Cow is so good it can give milk in packets

In a recent interaction with six-year-old children, I asked them to write a short description of any animal of their choice. I gave them a structure for the essay — namely the first line should describe their chosen animal in such specific manner that the readers should be left in no doubt, the second few lines should detail the use/danger of the animal to humans and the last line can be used to express their personal opinion of the animal.
I usually use this exercise to gauge how “schooled and boxed in” the children are and based on this I decide at what level I should begin my writing workshop with them. But it emerged that this particular group was full of poets. For the sake of my readers, I have remedied the children’s sentences and spellings a bit, but the import is intact. Read on:
A boy who chose to write on cow said in his first sentence (describing the animal in specific manner), “A cow is a cow. Not a goat.”  ”Going on to the second paragraph, he explained, “Many animals have milk, but a cow is so good that it can give milks even in packets” and his last line said it all, “I love a cow. It is so useful I know its spelling.”
Another child enthralled me with her version of the lion. Her first line read — “Lines are fat and hairy.” Second paragraph — “Lions run after non-veg items like chicken, egg, mutt­on, beef. We cannot be friends with lion as we are also non-veg item.” And finally, “Lions are useful to us in cinemas.
Then came the dog. “Do I like my dog or my sister? My sister fights with me. My dog only bites me. I bathe in Dettol, my dog also. My sister’s name is Minu. My dog’s name is Joker. I feel sad because they make fun of my dog. He is not joker, but my sister is mean. I hate my sister. I love my dog. He is useful. Sister is dangerous.”
Yet another child wrote about the owl. “Owl is living in villages or forests, inside a tree hole. They are so wise that crow, sparrow and everyone go to Owl for wisdom. An owl sleeps in the day. But I cannot. I come to school in the day. Also I live in city. So I don’t know anything about owl. So bye-bye.”
Next came the snake. “Ssssssssssssssssssssss­ssssss, a snake shouts like this. When we say ssssssssssssssssssssssssss it means keep quiet. Teachers shout like snake. Snakes dance very well. For annual day we did snake dance. A snake is useful in school programmes.”
There was one on Hippos too. “Hippo has large hips. They live in Discovery TV. I have a hippo soapbox. If hippo and elephant fight, who will win? I am very sorry; I don’t know any use of Hippo.”
And I particularly love the one on elephants. “Elephant is big, black and very strong. From far they look like black clouds. They wear bells to warn us. Their anklets are so big we use them as chains. Elephant is the national animal of the world.”
There were many other lovely entries about the rabbit, peacock, monkey and even fish. The children eventually created some beautiful
poetry with me which I shall share with my readers in another column.
The children employed such exquisite
expressions, boldness and revealed such
expanse of heart and mind that I regretted my adulthood, which seems to stand in my way of writing good poetry. What more can I say? I only hope that the children’s “schooling does not interfere with their education” and I can only hope that these children remain the poets they so easily are!

Wash if you are Indian. Wipe if you are not.

One of the easiest ways to heckle or ignite an NRI, I found was to ask in the midst of a genial conversation, “Wash or wipe?” The context is unmistakable and the question goes home immediately. We all know that paper or water in the toilet is no yardstick to measure degree of patriotism but it very well could be going by my NRI friends’ discomfiture.
Looks like the conversion to a western way of life, begins with the unruly Indian tongue massaging its “r”s into doughy “zh”s and ends with the bottom demanding paper over water. And between the tongue and the bottom, there lies a long drawn process of cultural adjustment and appropriation and between wash and wipe there hovers a great continental shift in world view. However to do our Indian brothers and sisters fair, let me put it on record that they indeed held on to the water by their bottoms as long as they could before they began to need more than the daily newspaper to accompany them into the bathroom. Their transition from wash to wipe school of thought (and action) had been anything but easy for them as the article will indicate.

Starting with better adjusted candidates- Vinu Warrier from Canada insisted that the “wash or wipe dilemma is the most under mentioned problem of Diaspora”. Living abroad for past two decades he proudly asserts his dual citizenship by first wiping with paper and later washing at his tub. (Thanks for telling. When I visit you I shan’t roll in your tub.) An uncle of mine admitted that he washes in India and wipes in America. (That must be one long journey for so poor a cause!). Sathya in Australia said he wets the paper with water and uses them as wet wipes (eligible candidate for dual citizenship).

