Neo Fatal Intensive Care

The only thing my father taught me

was to kill. He showed me

many ways to do it: To put a pill

in someone’s milk and fill

their potbelly with poison

and painless death. Or to take

a dagger and drive it deep

into their stomach and spill

their innards out. Mummy taught me

that all it takes is a big blow

to the tummy and a person dies slowly

of internal bleeding.

My father tutored me in advanced techniques

to kill: With X-rays that exterminate the XX or vacuums

that suck the life-breath out. Or with dilation

and evacuation

or curettage

which are the most modern methods of murder.

Mother said this world

is too cruel for a girl and she must learn

to kill to protect herself. Father’s read

the Law and he said it’s okay

to kill someone

in the first three months.

Mother killed me today

and I killed her back. Father’d said death

in self-defence isn’t a cognisable offence.

[Stop female foeticide.]

The Lost Flamingos of Bombay

© Ajinkya Gaikwad

I wound my way to Sewri

one day to see flamingos.

Over the years, I had pieced a map

of the place in my head but never been

there; nor had I seen flamingos.

At seven, Sewri was full of sewers

filled with the filth of the city, but kept safe

by the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

in their underground bunkers.

At ten, I put up the Sewri Port, at eleven,

I built the Sewri Fort

with the Brits to ward off

he Siddis, and at twelve,

in the Sewri Civil and Sessions Court, I slammed

offenders behind bars.

At sixteen, I added

a Christian Cemetery, and at seventeen,

a friend shifted to Sewri

from his South Bombay house,

which felt like he'd shifted abroad.

Twenty years had gone by for me

living in this city, and in

the one score years that had passed,

I had never been to

Sewri; nor had I seen flamingos.

This is the Lesser Flamingo, the girl

from Hornbill House informed me.

Biologists elevated

the Greater variety like builders

built "Upper Worli".

I could not make out the Greater

from the Lesser from Geese from the jetty or if

one of them pecked

another and the two of them made out

a fuchsia love symbol with their necks.

The flamingos mate

all round the year, and migrate

yearly from Tanzania, sir, would you like

to buy a T-shirt sir? 350 only? She held up

a magenta-coloured garment that said

‘Save The Flamingos!’

But why Sewri? What

is just so special about here? It must be

the mangroves and mudflats here, sir,

are you buying this T-shirt now sir?

Sewri these days is an important place

bridging New Bombay with the Trans-Harbour Link,

and alienating our migrants pink.

The flamingos didn’t go

to Sewri this year. Nor did I. I know

I should have bought that damn shirt.

_

[Sewri is a locality along the eastern coast of the city of Mumbai, while Worli is a locality along its western coast.]

To A Town Called Tatanagar

I’ve left something behind in Jamshedpur, and I cannot seem to find it. I keep going back to the town in search of what I lost, but I do not remember when it slipped out or where or how.

Did I lose it on the cab ride to Engineer’s Hall the very first night I landed here? No, the road that wound its way around the Burma Mines and Kalimali and took me to the employees’ hostel in the eastern part of town did not have a single streetlight, and one does not lose these things in places one cannot see or retrieve them from. Did I lose it on the illumined corridors of the Hall? The labyrinthine passages from the gates to my room took me a while to map out in my mind. But work took me up and down those wings several times a day and phone calls made phantoms out of me each night on those corridors. I would have found it if I had lost it here.

I am sure I did not lose it on the grassy paths that led up to the Management Training Centre, where retired General Managers taught me more in a week than I had learnt in years. Nor did I lose it in the Area Office where the accounts are handled. One does not lose such things in cabins or cubicles and report them as liabilities on balance sheets. Not in the precision of the engine manufacturing lines or the lines of 49-ton Prima trucks ready for dispatch or even in the truck graveyard where lorries that have lost their yearning to ply are stowed did I lose what I have lost. I only gained in experience with what I met here, and never did miss anything.

Where then? Did it drop into one of the pockets on the pool table at Telco Club or did it roll into one of the potholes in Sector Market when we went to get buckets and mugs? Did it fall off from one of those tumultuous tumtums that seat four but took ten of us to Sakchi for five rupees a head or to Bistupur for ten rupees a head? Or perhaps it dived into the Subornorekha river head-first while we were heading home from Mango after a night show of Rockstar? There is the chance it could have parted with me in the leafy locales of Circuit House with the ulterior intentions of getting into XLRI or staying at one of the serviced apartments near the campus.

