Gandhi Jayanthi

In the evening, I am back home from office; Parvati from College, K from school. The evening snacks session is a regular feature at ours; Tommy and Sancho look forward to that more than the three of us. That’s when the large steel vessel containing the goodies is brought down on the dining table and opened ceremoniously with a clang and bang – biscuits, cakes, groundnuts, Son Pappadi, Halwa – the list varies, but the dogs salivate in anticipation and there is a lot tail-wagging and excited growls. It is also the time when we tell each other about the day we had.

Gandhi Jayanthi is a public holiday. In the schools and colleges and some offices across the state, the day after Gandhi Jayanthi is also the day of cleaning and tidying up. In P's college too, teachers and students enjoy this break from studies. She was telling us about her day and how unforgettable it was.

P was working with a couple of girls; freshers in the undergraduate course in Botany. As the Head of the department, P makes sure that she knows the background of each and every student in her classes. She asked Archana about her family. “What's your father, Archana?” Archana looked up and said solemnly - “He is no more, teacher.” “Oh, I am sorry to hear that, what happened?” Archana was silent for a while. Then she said slowly - “He committed suicide, teacher. He just couldn't pay up his debts.”

Even after nearly 28 years of teaching and involvement with students, P is yet to harden up. “Then who else is in your family? Who takes care of you?” “My brother drives a pick-up auto. Mother does part-time help in some houses. Grandma is ill and bed-ridden”. P notices Archana's thin, anaemic body; faded and old-fashioned are her clothes. P had already given new notebooks to Archana and other students from financially poor background by raising a fund. P says gently to her - “Archana, would you mind if I offer you something? A friend of mine gave me some nice dresses she doesn't wear anymore. You may have to size them down a little bit, but they would suit you. Would you like to have them?”

Trivandrum is a city. Maybe not as big as the metros or many other state capitals, but still big. We too have our young, hep crowd, what with the Technopark Software people and professional colleges etc. Pretty young girls drive their Marutis and Hyundais nonchalantly through our crowded streets.

Archana gives a grateful, shy smile. “Oh, teacher, that’s nice. But I have enough; I am happy with it.” She pauses. “Teacher, can I ask you something? Jayashree-” Archana points to the other girl who was picking up garbage a little away - “Jayashree's situation is much worse. She is an orphan and has only old grandparents. She is actually staying in a hostel for poor students. Other than whatever concessions she gets, she manages by taking tuition. Not much, but a little something, you know.” P and Archana are silent for a while, watching Jayashree. “I sometimes share my dresses with her. Do you think you can give a few to her? She is fair and pretty. She would look nice in good clothes”.

Parvati has a reputation for a tough, no-nonsense teacher. She is also a much loved teacher, that I know. She has that fierce commitment to her work, to her students. Many are the instances when she has fought to protect the students in her college, where rioting and clashes are quite common. I have seen the sparkle in the eyes of her students, the way they run up to her, the way they crowd around her and babble. I am proud of her. I am privileged to say I am Parvati Teacher's husband.

I pat P. You are a good girl, I tell her. K looks at us and grins happily. We silently munch our cake.

I am nobody to talk in length about Mahatma Gandhi. But, like I told Sujata, the only reason I would call myself an Indian is that Gandhiji too was one. And then – there are many others like Archana too. Sometimes one cannot help feeling good about life.

************** Balachandran, Trivandrum 05.10.2009.

The Reunion

If you ask me if I remember Thankamoni, I would say yes, because she is there sitting on the ground among other children in our Class group photo of 4th standard, in 1966. I see those soulful eyes, looking solemnly at the camera. In the next year,during the summer vacation of 1967, Thankamoni died. I remember vaguely that she died falling into the waters of the canal, in an epileptic fit. I left Palakkad sometime in July 1968, while in the 6th standard.

Years later, my old classmate, Induchoodan, joined me in Class 10. He told me of Krishnadas, that handsome boy, who died a couple of years back. He had bone cancer. In 1974, on the first day of college at Mavelikkara for my B.Sc., I met Pradeep, classmate at Palakkad. We have been close friends since then; as K says, 'Achan's OLDEST friend'.

