Musings

The merry-go-round deal !

Travel Tales, , , , , ,

Children scream. Half concealing a laugh and a spirit that seems to come alive when the man with big biceps heaves all his might on to the ‘merry-go-round’.

For 25 paisa, there they are, sitting on red cars. With stationary wheels that spin in air and a steering wheel that needs no steering. The man with the big biceps moves them well ! For two minutes or for such time till the man with the big biceps gets tired, the kids spin around.

In seemingly countless whorls. Seemingly in control. Giggling. Screaming. Some crying. Some closing their eyes in sheer fear and great fright. And there they go. Round. And round. And round.

When their turn is done, they alight.

Slightly heady. Perhaps longing for more. Sometimes looking at their parents for ‘one more round’ ! This merry-go-round is a prominent feature of local fairs and any decent gathering in the villages.

The name says it all. Merry-go-round ! Be merry while going around. Wind in the hair. Screams. Laughter. And all that. For as long as the man with the big biceps desires. Generally its equitable. Sometimes he gives some kids a few more turns. Thats part of the deal.

The merry-go-round deal. The man spins the kids around. As new kids climb on to old cars. Cars with wheels that dont run on the ground and a steering wheel that doesn’t steer.

The same deal, that gives kids a heady high, to think that they steer while knowing that they dont. The same deal that the man with big biceps plays along. The ‘Merry-Go-Round’ deal !

Think about it. Merry-go-round. Man with big biceps. Heady high. Spin. Scream. Scare. Loss. Seeming control. Joy. And so on.

Life.

Isnt it ?

Life…seems to me, to be one big merry-go-round !

Whatsay ?

Pump buzz !

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The fingers punching the keyboard punctuates the still early morning air. In a distance the the ‘plonk’ of newspapers being thrown a.k.a delivered at the doorstep is just about the only sound.

In some time there are the others. Like the auto driver revving his engine. And the bus driver seeming to practice to race in Formula 1. All of them contribute to doing their two bit to the Mumbai air. The odd dog barks.

And some birds chirp. Half heartedly. Half in fear, perhaps. Of some wisecrack setting off a Diwali cracker. At 5.30 in the morning, he has to be a wisecrack. Maybe something worse.

The mind wanders to the smaller towns and quieter villages. Occasionally yearning. The sounds of small town mornings are getting to be mirror the big cities.

However, the one sound that’s missed,that used to be so much a part of the wonder years, is the buzz around the ‘hand pump’. The pump still survives, and is very much in use. In many parts of the country.

It goes by the name of ‘Adi-pump’ ( loosely translated to convey : ‘The pump that you have to hit’). People gathered around it, taking turns to pump that long straight handle, up and down. Out would flow water.

Well, water was the obvious reason. Yet, the buzz about the pump was unmistakable. For it was the point of convergence. Of men. Women. Children. Worries. Desires. Jealousies. Love.

And all that went within the whorls of the human brain. Everything was on display. Something like the military showing off its ware at a Republic Day parade. The hand pump being a completely unrehearsed natural event !

Exchanged glances, the extra puffed chest, the ‘help’ of pumping an extra pot-full for the girl. The wail of the complaining wife. The empty boast of the loud husband. Family economics. National economics. Politics. Movies.

The shrill cry of laughter. The sharp spank. Drunk men. Loud women. Washing. The quiet ones. The shy ones. The cleanliness freaks. Gossip. Teasing. Preaching. Repartees. Kindness. Despair. Bonding.

Several strands of society converging. All pumping. When their turn came.

It used to be magical. Almost as though, the buzz was in the water that came out. And so, the metal clang used to be the wake up call. An interesting wake up call. The house needed the water. But more importantly, the local news came through the hand pump !

Some years earlier, the hand pump having an artistic arched handle was more common. Like this.

That’s the journey. It seems. First things are straightened out. And then, they are replaced. These days, there is electricity. Motor pumps. And a battalion to keep the arm at the end of the hand, from going beyond making the odd noise at the keyboard.

To all those that talk about the buzz in the community gone. Or cry shrill about our panting news anchors on TV, and the ‘awesome’ editorial content of newspapers. And to those that hit the snooze button of the alarm clock…

Perhaps its time to try the hand pump !

Oh yes. The water. That’s a bonus.

A – 1 bliss

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Take a look at this snap.

Those green chillies hanging like a string of wall decoration are sure to catch the eye. In some time, they will be dipped in flour, fried in oil and served with a flourish. Chilly Bhaji ! And as this is getting written, the ‘mouth watering’ phenomenon sees new levels of inundation.

Those are for another time though. Take a look at the name of the Tea – Stall : ‘A-1 tea stall.’ Now, that is something, isn’t it !