It could have tumbled out while we were climbing the dam on Lake Dimna that afternoon, or while we were mounting the hundred steps up the Bhubaneshwari Temple to watch the Kathakali show that evening. I know I did not lay it among the flowers at Jamsetji Tata’s feet in the beautiful Jubilee Park nor at those of Birsa Munda in the bustling Sunday Market. But what about on Hudco hill and Sumant Moolgaokar’s plaster camera capturing the entire town of Jamshedpur? Did it go down here as the sun set behind the chimneys of Tata Steel or did it go up like the steam emanating from them and mingle with the crisp air of the East Indian company?

I’ve left something behind in Jamshedpur, but I haven’t found it yet. I retrace my steps to haunts I frequented with the hope that I might stumble upon it somewhere and reclaim it as my own. I go to the idli-vadai kadai where we had our morning meals and the jhalmuri stall in Golmuri where we had chaat and chai. I revisit the Sonari Gurdwara on Sundays for the langar and the Kerala Samajam for lunch. I even return to the terrace top of Little Italy some nights to see if the waiters there have found it and kept it aside for me, but they haven’t. So I go back to Engineer’s Hall and play a game of badminton, if that can help me recollect where it was I lost it.

My eyes travel to the induration on my right big toe that grew when I fell playing on these very courts and that prevented me from playing volleyball on the adjacent ones. It is possible that I had dropped it here and if I had, it must have been trampled upon by now by the many soles that have skittered on this turf since that day. And it is equally likely I lost it the night of the monthly party when those same soles went tipsy on vodka roshogollas and would have stamped it in the ensuing stampede, had I lost it there that night. Or maybe it was saved that fate and went away instead to the white grid-boxes of The Hindu’s cryptic crosswords that Sam and I used to solve?

Was it lost to me in Bairesh’s paruppu podis and pickles or in the samosas Milind brought after German classes or in the sweetmeats Shireesh brought from his sister’s wedding? Was it because Prashant went to the hospital every week or because Syed was late every morning for the creature with the head of a truck and the body of a bus? Was it drowned in Divisional Manager Jambunathan’s sonorous voice below his tiny moustache or entangled in Senior Manager Murthy’s bristling moustache above his meek mouth? Or did it pull the chain and abandon the train at Kharagpur when Naxalites entered my coach on the return journey to Calcutta on Christmas Eve?

I have left behind things in Jamshedpur: Murakami’s Norwegian Wood because I hated it, a bag because there was too much luggage to carry to Lucknow and a shirt marked 57/4 that the dhobi must be wearing these days. I left behind a few droplets of my blood on the badminton court in Engineer’s Hall, and a mug and a bucket I purchased one Sunday at Sector Market, but these are trivialities that can be replaced. It has been over two years since I lost a part of my heart in that town and it has not come back to me yet. But Jamshedpur has left so much behind in me. It is only fair that I leave what I left behind there and never go seeking it ever again.

Found in Translation

I am fortunate to have Pramod Khadilkar as a friend and colleague. He is an exceptional playwright, poet and philosopher (with some time to go before he is a Doctor of Philosophy;). When he writes something new, I am one of the first persons he reads it out to and leaves enthralled. So when he asked me if I could try and translate a few of his Marathi poems, I gladly jumped on the challenge and worked on it. Here are three of the translations we did with links where available to audios of him reading his original pieces.

A Timeless Tale

[based on Ek Goshta in the Marathi of Pramod Khadilkar]

There once lived a Seka who’d taken to sprint,

Right from the instant that he was an infant!

Since the start of his days,

He’d never lost a race

All this time up to the present.

Seka was almost addicted to winning:

He once dreamed of loss and since had stopped sleeping!

In his bid to finish first,

He wouldn’t look around lest

His eyes catch something distracting.

Cruising on course, he saw someone ahead-

But Seka’s being second wasn’t tolerated!

He raced and he raced

Till frontrunner were outpaced,

And never did turn back his head.

Just as he was to stop so to breathe,

Seka saw loser again in the lead!

Foo...haa! Foo...haa!

Seka overtook Mika,

And the wind too was slower in speed.

Mika, among athletes, though was top-shot,

Cursed himself for not ever taking top spot!

No matter how fast

He sprinted, but past

Him, Seka would pass on the trot.

Fast as he was and try as he might,

Him winning was like a moon on amavasya night!

To the difference minute

Did Mika attribute

His loss, in their thinness and height.

Tired of trailing, now Mr. Mika

Stopped by the stocky and slow Mr. Taka;

Seeing quorum in place,

And so quelling pace,

The couple was joined by our Seka.

“Comrades!” said Taka, “Oh what is this ruse

Of running behind a golden-eyed goose?

When with rushing legs,

We’re crushing her eggs

That we could have put to good use?