Pradeep, now a successful businessman at Palakkad, organised a reunion of the old chums. Couple of months back, I went to Palakkad once again, to be part of the reunion - of the classmates who studied in 4th standard at Railway Primary School in 1965-66. There were 24 of us, now in our mid-50s, many seeing each other after 40-odd years. I had the old school group photo, but it was difficult to recognise many of them - those little boys had grey, bald heads, paunches and pouches beneath their eyes. A big man comes up, with a sad expression; I whisper a question to a friend - 'Who is that?' He asks - 'Don't you recognise your old tail, that's Balu!' I am shocked. My friend tells Balu - 'Hey, Balu, Balachandran here didn't recognise you!' Balu slowly turns his head, comes to me and holds me in a Bear grip. 'Da, you forgot me?'. In the resort beside the big dam, we sat around, drinking Chivas Regal that Abe brought from the US. Abe was one of the naughtiest boys in our class; he is a doctor in the States for the past 30 years, having migrated with his family sometime in the early 70s.

Many of the 24 gathered had studied together till the 10th standard. They have much more memories to share among themselves than I have with them. I listen to their bawdy jokes, their crushes on girls, their adventures in the school. Suddenly, I felt sad and left out. I had moved on, from school to school, doing my 10 years of schooling in 6 different schools, flung far and wide across Kerala. I didn't have much to share with these guys, who had not only studied together, but lived close by, in the Railways Housing Colony; their fathers or mothers were employees of the Railway Divisional Office. They had a childhood, a boyhood together. I was an outsider, from the Forest Colony, son of the Divisional Forest Officer and lived in a big Bunglow which had a large garden of Rose plants.

In the evening, a bonfire was lit. We sat around the fire, sipping whisky. Somebody sang, somebody shouted, schoolboy smut was flung around amidst bursts of raucous laughter. These were not middle-aged men, some of whom had married daughters. These were adolescent boys having fun. A few have done quite well - doctors, engineers, successful business men, managers - some others were modestly employed in the Railways or as school teachers.

Balu comes and sits beside me. Balu is a maths teacher in a nearby High School and due to become a Head Master soon. Balu has a tumbler-full whisky with him. He throws his right arm around my shoulders and hugs me. 'Do you remember the wildlife documentaries your father used to show? That was some treat! And those dogs and forest squirrel and wildfowl you had! It was a proper zoo, your house!' Balu chuckles reminescensing. We are quiet for sometime. I think of those days – Balu and Venu, the two Brahmin boys, Cherian and Saji Zacharia – we were together most of the time, playing Ball Badminton or Football.

I ask him about his family. Balu is silent. He sips his whisky. He looks at me. 'You don't know?'. I am shocked at his expression. There is such agony in his face. ' I had two boys. Now, only the younger one. I killed the other'.

'He was good in his studies, you know. Wanted to become an engineer. After Plus Two, he got into an engineering college at Coimbatore. He wasn't quite healthy and he just couldn't take all that ragging. I forced him back to the place again and again and he would come back everytime saying he can't bear it any more. Then I put him in another college. There too, I don't know why, he was unable to adjust. Finally, he came and said he didn't want to study anymore.' Balu is silent for a while. I said nothing, my heart heavy. 'Friends said that I was torturing my boy. I wanted him to get on in life, be successful, not desiccate like me, a poor teacher in a school. Then he wanted to join the Navy. Fine, I said. And he started jogging everyday. I used to wake him up early in the morning. One day he said he didn't feel like jogging. I said nothing doing, lazy fellow, go go run. He went. 15 minutes later he collapsed on the road and died before anybody could help him.'

'Maybe what I did was wrong, pushing my son. Maybe my wife and friends blame me. I have to live with it, this unbearable pain that tears me apart'. I hug Balu, his head is on my chest, and we cry. What we were, what became of us, what is in store for us?

In the two days we spent there, I listen to my friends, to their woes and joys, how lives have flown through these past decades. We peer at the old group photographs. ' He is dead, an alcoholic he was'. 'Oh, him! Went up high in his career, but now suspended from service for corruption'. We tease each other about the boyhood crushes we had on our girl classmates – 'Aye, you should see R now, so fat! She is a bloody grandma!'

I sit apart and look at them. We may meet again next year when Abe comes home from US. Maybe we may not. Maybe somebody wouldn't be there. Like old, yellowing leaves, one by one, we would be taken away by the winds of time.

