Travel

Pause & Pass – Feb ’16


I was the only outsider dwelling in the shore in Kodiakkarai (Point Calimere), in that afternoon of Feb 2016. It was a sea shore without waves. Apart from me, there were two other fishermen on a fishing boat stopped at the shore; where they were untying the fishes and other aquatic animals caught on their net.
Sea shore without waves; many flocks of seagulls flying around like – kites all tied to a pivot – raising and raising and round and round, finally landing and raising again; wet sand shore holed and carved with architectures of crabs; a fishing boat with two fishermen on it plucking the fish from their net. It sounded to me as a backdrop enacted there just for my presence.
I reached to the fishing boat. Just stood there to see what they did; Didn’t talk or near them very close for sometime; they didn’t talk to me either. A young boy and his grandmother(atleast I assumed so).
“Can I take a photo of you two?”, I asked.
Grandma looked at me, then his grandson.
“No, don’t take”, boy denied without looking at me.
“Why?”
“No, don’t take”, he denied again.
“ok, I won’t”, I respected their refusal. Didn’t picture them.
But it affected me thought, not because I was refused.
I somehow felt that, he denied and acted to me like that because he was not happy to be captured by a well fed someone and who are not bother of his life at stake for his daily needs; like How a not so happy sibling would deny a sufficiently supplied sibling. Kodiakkarai, if you don’t know, is twenty five kilometers away from Srilanka. Kodiakkarai fishing community is one of many others who are neglected by central government and tortured, boats damaged, sometime shot at, by Srilankan navy.
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***
Next day, when I was in Pichavaram – chidambaram, second largest marshland in India. People were fishing in rowing boats.
“Anna (brother), will they say anything if I picture them?”, I asked the boatman on who’s boat I was in.
“No no.. don’t mind to..” he told me and he shouted at them – “hey.. You.. Pose for the photo here…. nobody is going to eat you if you smile…. Show your teeth….”
I smilingly took the photo and showed them the thumps up.
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***
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Fiction

​A Slice of Time


We both – a second person and I, spoke hearts out.. finally, atleast I did for sure, on how it was for each-other in the slice of time that was saved for us to be together; as we will have to depart from each other soon.. for sure, forever. We speak out only when we know “not anymore”, unlike when we were actually through the relationship; don’t we? even though what spoken out would not help but just be mere a memory. Even if we were outspoken during the journey of the relationship; we speak out the unspeakable only towards the end or at the end; I mean, like confessions, regrets and remorse. Atleast I’m concerned, that is the case always.
I expected it to be a dialogue, rather it ended up more as my admission. Perhaps because, I was the one who had gaps to take it all and the second person had nothing new in me to learn for the self. I say ‘second person’ because I don’t know what pronoun to use.. ‘He’ or ‘she’ would not particularly suit the subject, I’m afraid ‘they’ or ‘them’ would alienated my relation with the subject and ‘It’ would be disrespectful. So, we will agree mutually to understand the other subject – other than me, in the dialogue as “Second person”.

                                —-

“It is bit weird and embarrassing”, I said sitting on a chair, not so lied down – respectful posture.

“Go on.. we are running out of time already..”, said the second person in gesture that won’t allow you to take for granted. A caring tone with slight pinch of authority, for which I got used to for a while now. 

I held out a painting.

“What?!”

Painting depicted a fishing boat among waves in a ocean, a fisherman on the boat caressing a fish – that he caught, within the water. Fish had a facial expression of a belly rubbed dog. Fish hooked in its mouth, hurt, but not much. String from fishing rod, in his hand, is left uncut to the hook in fish’s mouth. It looked something like – fisherman training a fish for something, rater than fishing; Fish was hooked for it’s good, not for his need.

“So, you are the fish? And I’m the fisherman training you?”, I saw the second person radiating a blissful smile, for the first time since I get to know the second person. 

“Yes”, I smiled back bright, “whereas, since the start from a know shore of the ocean, hooking to some or the other fishing rod is a known happening on this ocean with other shore – invisible. I was hooked to your’s eventually. At initial part of time, I thought you were sweet. But only later I got to learn, that the initial sweetness was the string you unrolled to get me to your way, by keeping the string uncut. Down the stream, I had to endured through the hardness imposed. Was displeasing in unexpected ways. I hated you like a teacher whose classes I always wanna bunk. But I had no choice, you see”, I heard a chuckle, “But.. But.. now that I strangely feel, as it is going to end for sure forever, I may see you now like a teacher whom I have hated for their authority and rigidity, but years later I would be glad that such person was once my teacher; for I may realize only then that, without whom I would not have learnt things that are subtle, without whom I would not have learnt to learn. I’m glad, I was hooked to your’s at a right point in time. Thank you for being hard on me.” 

I held out my hands to hug. We had an awkward hug. 

With reverence, I again said, “Thank you much, Two thousand sixteen.” 

I heard the second person say, “I only did my job.”, I was caressed.

“Oh.. Here you are.. “, I heard Two thousand sixteen calling someone loud. We both saw Two thousands seventeen nearing.
                             ——–

Poems

​I desire to seek


​I desire to seek –
Serenity over joy,
Endurance over retaliation,
Healthy over tasty,
Kinship over reactions,
People over emotions,
Solutions over complaints,
Learnings over sufferings,
Departure over bothering,
Comfortability over sophistication,
Quality over quantity,
My roots over fancy modernity,
Love amidst patriotism.