This must be a hybrid of two superlatives. ‘A Class’ and ‘Number One’ ! Both ‘A’ and ‘1’ by virtue of being the first off the starting blocks of their respective series, take pole position as they say in F-1 ( notice the ‘1’) races !

The modern day world has no time, money and patience for that is B grade ( or C or D or anything else for that matter). Similar is the case of positions 2,3…etc !

There is a vast array of products. That are sold as ‘A-1’ quality. ‘A-1’ leadership position. ‘A-1 taste’ and so on. A double reinforcement of sorts !

The effort to belong to / be SEEN on top of the heap is mind boggling. And after all that effort, how must it feel to continue to be, part of the heap !

As the mind masticates that thought in a way that would make a cow hang its jaw in bitter shame, inundation due to the mouth watering are a swallowed tale.

This shop, is set in the chill of Kodai. Serving chili bhaji, tea and coffee. The chill of the hills, offset by the heat of the bhaji and the aromatic milk laden, sugar soaked tea, (re)defines ‘bliss’ !

So ?

You see, this A-1 tea stall, indeed attracts crowd. How much of it was because of they calling themselves ‘A-1’ is a question that begs no answer. At its supreme best, all that the question can get, is a smirk from the missus.

Of course, when the servings redefine bliss, whats in a name. But, would it make a difference if they called themselves ‘B-2 Masala tea’ ?!?

Perhaps. Perhaps not! There is something that has no ‘perhaps’ to it here : The bhaji and masala tea.

Well, that taste…that’s bliss. Perhaps its important say it properly. …’bliss of A-1 quality’ !

One for the road

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The sights are so many. The sounds are ear numbing. The mind tries to absorb all what comes by. The eyes are focused on the road. The heat is omni present.

The car’s air-conditioner is at work. As much as it can. Its some years old now. And it shows. The suns heat has been there forever. That shows too.

Its having an impact. All of this. To compound an already clouded mind. Clouded with work and its facets. Family and its facets. The home and the broken faucets.

The mind sows the seed for a head ache to take shape. The head is fertile ground. For such sowing. Tiredness germinates. Its becoming clear as to where all this would lead to. Beeps go off somewhere within. Auto triggered alarm bells within the confines of the mind.

Adding to the clamour.

That’s precisely when the sugar cane juice vendor is spotted. He pushes sugarcane into heavy machinery. Those wheels by the side, move with precision. Out flows concentrated juice. A slice of lemon. And some ginger. And some ice later, the drink is nursed.



As it sinks into a parched throat, the mind seems to be affected. The noises quieten. He sells more. A Small costs Rs.3/-. A large costs Rs.5/-. He can almost sense that the throat is parched enough for more. And proposes a ‘Jumbo’ for Rs.7/-.

In some time, what was grown in some field somewhere, rests in the glass at hand. The throat is a lot less parched. The mind seems to be a lot less noisy. Was there a connection ? There is wonder. As usual.

In satisfaction, the eyes roam. And spot the large tender coconuts sold. Just some distance away. The parched throat is no longer parched. The mind is still in its quenched trance. Yet, the tender coconuts beckon.



There are memories of having tender coconuts. In fields. Roadsides. Travel. With special people. With strangers. All alone. Lows. Highs. A million thoughts rush back. Its almost as though the tender coconuts beckon for re-living of those memories.

He is doubtful of any sale. For he has seen the Jumbos getting gulped with a ferocity of a ravenous glutton.

For only a fleeting second. ‘”The one with water'”, escapes the throat with almost quaint insult to the Jumbo glasses of Sugarcane juice. He gives a wide grin.

The mind seems to rise in protest. Somewhere, that protest is quelled with one statement : ‘This ones for the road’.

A sigh escapes. A smile uses the same escape route too. The mind is quiet. In some time, so is the air-conditioner in the car.

The 24 ways !

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Flowers fascinate. The whorls. The colour. The splendour of the bloom. The fragrance for the bee. The soothing for the eye. The subject for poets. As symbols of love. Sorrow. Happiness. And so on.

For my part, i have always loved flowers. And plants as well. As earlier stated, the Madurai Malli has been a personal favourite.

Many a picture has been clicked from my camera. Many an incomplete poem resides : half in paper, half in my mind. A few posts have also found their way on to this blog ! Today, i was in an institution where i spotted this.


And of course, wondered, if i can ever continue to do all what i do. Read that carefully. There are twenty-four items that the reader is asked not to do. This left me staring in open mouthed awe.

If you really wanted to do something bad to a flower or a plant, you could. Couldn’t you ! But, in 24 different ways ! Phew !

I wonder if all of this was thought through and made at one go. Or one statement over a period of time, has expanded to become as all-encompassing as possible !