************* Balachandran, 03.10.2009, Trivandrum

Mian Ki Malhar

Last week my friend Sreekumar gifted me with an album of Hindustani classical instrumental music. The single folder has 16 CDs – 'SAAZ'. 2 CDs each of Tabla, Sarod, Flute, Santoor, Sitar, Sarangi, Violin and Shehnai. Masters such as Alla Rakha, Zakir Hussain, Amjad Ali Khan, Shivkumar Sharma, Satish Vyas, Chaurasia, Renu Majumdar, Sabri Khan, Vilayat Khan, Pandit Ravi Shankar, L Subramanimam, N Rajam, Bismillah Khan – to name a few.

I am listening to Ravi Shankar playing Mian Ki Malhar. It is 1830. Darkness has fallen early today, sky is clouded and rain-laden.

Ravi Shankarji is plucking the strings of his Sitar. I feel as if I am standing before an unplucked bunch of Jasmine and every touch of his fingers on the strings makes me feel that I am touching the Jasmine, flower by flower, as its gentle scent ascends the crevices of my mind.

Death is all around here. A few days back, a former colleague of mine passed away. He had respiratory problems since long. I was working in the bank when I heard about him. Died the previous night, cremation already over that morning, far away in a village near Trichur.

Couple of days back there was this terrible tragedy at Thekkady. A boat capsized and 41 tourists were drowned to death. People from Bengal, New Delhi, Punjab, Karnataka, Tamil Nadu and other places. The Malayalam news channels had a field day. Gruesome scenes, heartbreaking scenes, speculations about the cause of the accident, human angle stories, husbands and wives and fathers and mothers grieving.

Thousands, it is reported, are dead in the Indonesian earthquake. Hundreds in a Sunami somewhere in the South Pacific. Obituary columns threaten to overflow the single sheet of the newspaper. Then there are the death anniversaries. People dead, dying.

Sandra Hoynacki is my friend. She lives in the US. Her mother has Alzheimer's. She wrote to me yesterday that her mother is hospitalized due to renal failure. I replied that I hoped Sandy would have the strength to bear such pain and sorrow.

Mian ki Malhar is now at the fast rapid Kaal. Ravi Shankar's fingers are flying over the strings. The Tabla accompaniment is like the rocks in the riverbed over which the stream of sitar flow, joyously, and then it rises to a cresendo and then - gently enters the wide lake of my still mind. There is silence.

There is such peace. I think of the young widowed man crying over his wife. I see the half-opened eyes of a little girl, dead. I see the face of my colleague, asking after my family and smiling. I see the face of the weeping Indonesian woman, waiting at the remains of her daughter's school, hoping she would come out alive from the ruins.

It has started to rain again. Mian Tansen must be singing his Malhar up in the heavens.

You see, there is no need to believe in anything. All you need to do is to listen. To look. To smell. To be aware. To be there, wherever you are. And when sun sets and darkness falls, drop off to the soft earth gently like the Jasmine flowers. Tomorrow, when day breaks, we would be there, hugging Mother Earth.

********* Balachandran, Trivandrum 02.02.2009

(Photo by Victor George)

Belief

I am listening.

The loudest, the most persistent

is the hum of the ceiling fan.

Cawing crows

Horning cars, rumbling trucks

Voices from across the street

Parvati moving about in the next room -

And the slow intake of breath into my lungs.

I turn my ears inward.

Conscious of myself tapping at the keyboard

The cursor blinking.

The little black line, going on and off

On and off, on and off

And waiting, patient.

I am emptying my mind – or so I would like to believe.

************* Balachandran V, 28.09.2009, Trivandrum.

Few days back, a friend of mine – I will call him an'internet friend' or 'blog friend' or 'Orkut friend' - I understand he is studying at a seminary to become a catholic priest – asked me what I think of catholic priesthood or priesthood in general. He is preparing a paper; perhaps he is answering questions he asked himself. From what little correspondence I have had with him, he appears to me as a gentle, sincere, likeable boy.

