyone. Free potshots for anyone at all who has only learnt what is cool and what is not. And yet, these guys are sturdy enough to prop people as they haul themselves up whatever ladder it is they want to be high up on. Easy, isn't it, to tell everyone how well read you are, how refined your tastes with one look of disgust and a mention of Paulo Coelho? 

Anyway. A link.

Deep thoughts

sleepy.
sleeeeepy.
sleeeeeeeeeeepy.