Moving on to difficult customers who wouldn’t answer the question without first berating the Indian toilet - Raghavan s(h)itting pretty in Boston delivered a stinging monologue on the state of the Indian loos before he condescended to answer the question “Wash or wipe?”
Raghavan’s erudite electricity* (bottom’s name changed to protect identity) prefers paper over water and has arrived at the choice after smelly introspection. “With the western loo,” he boomed, “you have to deal with your own ass being a little less than squeaky clean after a trip. With the Indian style loo, you are frequently wondering what exactly you are stepping on when you enter. Sometimes you are left with no doubt, thanks to the clues on the floor left behind by the previous occupant. So, given the choice between having a little of my own produce on my ass and having other people's produce on my feet (and possibly hands), I choose the former, as any rational human being would. So that resolves it, right? I wipe now. I wipe. So what??” (The hysteria was moving, really).

Pavithra in London (here I mean the great city London and not the loo which many of us Indians still call ‘London’) discussed the “yuck factor” of Indian toilets before answering the question. “Despite all the new found economic prosperity of India, we seem quite reluctant to give up our rusty iron bucket in the loo that was bequeathed to us by our grandmothers. Sometimes the rusty bucket would spring a leak at the bottom, at which time, some bright guy in the household would come up with the idea of lining the old heirloom with a coat of cement at the bottom so that the bucket may survive another generation, not to mention that it now holds less water and weighs an extra kilogram. Also, you are sure that the previous visitor, after finishing his business picked up the bucket with his unwashed hands and put it back in place under the dripping tap. I hate Indian loos. Paper is definitely cleaner, drier and undeniably better.” She concluded.

Rumi who had in one of MTVs’ programs seen among other hot hangout spots in Asia, also pictures of the Asian loo, complete with arrows and drawings detailing how to squat and do business, was very excited on her first trip to India. Sufficiently briefed about Indian toilet practices, Rumi had just one Punjabi meal in an uppity restaurant before declaring, “I now know why Indians use water in their toilet.” When the fire in her tongue subsided she couldn’t stop raving about a new contraption she found in the bathroom, which apparently was not available when her parents were still Indians. “The mini shower hose is a riot. I heard it is a new addition to the toilet accessory to ensure dry bathroom floor.” She said before adding, “My aunt visiting from the village sort of missed the whole point. She dethroned from the western closet, squatted on the floor and got her aim wrong and ended up spraying her tummy or face before she finally figured it out. Paper is most definitely uncomplicated,” Rumi couldn’t stop laughing.
The question “Wash or wipe?” indeed seems a dipstick study on where the NRI stands vis-à-vis his country and its way of life. Among many things like cleaner environment, potable tap water and wider roads, what keeps our Indians comfortably abroad is….believe it or not is the state of the Indian loos. What our friends do in their bathrooms abroad is their business, but you know you have lost yet another wet Indian to the dry west when they start needing toilet paper even when they are visiting home. The toilet paper I am afraid is no ordinary tissue- it is the final cord that permanently binds our brethren to the alien land, a string that severes the umbilical cord with their homeland, a rope that draws our brothers out of the Indian amniotic waters. But be assured the Sons of Indian soil began to wipe their spoils only after sufficient turmoil! (Sorry about the melodrama-heh heh!)

Raghavan at Boston who briefly returned to his original semi-hysteric self wistfully shared his dreams of a toilet that would go beyond the narrow continental boundaries and address the true need of the customer. “The Japanese- these innovative people really have it all figured out - the spray and dryer are built into the loo and there is a panel of buttons on the side. So after you are done, you push button number one and lo and behold a spray of water comes up and cleans you even as you stay seated. And then one more button to blow dry it all out. Usually there are four buttons on the panel - I am not sure what the other two do, probably powder and pat. I really think the Japanese have it figured out - they are truly ahead of the pack in this technology, I think. Sometimes as I sit on my own humble loo with just a roll of paper on the side, I dream about a day when every loo will spray, dry, powder and fondly pat each ass that comes its way.”
Now we know what lies in the bottom of the Non Resident Indian’s heart or should we say in the heart of the Non Resident Indian’s bottom?

*******

* "Wash or wipe" is my very first article for Loony Life column in The New Indian Express

Between the two

Yudhistira has logic
So does Manu
Sadly I don’t understand them
and that comes in my way of

blissful marriage and easy copulation
1+1=2 cannot be more complicated.

In the marriage firmament
I often wish to be a star
like Arundati
Whom or which I pretended to spot
standing on a piece of rock
“May your chastity be like rock”
The priest murmured.
And of course I rock.

15 years post standing on brimstone
Yudhistira and Manu - persistent men
keep coming (in) my way.
One trades wife and other sells locks
to women.
But I am not women.
I am single and singular
That also comes in my way of

Blissful marriage and easy copulation
1-1=0. That is also complicated.

As I float aimlessly in the corridors
of well swept institutions
I spy the two men
Yudhistira and Manu
photocopying themselves assiduously
and releasing flyers into air for quick pollination.