I replied to him briefly – that I am what is generally called a non-believer, in all the sense that I do not believe in myself either, that 'belief' means pulling down shutters, blinds, curtains, that I would rather keep myself open and let everything flow through me rather than cling to, clutch to anything, anyone, that i do not think people need an intermediary to communicate – with whom? God? I would rather say, with oneself. I told him that all this talk about God has alienated humans from Nature, if anything should be worshipped it should be Nature, Mother Earth, life. I think of all the violence, sorrow and deception that religions have brought to humanity and the world. The concept of God – your God, their God and mine – how this belief in a supernatural power that loves and hates us , reprimands, punishes and wreaks its wrath on us is so pointless, absurd. That the force that propels us to believe is simply the fear, the insecurity, the truth of our helplessness, our insignificance. And our cowardice to face it.

Among my relatives and friends, there are devotees of Amrthanandamayi, Sai Baba, Ayyappa, Jaggi Vasudev, Ravi Shankar, faithful church-goers, devout Muslims. Each of them swears by his/her belief, benefector. There are those who swear by J Krishnamurti too. All of them have one thing in common. They have ANSWERS. Or so they believe. It has brought fame, fortune, peace and tranquility to them; or so they believe.

And I – I am unable to understand why I cannot be like any of them, to find comfort and peace and security by believing in someone, something. In the journey of my hitherto life, what i have learnt tells me that intrinsically I am alone, and all the rest is make-belief. Images flash before me- of deaths, of great tragedies – moments of great joy and love too – I stand apart and look at it all – where am I ?

I am reminded of the verse from Bhagavd Gita – 'Dukheshu anudignamana sukheshu vigathasprha-' but that too is something to be achieved, something to be yearned for – how different can it be from yearning for jewellery or a Rolls Royce car? All are adornments, aren't they? It is the wish to change from the existing state to an exalted one- The facial expressions of the TV swami who quotes slokas and the woman sitting in the luxury car at the traffic signal are amusingly the same – smug.

In the latest issue of 'Vanita', the Malayalam women's magazine with the highest readership in the world in its category, there is an article by Anoop Menon, a cine actor. It is about a young girl he knew, Gopika, who died of cancer. It is a beautifully written, unsentimental piece – how ironical that the article should be in such a magazine that promotes accumulation of wealth and beauty!

In this turmoil, in this great flux, this state of movement and stillness, I sit before my laptop, gazing at this mystery called life – or is there a mystery? It is all just this, isn't it, just this being here?

************* Balachandran V, Trivandrum 27.09.2009

Oh, I also told my friend to watch the movie, 'Doubt'. Meryl Streep. A Must See, you too!

A Thin, Bright Line

Last night you came

In my dreams.

You were sitting on a chair

And glanced sideways

At me, standing.

You looked young and slightly plumb.

You never were plumb, I thought in my dream,

Amused.

You talked to me; kind words -

And smiled gently, with warmth.

Listening, I wondered happily

How you had changed.

In my dream, I remember

I wished, wistfully

At the images beginning to fade

That it wasn't a dream.

But then -

As it narrowed to a thin bright line

And then to a receding dot

In a pitch black screen -

A dove sitting on the window sill

Rose, in a flurry of wings.

**************** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 22.09.2009

An Onam Gift

Come September, Malayalees the world over celebrate Onam. I do not want to tire the reader with what he/she already knows. The spending spree, the discount fervour, new clothes, new consumer goods, holidays, get-togethers with family and friends, excursions – you know all that. Of course, one of the best parts is gifting your loved ones with new clothes – saris, shirts, pocketmoney for children which they spend on sweets or toys – it is fun, isn't it?

It has been quite a long time since I took part in the festivities of Onam. Something had died inside me long ago. There was a time when I used to roam the streets of Trivandrum which would be all aglow with illumination and cultural shows and beautiful women parading and us boys ogling at them to our hearts' content. But now, the festival spirit isn’t just there. Maybe it is that I am getting older; or that now I prefer solitude and quiet – perhaps a close friend or two – nothing more than that.

This year too, like I have done several years after my marriage, I went with my family to Eranakulam ( Kochi) where most of Parvati's relatives stay. Hers is a large clan; they all gather, chat up, drink, laugh, shout, rib each other, recount old family jokes – even after 19 years, I feel somewhat left out. I sat with them for a while and then slinked away upstairs to read a novel.

Parvati had left a few days earlier; K & I joined her on the 1^st September; Onam eve is as important as the day of Onam, on the 2^nd. 3^rd being a working day, I returned home to my dogs by 2^nd night. K came back today, the 3^rd. P would be back only by 7^th or so.