“Even if we do pick our own destination,

And choose to be our own competition,

We can’t win or lose

Nor grab the gold goose

Unless we stop at satisfaction.”

“What’s the time, dear?” she called in a bawl,

I rolled up my head and looked at the wall

To see that time stands

Still with joint hands,

Bringing our clockwork to stall.

I opened our age-old Grandfather’s face

And did his pacemaker with new cells replace,

Causing to trigger

To resume with new vigour,

Taka’s and Mika’s and Seka’s old race.

“It’s 2.10,” said Mika, “I hope I shall see

You two for a second at quarter-past-three!”

“I wonder why it stopped,”

Said she and I laughed,

“Doesn’t running all the while make you weary?”

_

Casting off my Conscience

[translated from Karaar in the Marathi of Pramod Khadilkar]

Must you interrupt me for everything I say? We two could

have some arguments – must you tell the whole neighbourhood?

Agreed, talk resolves matters, but we must keep it to our fences.

What is the deal for you to brandish now these muskets of silences?

Arey national economies work on trade. Let’s have an exchange: You

be a bit brazen, yes, yes, I’ll work on my selfishness too.

I cannot allow this insinuation that I am insensitive – I write such moving verse,

my audience feels for its poetic themes and I fetch much applause.

Alright, alright, let’s donate some money to some charitable outfits and we’re through?

Twice a year? Once? Okay twice, we’ll give them our time too.

Look, just because sugarcane is sweet, you mustn’t eat its roots;

You mustn’t keep putting someone’s goodness to your use.

Here’s a 200 rupee stamp paper, come, let’s annul this true

and legal; I don’t want this brought up annually like the water supply issue.

It’s decided now, I don’t want your troubles any more,

Your suffering and your pain, I won’t hear of any more.

When I squander food again, don’t remind me of the starving,

Don’t come asking me for tissue next time you feel like crying.

I know you’re true of conscience, you’ll abide by our agreement,

You’ll meet me only as we’ve planned to, never sans appointment.

I’ll see you then, be practical, please at least do try!

This world of ours is ugly – don’t get taken for a ride.

Okay then, you take your leave, yes, we shall stay in touch,

Let’s ensure non-familiarity doesn’t contempt breed so much.

_

The World Within

[translated from Aat in the Marathi of Pramod Khadilkar]

Today I happen to see her, walking towards me,

Head lowered, as if speaking to the ground beneath her feet.

She laughs within herself and she cries within her too,

She blossoms within herself and then withers within too.

Someone in her girlhood years had latched her from the outside,

A thousand tries of opening hence, she locked herself inside.

Now she claims she’s grown a pretty world wholly inside her,

And rides to foreign lands within her with a royal rider.

A pond, a park, a bungalow within, a crematorium beside it,

Lest her fort were impregnated, she had a pyre at the lit.

When she comes close, I stop her – she looks up in a fluster

And gives me a hearty smile, though I can see her tears muster.

‘How have you been?’ I ask. She nods and says, ‘Oh great!’

‘Let’s have a cup of tea.’ say I. She says, ‘No, I’ll be late.’

‘Come out of yourself once,’ I tell her, ‘I can help you out.’

‘I’ve lost the way to the outer world, there are thickets all about.

‘You come inside me,’ said she, ‘It’s like a dream in here!

‘There’s a swing, there are jasmine creepers and...’ stops, sensing my fear.

She gathers her books to her breast and wipes the tearstains off her face,

‘I need to go and water my park, or the plants dry up,’ she says.

A glimpse at me and she walks away, her gaze upon the ground,

I stare at her and wonder if she were lost within or found.

_

Special Relativeity

[An acrostic to my guiding star...on completing 27 revolutions around the sun.]

They say you are the star sun, I but a moon -
Hovering about you like a satellite:
Invisible to all in the brilliance of your noon,
Sparkling at night with your reflected light.
Over again, I am told to stop these chases,
Not to follow in your path or your pull,
Eschew your influence on my phases,
'Spin my own orbit' and live my life full.
Frankly I admit, I am not as bright
Or attractive or independent as you are;
Rest assured though, when the time is right,
Your moon shall rise and shine brighter than a star..
Oh! for if I were a star too, I wouldn't be of worth -
Unable to unsettle the tides of the Earth!

Poem and Jerry

Over the last couple days, I attended a writing workshop facilitated by poet, writer, translator and journalist Jerry Pinto at the British Council Library, which is slowly becoming my favourite corner of Bangalore. Much was discussed about poetry and the process to be jotted down in a blog post, so I'll leave you with these pictures and some gems of words of advice from Jeronimo...