And that includes ‘borrow, break, pinch..’ etc. The essence however resides in the last line. Which states ‘touch’ ! But wait a minute. How can you borrow, break, pinch, endanger, mutilate etc…without touching ?

Maybe..maybe…

Did they get to see my snaps ? Or worse, did they read my poems ? Did someone complain ? Or are there many like me ?

And i thought, the only thing that you could do with a flower was to let it be ! Ssshhh..! Dont say that aloud. Twenty five ways’ has a nice ring to it.

Twenty four ways are scary enough !

Still standing

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These are not buildings with architectural significance ! But then, like every other building they hold in them a history. A tale. Perhaps two.

These were used as car garages. Many many years ago. In these ‘sheds’, as they were called, many an Ambassador or a Premier Padmini would stand. In the company of a slew of bikes. All from the housing colony over there.

And so these sheds shielded those vehicles that were owned with great pride. Sometimes to get people around. Many other times, to just keep up with the Joneses !

There were a motley crew of incorrigible kids who thought of this ‘shed’ with greater affection. For it was part of their life for most of their day. And dreams too.


These are snaps that were clicked a few months back. For at the side of these ‘sheds’ do you see those ‘stumps’ drawn.

Cricket !!!

Yes. Those three vertical lines, topped with one horizontal connection ? They were drawn with charcoal. A bowler of any merit, in the local community of local kids, gunned for those stumps.

The boundary was the road. The sixers meant broken glass panes. Tennis ball. Wooden bat. Teams. Matches. Challenges. All there.

There was no third umpire. There was no umpire in the first place. As kids, things were sorted out, mostly in a jiffy. Arguments. Fights. Sometimes walk outs. All would happen. But the game had to go on.

Kids didn’t play for honour or advertisements. Every kid played there, for cricket was life. Cricket was fun. Cricket defined. And cricket helped connect to other kids.

Many years later, those garages still stand. No longer are cars parked inside. They still stand though, with perhaps a thousand memories. Of kids, who live adult lives elsewhere.

The garages still hold evidence of their creativity. Of their ability to sort out things between themselves. And move on to the next match.

And perhaps those garages wonder, how different these kids grow up to be. With degrees in the pocket, jobs and routines as life. Treating cricket as a spectator sport. And somewhere, living life by rote.

Does this remind you of a different time. When passion ruled. The possessions were few. The heart was light. Losses never mourned. Fights were resolved. Smiles prevailed.

hmm..

Give me some company, will you. I’ll get the bat and the ball. We’ll have a heck of a match. And more importantly, a heck of a time.

You see, the stumps..they are still standing.

Gas !

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This tricycle has a load of gas. But it doesn’t run on gas though. Its pedalled by a young chap. About whom this post is about.

On another note…

The world runs on gas. Well, i can at least speak for many a corporate work life. Without much substance, but much gas. But then that’s a different story.

The Ambani brothers are at war. Bringing their corporate empires and the government into the ambit. Gas, they say, is the reason.

China and Australia are sparring. Ostensibly over gas.

India, Pakistan and Iran have a tryst with a pipeline. And they say, its about gas.

Russia’s shutting of gas supplies, had Europe shivering. That was about gas too.

Now, now, all that would make it appear that it is gas that’s driving us and our lives around. And now, about the protagonist of this post…

One afternoon, over a post lunch walk, i strike a conversation with this simple young chap. who distributes gas cylinders.

A truth emerges. When he shrugs his shoulders, and says in a matter of fact manner. In the middle of conversation. About work time and kilometers covered ever day, pedaling this gas.

“I try and stop around 6.00 PM. I study part-time and i have a college to go to. Its difficult at times, especially when there are exams, but…” his voice trails off.

And after a 10 second silence, which seems like forever, erupts a sigh and an emphatic ‘…its got to be done’.

And almost as an instant rejoinder to himself says, “How long can life be about gas?’

I smile at his question cum statement. ‘How long can life be about gas ?!’

In a second, a million images go past my mind. I think of the people of India. Pakistan. China. Australia. Iran. Europe. Russia. Alaska. And the rest of the world. And the Ambani brothers too.

And stare into this determined young man with well built calf muscles and sweat, with a ton of gas in front of him.

I smile a weak smile. Shake my head and say,

‘Not for a long time. Not for a long time at all’

Upgrade to life !

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Upgrades are everywhere. You upgrade from live shows to gramophones. To radios. To TV. To Plasma. To LCD to iPods. To God knows what !

You upgrade from a bullock cart to a bicycle. To bikes. To cars. To a bigger car. To a bigger car with a fancy number plate and swanky shine. To.. God knows what !