I have been/ am going through a rough patch. An unexpected huge (for me) financial commitment for forced buying of a piece of land, which put a terrible constraint on my modest resources, has shaken me out of my laidback, placid ways. The purchase is going to set me back lakhs of rupees. I am constantly reminded of it; my BP which used to be normal has shot up in the last couple of months.

Today evening 1730 hrs. Rap music blasts from K's room. He is with a couple of friends. K (his real name is Nachiketh – pet name, Kuttappu) is all of 17 years. Medium height, broad built (he pumps irons) fair and quite handsome with his charming smile, K is all of 17 years. Oh glory!

K barges into my room, splashes my religiously saved Adidas Eau de Toilette all over him and comes over to me and peers into the laptop. He says - “Acha, Cheriyamma gave me 1000 bucks”. Cheriyamma is Parvati's younger sister, Devi. I tell him- “Great, but don't splurge on all of it”, though he has every right to. He would gorge on Chicken Biriyani or Sheverma or Coke – but like parents the world over, I guess, I just lightly caution him. He says- “No, I won't”. My son gives me that shy grin and holds out a 500 rupee note- “This is for you, Acha, for buying the land”. I get up from my chair and hug him, kiss him on his bruiser cheeks. Tears gush out and I am at a loss for words. K is embarrassed, as any 17 year- old would be, at his emotional, weak, father. I straighten up and say - “Thank you, Appu”.

To a father who hasn't given him an Onam gift, K gave all he had – love. I don't think, at this moment, there is a happier father than me anywhere in the world.

************* Balachandran, Trivandrum, 03.09.2009

The Book Release

I was not really keen on a formal function for the release of the book. But then, Mr. N T Nair, publisher of the magazine in which my poems and articles have appearing regularly for the last nearly couple of years, insisted that it be included along with the function for the launch of his magazine's 50th issue. Prof.B Hridayakumari, writer, educationist, etc etc ( She is well known and highly respected in Kerala, not only as a venerated teacher of English language but also for her work in educational reforms, writings on literature) happily agreed to release the book. It was an unforgettable moment for me when she lavished praises and even read out a poem, 'The Leftover'. I will always cherish her words.

A few photos given below:

Poems for sale!!

At the end of the long corridor with ceiling-high bookshelves on either side, my friend, the bookshop owner sat, browsing at his PC. I ask him if he is too busy. He says, 'No, pull up a chair and sit down'. I know him for more than 20 years - not really a friend, but an acquaintance; I am a regular customer at his shop. It is one of the best in the City.

I tell him- 'I have committed a blunder'. 'Ah, wrote a book?' Worse, I said. A collection of poems. He shakes his head sadly. 'Yes, that is terrible'.

I lay it straight across the table. 'Look, how about some shelf-space for me?' He cocks his head and looks at me speculatively. 'Hope you are not keen on making money out of it, are you?' I say, 'Well, not much, but I would like people to read it. He says - 'Listen, poetry, especially in English, is the slowest moving stuff here. Maybe a Neruda goes once in a while or a Sylvia Plath. Then the poets who are in textbooks. Indian poets? a Big NO NO. Not even Dom Moraes, Ramanujam, Ezekiel. Prose, Fiction - they have market , but poetry? No, SIR'.

I nod sympathetically at the woes of a book-seller, taking care not to show the disappointment in my face. 'See, everybody writes poetry nowadays, but nobody buys poetry'. I think of my collections - the Hughes, the Larkins, the Willams, the Dickinsons, the Dharkars and the anthologies - I say nothing. He takes off his businessman mask and says mildly - 'Look, Balan, you can keep 5 copies if you like. But don't call me up every month asking if they have been sold. If they do, we will see about your percentage, ok?'

What is money, I wonder quietly. It is a form of energy, isn't it? Physical energy is converted to paper when you toil from morning till evening and then gratefully accept the wages for your labour. People churn out third-rate novels or c-class movies that turn out to be big hits and they make a lot of money. People invest in shares and sell them when the rates are high and they make money without a drop of sweat off their brow, it is all speculation, the magic of making money from thin air. Con-men trick greedy people and get away with crores of rupees. A labourer comes in the morning and till evening he toils and takes home 300- 400 rupees. I slog it out in the bank, looking at other people's money and making sure that they get interest and pay interest for the loans; on 25th of every month, I too get my blood money.