They pause. They even smile nicely at me.
Yudhistira binds my wild locks.
He hates them. It reminds him of many things.
“Choose between us.
Him or Me”, says Manu gently
and
calls in my son to take me home.
“It is either him or me. There is no third kind,”
adds Yudhistira.

Between the two
I hug Yudhistira.
The chief architect of trade-offs.
He will understand my request-surely?
“If the seeds are all the same,
then may I have four more men
and rotate them like crops?”
I ask.

****

Published in Unisun's "Mosaic" anthology of poems

Kali

Tell me a secret, any secret.
Maybe on how
you live in dark marshy woods
and yet keep your feet spotless white
or
how you squeeze the serpents like washed clothes
till they spew the truth.

Can you reveal
how you wear a dress
tied only at the neck, hemmed with lemon beads
that I suspect to be living worlds
or how you keep the tongue
red hot all year round.


Kali
tell me how you carry
men’s torn heads like vanity
and use their prying arms
as leaves for your skirt

or
pray divulge why you should be
all black and blue
when you have no pending dowry to be paid
nor a man to maintain
and especially when you have a tiger of a pet?

Let drip just one coveted secret
from those luscious breasts of yours
that I can lap up to instantly become your sakhi,
something to stand me apart from your mother,
sisters, denouncers, devotees...


Kali, tell me a secret, any secret,
for how else can you love me differently?

******

Published in Unisun's poetry anthology "I, me, myself."

From an office window

Have you watched a crow
polish off a rat?
I did.
Yesterday.

Well.
The juicy entrails long
winding and twisted
into gossip go first.

The rat’s innards flow.
First fluently.
Then
h a l t i n g l y
in small talks.

Coming to the heart of the matter.
The nervy crow
picks up an arterial thread
from a criss-cross
of thoughts and treads across
meatydetailssilentspacesfatsunshedandsuddenly
jerks up
………………..
to nibble on a memory.

Elsewhere
two clock hands
come together
in a beak closing
to devour time
memories
conversations.

Then comes the kidney.
But much water has already flown.
What use is a dead rat?
Or so I thought.

The glutton picks the bones clean.
Slowly, surely, leisurely.
Every peck, a jab at time.

The crow relishes the memory
of the rat that once was
and I remember our
old conversations.

****

Published in Unisun's poetry anthology Peacock's cry

Empty musical afternoons

It is the December music season at Chennai and all of us rasikas are in our Kangaroo avatar hopping from one sabha to next. But what saddens me is that there is a Friday-evening-Satyam-theatre kind of rush for certain concerts while certain afternoon concerts have as much crowd as the bus stop opposite Theosophical Society at Besant Avenue. Nobody knows it is there and nobody stops there, not even the buses.

The afternoon slots are usually reserved for junior and sub-junior musicians and possibly the audience are too hoity-toity to appear in their best silks at a “junior” concert. The poor afternoon musicians sing to empty chairs with such gusto that if I were a chair, I would lift my two arms and applaud them heartily. However, some smart parents of certain afternoon musicians had ensured a decent crowd by pressing relatives and friends into attending the concert. As you enter the hall, you feel you are intruding a family get together like a seemandham or punyajanam. “Where is Kappu living now? Was Kalli’s delivery normal?” and such talk abound. Two people (presumably father and uncle) go around welcoming and thanking people. You almost expect them to tell you, “kandippa saptutu daan ponum” (please have food before leaving). During the concert, one lady leaned forward and I thought she was going to ask “who on the stage are you related to?” like they ask in weddings “which side do you belong? Girl or boy?” Thankfully she only wanted to know the raga. Yet not all relatives and friends are as obliging and something has to be done about these performances which have more people on the stage than in the seats.
I am not going to make any serious suggestion here like switch the senior musicians’ concerts to the afternoon slots because they get their audience anyway and/or don’t spread so many concerts across so many sabhas, it only thins the attendance etc. These suggestions have been made by many to deaf ears and therefore I shall not waste further time. Instead I have a new set of suggestions.
Just as certain sitcoms have a laughter track running behind, the sabha people can switch on an applause track at appropriate moments to create a feeling of audience. But usually the organizers themselves are not present. So they may have to train the mike man to do it, only that the mike man, in the event of being tone deaf may switch on the applause track at inappropriate moments like when the vocalist is sipping milk or when he has lost a beat stupidly or when he is glaring at the violinist for a goof up. Still, some sound of applause is better than none.
Secondly the backs of the chair can be painted on to resemble human beings in seated posture. From the stage it would look like the chairs are people. And if the arms of the chairs can be robotically programmed to lift and applaud at the end of every song on cue, it would even be better.
Thirdly those rare few who enter the hall should be given ping pong balls cut in halves with the orbs of the eye painted on it. You see, most people fall asleep insensitively sitting in the very first row. These people can press the ping pong orbs onto their eyes and go to sleep while the performers sing rest assured that they have an audience who are listening “wide eyed” with surprise at their incredible talent.
Once I invited my friend at Royapuram for a book reading of mine and he said he would come if I gave him, “noor rooba, kaila kuska” (Rs.100 and a packet of Kuska in hand, which is apparently what politicians give to bribe voters). I think afternoon slot musicians should contact my friend at Royapuram.