Live the scene you write - Day 1

Always ask yourself the question on the whiteboard - Day 2

"I get asked: should I write a book about X or dealing with Y?

My answer

If you want to do it because you want to do it, you should do it.

If you want to do it because you think there's a market for it, you should still do it.

I believe everyone has the right to try. I believe everyone has the right to succeed. And I believe everyone has the right to fail.

But no book gets written because someone wants to do it. Books get written when you commit the words to paper or pixels.

Get on with it."

Mulaqat-e-Gulzar

Today at the Bangalore Literature Festival, I got to listen to God read out poetry in Gulzar's sonorous voice. I later had the privilege of meeting the master of imagery and came away with this...

Dastkhat-e-Gulzar

He asked me my name in his baritone, scribbled a word in Urdu, and seeing me smile asked me if I could read the language. I said yes, indeed I could and guessed that he had written my name. He scrawled something below the first word and again asked me if I could read. I laughingly admitted that I couldn't! Turns out there are two different ways in which to write the syllable k in Urdu. :)

The man on the Hill

When the storm did break,

why didn't you stop?

You left me all alone.

The way, Abhishek!

to make the top

is to make your own.

You're here, said she,

the past doesn't matter!

Come, enjoy the view.

Oh, not for the valley,

I threw my arms at her,

I've come up to see you.

At the Eleventh Hour

[A quatrain I wrote for a friend on his 23rd birthday. Isn't it funny how some people have lists of things to do before they turn xx? I used to be one of those people.]

If one year were one hour then

A year in the day is left;

So toil hard this hour past eleven,

And party after the twelfth.!

Stepmothers

My folks at home do speak Kanarese,
Cameras command me to say only "Cheese!"
Teachers expounded the British version-
The American I picked up from hours of television.

Curricula and cartoonists coached me Marathi,
Garbas and grocers bespoke Gujarati;
Hindi I imbued from common vocals,
And Bambaiyya argot was trained on the locals.

School days began with Rabindranath's Bong,
Sunidhi sings Punj now in every other song;
I rote-learnt Shakira's español Objection,
And Gita instructs in the sacred diction.

Konkani wafts in from the neighbours' lingo,
Tamizh was instilled by collegial jingo;
Travelling revealed to me a number of patois,
And shayaries taught me the jargon of fatwas.

Accuse me of doublespeak, of polyglottony,
Call me a snake with many a prong-
Oh but woe! and behold the irony:
Words fail me in my own mother tongue.


[*My mother tongue is Tulu, which I speak as well as I do the Zulu;]

In Con-verse-ation with Gieve

Over the weekend, I attended a poetry workshop facilitated by Gieve Patel at the British Council, Bangalore. It was an absolute pleasure interacting with the poet, painter, playwright and physician- to listen to him marvel at Shakespeare and revel in Seth, and to read out some of my poems to Gieve and a cheering crowd made up of lit and media students, engineering grads and a navigator for the Indian Navy.

Who better to learn the nuances of a craft than from the masters themselves? It is remarkable the kind of insights you can gain by casually chatting with a seasoned practitioner of art. Here I reproduce bits and bursts- in no particular sequence or chronology- of my two daylong conversation with aapro Gieve (pronounced with a G for Gandhi.. "Most people call me Jeev. I like Jeev too.")

Me : When did you first write poetry?

Gieve : I started writing poetry in school. Back then, it was to see my name featured in the school magazine.. that felt good.

Me : I was schooled at St. Xavier's too. (palpable excitement in my voice)

Gieve : We missed each other by a few years!

Me : Few equals fifty! I think the kind of poems we are exposed to in school, and the way poetry is treated vis-à-vis prose lessons governs our interest in the form. I was lucky to have teachers who did not accord step-motherly treatment to poetry! I fondly remember reading your poem 'On Killing a Tree' [read here] in eighth grade and wanting to meet you. When did you write that?

Gieve : I wrote it at 21.

Me : Wow! I thought you'd say you wrote it 21 years back! In the early days, whom did you show your poems to for evaluation? Whom should a young poet turn to for opinions?

Gieve : Show them to someone you respect. I used to show them to my friends. There were times when a person would criticise a piece a lot and I would go into fifteen days of depression. But slowly, I reached a place where if I loved one of my poems, I wouldn't worry if the world hated it.

Me : It would be interesting to know who your favourite poets are..

Gieve : My favourites kept changing with age. In my twenties, I liked the free verse of D. H. Lawrence; Arun Kolatkar and A. K. Ramanujan in the thirties. I read a lot of Wordsworth in my forties, and Shakespeare throughout. Tolstoy and Tagore are two of my favourite writers. I also like Nissim Ezekiel's work.