I have been writing poetry for the last 5 years. Churned out nearly 140 or so. I have written several scripts for documentaries, a few articles on travel or nature or environment conservation. Some gifted a book or two, some magazines gave money, most ignored to acknowledge. Instead, I feel grateful to them for giving me an oppertunity to write the script, to include my article in an anthology, feel gratified at their compliments.

I give my boss a complimentary copy. He leafs through the pages. I wince. Can poetry be read like the jokes and quotes you see in Reader's Digest? Each poem, each line, each word - reflects my pain, my joy, my agony and my ecstasy. Trivial and trash it may be to a reader, but to the honest writer, it is the essence of his/her soul. He says condescendingly - 'Thank you, Balan. But let me buy a copy of your book for the office library'. I am touched by his kind gesture.

Poets, are the last of the romantics. The last of the lot who can call themselves human.

In my young days in the 60s and 70s I remember seeing persons walking around in the Bus stands or Railways stations calling out their wares - books written by them - small booklets of patriotic songs or love poems. Guess I too will have to take to the streets - " Poems! Poems! Poems for Sale! Love, lust, sex and violence!!! Read one and you read them all! Poems! Poems for Sale!"

*********** Balachandran, Trivandrum 15.08.2009

Faces

In between the sporadic bursts

Between the heckling customers

The intimidating bosses

The gossiping colleagues

In between the drudgery and monotony

I doodle faces on bits of paper.

Faces of men and women

Full face and left profile –

I have grown up with these people

Though they remained the same -

Adults passing through youth.

From behind notebooks, inside novels

Corners of text books and on pages left blank -

From every possible piece of paper

These Picasso profiles stare up at my face.

Most of my women are beautiful;

They all have full lips

Wide-eyed with long lashes

Wearing Bindis and ear-studs

Hair wavy, they all glance

Off-centre, over my shoulders-

Rare are the ones who look into my eyes.

Men mostly sport a moustache

Thick eyebrows, thin-lipped

Pleasant to look at but -

Grim and somehow sorrowful.

They all are so familiar

Though none like another.

Doodling, I brood over my men and women.

Are they the ones

Who come in my dreams?

Are they the ones from my lives past –

Or the lives yet to live through?

Are they the shadows

I sense, flitting behind me?

Are they, the unknown and strange

Souls I see in my own self?

*********** Balachandran, Trivandrum 08.08.2009

The Loco Pilot

“In the last thirty years,

Three hundred and sixty kills-

Mind you, kills, and I don’t keep track

Of the mutilated, the disabled, the living dead

Who fell before me on the tracks.”

He takes a sip of the whiskey,

A deep drag of the cigarette

Looks out through the window -

I see the glimmer of tears in his eyes.

Outside, the river roared as it gushed

The birds sang as they flew

Wind ran helter-skelter among the trees

The setting sun scattered golden light as it sank.

We were old friends, meeting after forty or more years,

This boyhood friend of mine

Who tagged behind me all the time

In awe of my bungalow, dogs and my little deer.

How sharply does he remember!

My metal school box he had envied

The goodies I had shared with him,

Apples and chocolates -

My father, the big officer of Forests!

“There are many ways they do it, you know,” he said

“Some jump head-on, some would be lying down

Their necks neatly nestling on the rail,

Some would be walking, facing away from the train.”

“But one image that even my deadened mind

Cannot wipe off

Is that of the one who stood in the headlight,

Arms raised, palms joined,

A last and final bow to me, her killer.”

“Women dragging their screaming children

Up on to the rails, young girls and boys -

In the rumble of the diesels

I strain my ears for that soft thud, like a loving pat

As I usher them into the netherworld”.

“We are old hands, we know it all

The bends, the blind curves

The favourite haunts of the wanting-to-be-dead.

We dread the day, the next after

The public exam results come.”

“We have to move on, you see,

Cannot bring the big diesels to a sudden stop.

Every time, I watch them, their final moments

Helpless, with a heavy heart

Not even a silent prayer.”

The cigarette burns down to his fingertips.

“This is what I have done with my life -

All I know is to drive trains –

And to kill people.”