The above article was published in my "Loony Life" column two weeks ago.

Enough Kohl to put Johnny Depp to shame

By far, the Chennai December music season this time has been a case of “I went, I saw, I ran away” kind of experience for me. I began writing a stiff ‘Carnatic music and consumerism — Making the audience buy’ type of article. But considering my sworn readers who cannot brook one grave sentence from my pen, I have here a series of (loony) snapshots on the music season.

• I thought I had wandered into a South Indian wedding when I entered a concert hall this December season. Rustling silk saris, fragrant jasmine strings, deep namaskarams, aroma of filter coffee and idli-sambar, snatches of gossip…eh? If I had anticipated such heavy dressing, I would have at least remembered to comb. But what the hell? I came to listen to music, not be seen. The violinist on stage had enough kohl in her eyes to put Johnny Depp to shame, while the vocalists glittered like Christmas trees. So much so, I was tempted to carry one back home and hang some gifts for my kids. My vote any day is for Sanjay Subrahmanyan, who prefers to throw his flamboyance into his music rather than his clothes. If musicians felt glittering jibbas and flashy saris added weight to their music, then why wear just one? Why not wear four? Or maybe I belong to that dwindling population which expects only a good concert and not a ‘good-looking’ concert.
  
• There was just so much fanfare on stage and off stage in every concert I went to that I wanted to shout, “Will the real performers please stand up?” Where were those good old mamas and mamis hugging yellow cloth bags, taking the 23As and 12Cs to arrive at Sastri Hall and Music Academy? These good souls, who could outcry any geko with their appreciative tch-tch-tches, were completely lost in the overdressed crowd.
  
• For those unacquainted with Carnatic musicians, people who sing in pairs give themselves creative names like Mambalam sisters, Hyderabad brothers and Carnatica brothers. Given the burgeoning talent base, there will come a crowded day when we will see Thambiah Reddy street sisters, 4th main road (next to Pizza hut) brothers etc. Tomorrow perchance my daughter and niece begin to perform as duo I plan to call them Vatsalya sisters after the playschool they go to.
  
• Coming to music reviews in a popular daily, one can never make out if the concert soared or sucked from what they write. Consider this convoluted writing — “Mutual enrichment of the musical fare was facilitated by the individual merit of each expert member”. Translated it simply means, the musicians did a good job or at least that’s what I think. And then there is this insufferable alliteration critics get into. “Mellifluous Madhyamavati, kindling Kalyani, meandering Mohanam, roaring Ranjani” ad nauseum. As such Carnatic music is inaccessible. For God’s sake, should we employ ‘twilight language’ while speaking about this art form?
  
• Carnatic musicians have really smartened up. They act in movies, endorse products, appear in reality shows, write books, email their concert schedules religiously, have perky music profiles, perfect PR, well- updated blogs and websites. It is a good sign that one can indeed make a living out of Carnatic music. I am saying all this so that, that segment of population, which still drools over Carnatic musicians as if they were messengers of God, should wake up and understand that they’re all in this field as professionals, just as any doctor or engineer is in his.
  
• Visaka Hari(ji) is one performer who has spoilt every Tambrahm married woman’s chances with her mother-in-law. She is the dream daughter-in-law of every mamiyar, what with her madisar/straight hair parting/diamond earrings and absorption in all things politically correct. She makes all the mamis wonder why it didn’t occur to them to make a career out of the bedtime stories they knew and wear their madisars with more pride. For foot-in-mouthed, jeans-wearing failure of a character like me, Visaka Hari is a Kafkaish nightmare (my mother-in-law loves her). The way the older generation spring into action to ‘catch’ seats for her programme — well, you have to see it to believe it. She makes them forget their rheumatoid arthritis.
  
• Amidst kanjeevarams and namaskarams in the concert hall, I also spotted some straight skirts and hugging and kissing on both cheeks. Wasn’t this behaviour usually displayed by the audience of Alliance Francaise programmes? Good! So Carnatic music is also turning ‘happening’! And may it happen minus the trappings!
  
  This article was published in my Loony Life column