Me : Nissim Ezekiel published your first collection of poems..

Gieve : Yes. I used to meet him regularly, and one day, when I was 25 he said, 'Gieve, you have a good number of poems now. You should bring out a book.' I was studying at Grant Medical College then. I exclaimed, 'But I have exams coming up!' Ezekiel said with a laugh, 'Oh exams are for life.'

Me : You have been a practising physician all your adult life. How did you juggle your occupation and your art?

Gieve : It was difficult initially. After ten years of practice, I stopped working on Sundays. Gradually, I came to consult only weekday evenings. Mornings were dedicated to painting and poetry.

Me : What prompts you to write poetry?

Gieve : Ignorance about the world leads to art. Through curiosity, an artist tries to learn about the subject by painting it or penning it. He goes from ignorance to knowledge in the process of creating the piece.

Me : Do you compose poetry when the urge strikes you? Or do you spend a considerable amount of time composing each piece?

Gieve : Very rarely do poets compose their poems in one go. You have to chisel and carve it till it reaches a point where it should not be touched any more, lest you spoil it. Mandelstam is the only poet I know of who wrote on impulse, and never revised what he wrote. He would wake up in the morning with the feeling that a poem was coming to him. He would pace around the house and dictate his lines to his wife, saying 'Write so-and-so as the third word of the second line of this stanza!' Such genius is hard to find. I am never happy with my first draft. Often people visiting my place lay their eyes on an unfinished painting and say, 'Just leave it like that! It's perfect! Don't touch it any more.' But of course, I'm going to touch it.. (smiles)

Me : I stay very close to your clinic. (Gieve stays at Colaba, but had a clinic near Bombay Central station.) Do you still have that?

Gieve : No, I've retired. It's been seven years.

Me : How much do you feel has your professional life as a doctor shaped you as an artist?

Gieve : One's experiences do make their way into one's art. For instance, my series of paintings depicting accident victims stemmed from my visits to morgues or accident sites. It was my way of coming to terms with what I saw. I believe encounters with suffering are important to artists.

Me : Poetry, or even writing for that matter is not a lucrative career option. What is your advice to young poets? At what stage in their lives should they try to get their work out in the public domain?

Gieve : It's impoverishing! Poetry is poverty! My advice would be: If you love doing something, continue doing it. Think of what matters to you in life and pursue it. Publication will come from reading and writing for at least five years.

Me : I understand. I want to know your thoughts on whether travelling or learning a new language help in growing as a poet?

Gieve : It all depends on the individual's need. The need arises from within. Once you know what you want to write about, you'll know what you need to write it. Follow your knows.

Me : Haha.. that's a nice way to put it! But would you recommend taking up literature fellowships where someone pays you to work on a book devotedly for a year or two?

Gieve : It wouldn't work for everybody. There was this case of an English poet - I forget his name- he was offered a scholarship to write, and they would sponsor his travel around the world for a year. But he declined the offer, simply because he hated travelling! Of course, it's always good to learn a new language.

Me : What do you think of poetry prizes, and poets who have won awards before? Are awards important?

Gieve : Longevity is the sole deciding factor of the beauty of any art form. Look at the Literature Nobel winners of the 2000s. You don't hear of them even ten years since they were awarded the prize. I'd love to win an award though! (chuckles heartily)

Me : You spoke of the impact that Tolstoy and Tagore had on you. But would you not say getting influenced by other writers curbs one's own originality and style?

Gieve : No! There have been so many great writers over the ages, and have produced works of breathtaking artistry. We must read extensively, absorb and admire the beauty that has preceded us. And one's voice as a writer must not be so feeble as to be gagged by the works you read.

Me : That's true. Which poets then, do you suggest a youngster interested in writing poetry read? Should she read more of Indian poets writing in English, considering she will publish it in the Indian sphere?

Gieve : There is no specific set of poets that you should or should not read. Go by your liking. Pick up an anthology and read through it. Then read more of the poets you like.

Me : Have you read any poetry by some of the younger generation of Indian poets? How did you find them?

Gieve : Frankly, at my age, people tend to spend their time revisiting classics or reading what concerns them. I haven't been able to read much of the younger poets.

Me : Do you think poetry as an art must have an underlying meaning or a motive? Or should it suffice to be emotive?

Gieve : I don't think every poem has a moral or a motive. Many poems are written for the enjoyment of it.

Me : Yes, they are indeed. May I ask what you are working on currently?

Gieve : I recently finished a poem on the legend of Orpheus and Eurydice written from the perspective of Hermes. (He later read this out to thunderous applause.) I'm also trying to translate some Gujarati poets with the help of some of my Gujarati friends.