************* Balachandran V, Trivandrum 01.08.2009

Red Tomatoes

Sitting on a rock by the hillside,

My friend brought his boot down

On the scorpion, its tail

Upheld, inquisitively.

It did not try to escape

But swung its broken sting

My friend squashed it again

Grinding his boot on the crushed remains

Till it became indistinguishable from the black earth.

We were sitting in his garden

Admiring the Orchids and Anthuriums

As a non-descript snail crept by my feet.

I picked it up, held it to my face

Both wondering at each other.

But then my friend took it from me -

The crackle of the shell cracking

Reminded me of the Pappads I take with rice.

My friend rubbed his shoe on the grass

The gluey fluid stuck the blades together.

It was late evening

We had scotch and ice by our side

And the grass was cool beneath our feet.

As I listened to the croaking frogs

I remarked on a distinctive call.

My friend picked up a palmful of gravel

Threw it in the direction of the pool

Even the Cicadas were shocked to silence.

We were reminiscing about our younger days

How the world has changed

In the forty years since we parted ways.

How, on our way to school

Running over the culvert

Across the paddy fields

How my friend would grab

The little green grass snakes

By their tails and swing them

One swift, full swing

Like the riverside laundry-man

On to a rock and smash their heads

And laughing, fling them

Into the swampy field.

The paddy fields are gone

So is the pond we used to bathe in the nude.

It was a dark, cool night, our faces hidden in the shadows

The expensive scotch, pleasantly glowing in my belly.

In my friend's voice, I hear his spite and frustration

I could imagine the froth of dislike

Foaming at the side of his lips

Sparking and popping

As spittle dribbled down his chin.

I sat listening to him and wondered

How it would be to hold his head

Between my hands and slam it against the wall

To grind his face on the granite surface

And slam, again and again

Until his face became a ripe, red tomato.

*********** Balachandran, Trivandrum,27.07.09

Immobile

It is nearly a year since he died;
I have forgotten the date though.
Nearly twenty years senior to me
Though time isn't really a measure for anything.

Time hardly tells you the strength of the bond -
Why, one's siblings are very often the most distant.
Friendship takes seed - hardly does it need a moment
And it grows like Jack's beans, entwining the hearts into one.

He was a quiet person - a painter, photographer
He drew funny cartoons too, though
Looking at his tall, tired frame and wispy beard
You would take him for a philosopher.

In the early evenings, I would call on him-
Sitting on the verandah we would talk -
About murals and the passing of ways of life.
He would tell me about the old town
About the river, the lakes, the old brahmins
Who owned thousands of acres of paddy fields
The temples, staggering with age
And the murals on their cracked walls
In which women with globular breasts
And wasp-like waists
With their all-knowing eyes
Smiled like Mona Lisa
Demons brandished swords
Goddesses stomped on severed heads
Women flaunted their nudity
Before the lecherous boy-god.

My friend, in between pauses
Would borrow a cigarette from me
And smoke it, religiously.

Every time I see my friend’s name
As I skim through my mobile phone, I pause -
These two numbers I will never call
No one would answer either -
Yet I pause - and brood over these numbers
Unable to bring myself to delete them.

I look at my left thumb, wondering why
It would not move over and select
The delete button - then it does -
The phone asks " Delete?"
And all my thumb has to do is press 'yes' –
************* Balachandran V, Trivandrum 21.07.2009

When I am no more

Standing, as often I do, beneath my old mango tree,
I wonder how it would look without the leaves.
Without the mangoes, without the branches
Without the birds that sit preening on them.
The thick trunk sawed off, roots pulled out
Tiles or cement choking the earth.

For one, sunlight would be brighter; and glare
Upon the tiled roof of my house.
No more yellowed leaves to sweep away in the morning.
No more bird droppings to wash off
No more bat-eaten, splattered mangoes.
No more flies swarming around
No more air, thick
With the smell of the ripe, golden fruits.
No more, the tapping of the woodpecker
No more, the screeching kites.
No more, the night heron resting
No more, the crows squabbling
No more, the squirrels scuttling.

No more, the wind-dance of the branches
No more, the chatter of leaves.
No more, the creaking swing
No more, the green, greeting my eyes.
No more, I, the boy
who gazed up the tree, longing,with love.

I look around for a fallen twig -
Last mangoes of the season dangle in the sky.
*********** Balachandran, Trivandrum,10.07.09