You upgrade from crayons to pencils. To ballpoint pens. To fountain pens. To fancy pens to….God knows what !

You upgrade from ‘water from the lakes’, to ‘water from the wells’. To ‘water from the canals’. To ‘spring water from a fancy bottle’. To …God knows what !

You upgrade from pigeons carrying messages. To human messengers carrying messages. To the postman carrying mail. To email carrying attachments… to God knows what.

You upgrade from simple means, to glorious comforts. You upgrade from simple equations to deep relationship(s).

And God has been upgraded too. From being a concept. To God being nature. To God being another man or woman. To God becoming a statue and a stone. A Temple. A mosque. A church. And of course, the latest upgrade version is some man or woman claiming to be God ! And the next….only God knows what !

Upgrades themselves were designed to get life simpler. At least that was the ostensible reason. Merely a means. That’s where they all started out with. Hmm. Somewhere, along the way, upgrades started becoming the end ! hmm

Thats a tonne of ramble.


On another note,

Its Ganesh Chaturti ! The festivities have started in right earnest. Ganeshji seemed to have been given a new transportation as he was taken to a home ! An upgrade of sorts. From the good old mouse to a bullock cart !

The newspaper and the TV is full of ‘pick me for i am the latest‘ ! As one upgrade shouts out ‘Try me‘ over another, and just as living becomes a race to keep pace with the ‘new, latest’.

I am telling myself to bear in mind, that there is a life to live, love & joy to spread, and a ‘oneness’ to eschew. Moving there, would be a real upgrade !

So may the real upgrade, reach all of us, around the world. This Ganesh Chaturti ! Am praying for peace. Happiness & health. Joy and life. Fulfillment & hope. For us.

For all of us.

Exempt !

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I clicked this on the highway. A huge hoarding. Listing out all dignitaries that are exempted from paying toll on the highway.

Starting from the President of India ! Vice President of India. Ministers (only if they were in vehicles)….hmm ! The list was long. The hoarding was huge. But the cars on the lane closest to hoarding moved slowly, and i couldn’t see it fully.

This exemption from payment, amounts to a grand sum of Rs.38/- only. I am sure the President of India, the Vice-President of India, and those ministers in their vehicles will be pleased as sugar syrup, to get that exemption of Rs.38/- only.

And then, i think…Of course, its not about the money. Its the iconic status that such ‘positions’ mean to the national highway authority. Now, that sounds logical indeed.

If that’s the case, this list is incomplete without names of certain ‘global icons’ of the film industry. A film star is a global icon indeed. And if you are a Tamil film star, you are well on your way to becoming chief minister.

There is a fit case for the National Highways authority to put up another hoarding extending the exemption of the Rs.38/- toll, to other icons too.

No stoppage. No questioning. Not even a toll fee. That’s the least we can do. To global icons & other VIPs.

We then, will have a proud model to display to the rest of the world. As proof of how iconic our stars really are. Even on the highway. To the last Rs.38/-

I wonder how toll roads in distant places like Newark, Chicago, Toronto etc work. Any ideas ?

Now…Newark and other cities are just other cities that came to my mind. Just like that. This post, obviously has nothing to do with this ‘major news’ (thats been the only vaccine for the media against Swine Flu).

Or whatever else you are thinking.

Covers

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There are some covers that stay. Many others are coming off. And yet others are coming on.


The rains usually bring in fantastic innovations from Mumbaikars. As we rankle the informativeness quotient ( if one such exists ) of our brains and cover up our bikes. Our cars and such else. Of course, there are many types of covers.



Thick leather ones. Thin transparent plastic ones. Run down ones etc. The idea is to keep the rain from doing damage to the bike.

And in summer time, there are other less common covers. Like this one. Seemed to be made of a fur like material. But one cant care about the fur.


Its about the looks that this fur will furnish. From ‘gaaawd’ to ‘yeaaaah’ ! And there are those that take care special care of these covers. Designing them meticulously and wearing them neatly.

For instance, this taxi.


And of course, this goes beyond pure functionality of protection. That would lead us to people and their dispositions. But we will not go there today.

But of course, people are wearing this funny green masks these days.


Swine Flu cover. Scenes of passengers in a air-conditioned car wearing such masks with their drivers not wearing any, shows more than what the mask can cover.

Messages and jokes on swine flu hit your phone with an alarming regularity, that beats the virus itself.

One such states, ‘ You wish some people kept their masks on even after the virus is gone’. And almost as a rejoinder came a comment from a colleague. In jest, i presume.

Speaking to another who was talking about a mask, ‘ You don’t need a mask. You already have one on’ !

This swine flu business is beyond me. I’d much rather admire the cover on the taxi meter. Whatsay ?