The Ride
Ganesh, Hanuman, Laxmi
Krishna, Ram, Saibaba, the Virgin Mary--
all jostling for space on the taxi’s dashboard.
Rush-hour Study
Amidst pavement chaos, a man is quietly absorbed
picking bhaaji for dinner, inspecting
lemons in the evening light.
Deal
To captive commuters, vendor choreographs,
a challenge : 3 pens for 10 rupees! Drawn and flourished
like knives; scrawling blue for all to see. Sold!
Public Service
In the name of the mother
of all politicians, a union minister swears
she never wears the same sari twice.
Help
Drivers, ayahs, cooks, watchmen,
scrubbers, moppers, shiners, lifelong toilers;
nurturers, protectors, rescuers,
underpaid, abused, vilified, round-the-clock
army of workhorses.
Anchor
On four feet of footpath
between electric pole and mailbox,
a paanshop maharaj pitches his pedestal.
Gift
For all relatives who treat guests
to a pity-party of thirty year old grouses, a mouth-lock.
Gift Option
An earthenware urn for hollering into
and storing said grouses,
then burying it in an unmarked grave.
Moment
Riding on skyscraper shoulders, a child imagines
he’s lord of the universe,
and his frayed father, unassailable.
Hellbent
Counting on statistical odds,
the taxidriver tearing down the ghats
must still pack a kafan in his pocket.
Common Cause
Opinion-makers, idea-hackers, fortune-tellers,
Sunday intellectuals, self-styled critics,
sell copy to the money-grubbers.
Beyond Help
Spitting at will, peeing at will--
neither laws nor good sense
can tame the instincts of some men.
Last Stand
Their land reclaimed, their ocean swallowed,
their sky colonized, Colaba’s first citizens dig in,
their nets flying like flags.
Field day
The singers of songs at sowing time
Are bathed in shiny foil light.
They work in furrows churned like chocolate.
A choreographer conducts their synchronous
Slow motion dance. The camera
Is not allowed close-ups yet.
The singers of songs at harvest time
Are a merry bunch – eager, smiling, robust.
The wardrobe planner has put them in bright colors
For low angle shots against a speckled sky.
The men’s hair is oiled and groomed
By a makeup artist; the women’s done in a salon.
The singers of songs at threshing time
Have changed costumes to perform new tasks
Clearing mountains of grain, lugging heavy jute bags
As if they were pillows. Their limbs never ache,
Their soles don’t crack. Of course they do not sweat.
Everybody cheers the singers of songs.
Scarecrow
For centuries
They have gulled you
Doping you
On damnation and bliss.
For as many centuries
Sceptics have refused the bait,
Foiling the cheats
With foolish questions.
Their God has grown
Threadbare. Better to live
In doubt, knowing nothing
Than to put your faith in conmen.
Exhibit B
Hiroshige* got it right.
Not that he ever disclaimed his civil servant status.
Not that he spurned the privilege of his ancestral
Samurai crest. Not that he knocked at castle gates
Or ever saw the inside of a thatched hut.
Not that he followed the tracks of palanquin-bearers
Or ran in the wake of postal runners, or limped alongside
Ponies laden with goods. Not that he broke his back
With paddy planters standing ankle-deep in flooded fields,
Or sweated with the horse groomers or, with calloused fists,
Pulled the nets of the fish-haulers. Not that he sang
With itinerant musicians or dallied with the dancers. Not that he
Haunted the dens of prostitutes or floated in a fog of opium.
But he was everywhere and he watched. He rode
Up and down the highway. He stared long and hard
At the landscape. And the landscape looked back offering
Cobalt skies, steep mountain passes on cliff sides cut
Like gems; the scent of pine and plum trees, soggy trails,
And crunchy gravel; the ripples of streams, shallow
Ferries, and white boat sails billowing like giant lampshades.
Even the wind played along bending grass and blowing off hats.
The landscape stretched out and leaned back content.
The artist composed, recreating the sturdiness of bodies
And the slack of muscle; the frown of worry and the easy laughter;
The hurled syllables of quarrels, and the slump of regret.
Sometimes, he may have slept at the inns and slurped tea
At the tea stalls, sizing up Sumo wrestlers in transit. In town,
He lingered on the bridges to hear bazaar gossip,
Got drenched in an unexpected downpour and went home
To change into a dry, silk kimono. Outside, the wind howled,
The rain beat in slanted brushstrokes, prying loose
Weeping mudslides. The inky sky invaded his dreams.
The next morning, there he was again, looking. He was
Everywhere. He missed nothing.
Ando Hiroshige (1795 – 1858), a Japanese artist, is best known for
53 Stages of the Tokaido, a series of color woodblock prints first exhibited in 1832.
Against a backdrop of natural and constructed landscape, Hiroshige records the sights and activities on the pilgrim route between Edo and Kyoto.