Poems

Voicemail 


​On shore, I stood,
Gazing at the sky-

Blue of all shades.
Clouds of all patterns.
Light from only Sun,
Jumping and dancing
Like a rigid beauty,
Making all –
Patterns and shades
Equally worthless
Of concealment.

Infinite sea shouldered
Innumerous loveliness – Sky;
While sun hovered
As calm fish out of sea.

Home, I returned.
To find salty voicemail,
Of the waves and shore,
They left at my limbs,
For ceasing to find their grace.

Poems

Voicemail 


On shore, I stood,
Gazing at the sky-

Blue of all shades.
Clouds of all patterns.
Light from only Sun,
Jumping and dancing
Like a rigid beauty,
Making all –
Patterns and shades
Equally worthless
Of concealment.

Infinite sea shouldered
Innumerous loveliness – Sky;
While sun hovered
As calm fish out of sea.

Home, I returned.
To find salty voicemail,
Of the waves and shore,
They left at my limbs,
For ceasing to find their grace.

—-

PS: Sorry for the repetitions of the post Voicemail. I edited the original post, mobile app created a new one. 🙂

Fiction

A dinner in street.


‘Haeli(tell me)’ cashier nodded his head at me. 

‘Masal dosa’ I said and showed a finger to tell him the count. 

‘Thirty.  haeeyyyy…. ‘ he said and rushed to the street. Three teenagers were racing on a bike and dashed over a couple. 

They didn’t stop, though there were too many hands trying to grab a hold of them –  the three teenagers. They managed to escape them all and dashed themselves, missing the balance, on the vehicles that were parked at the sides of the street shop – I was waiting for Masal dosa. Few grabbed their collar, few jumped over them, many punched on their face. There was much hassle. 

I got my dosa a little while later, sat over a concrete near the shop and started feeding my hunger. 

‘What is happening here?!’ a voice directed towards me. A white. 

I told him what happened there, repeating many words again and again, I couldn’t twist my tongue proper to his mother language. 

‘But, why did they dash on those vehicles? ‘

‘They were trying to escape’ I said. 

‘Aaaahhhh…’ he said and shock his head. 

He was eating ‘Set dosa’ with a coffee by the side,  with bare hands. 

‘Good to see you eat with bare hands’ I smiled. 

He laughed out loud. “Food that are costlier than these are not tastier than these” 

‘Where are you from?! You are here for very long?! ‘ I asked. He said, he is from London and he has been in India for six months now,  traveling along Kerela and Tamil Nadu for past five months and his stay in Bangalore of one month is getting over by tomorrow. 

‘I’m leaving Bangalore tomorrow, but I don’t know where I’m going next. My travel so far has been as this, zero planning’ he grinned. 

I excused to get me a coffee,  got one and went back again to him. 

‘How do you feel about the past six months here? ‘

Staring with food, he continues praising good about culture, tradition and people. 

‘People here handle things by themselves,  which I don’t see in London, I mean, in terms of dealing things among themselves as it just happened now, in that hassle; without taking it over to an burocracy level. Ah.. where are those three guys who got caught?!’

‘Their plea has been considered after the smashing’ I said. 

He was raving about things here, I don’t know if it was because of my emotive nature, but I was more than proud. Perhaps, gloating. I couldn’t get ride of that thick grin that was sticking on my face.

‘You people get rid of your politicians somehow, I mean, somehow… You people can handle it all with yourself, you just don’t need them’ there was a firm genuineness in his expression then. 

I was just sitting there, with my grin for sometime. 

‘Alright man, good to see you, have a wonderful trip’, I wished him and started walking home. 

Only after crossing few meters, I remembered I had left the coffee glass in the place we were talking and didn’t give it back to the shop. 

I went back there only to see no coffee glass at the place I kept but the English guy I was talking to had picked my glass as well, along with his plate and his coffee glass, and was giving it to the shop. He was modest enough to pick something I used. I wouldn’t have done that in his place, just until then. 

I left the place, with a sense of making something really ugly. Only I couldn’t put that “Why?!” into words here.

Fiction

Woke-up Panting


I do not remember how it started, it was dark and blurred-up. Nobody remember a dream, as clear as day, do we? I don’t anyway. Given a choice, I would copy the dreams to a memory stick, bottle it up, peruse them, and be fascinated again. Most of the dreams aren’t remembered to the least when I be awake. I’m happy to have remembered this atleast as fragmented scenes.

But I do remember from the scene where I was asked to interview Mr. Modi, for a TV show. Don’t ask me who asked you to.. which TV Channel was it. It was all blurred-up or skipped perhaps to say it better. Even I wasn’t able to say, “Ok, Stop..” and make these questions, because I couldn’t afford to – it would wake me up, moreover there is no way I could resume a dream, once terminated.

The place all this happened was a Bazaar street in my town, that is very much familiar in my memory; to be more precise – a building that looked more like a garage from an outer look, reached crossing multiple alleys. I could vaguely remember a tea shop near the garage like place with worn-out wooden door. Yes, I was suppose to interview Mr. Modi in that place that looked more like a garage, with worn-out wooden door. Insane, I know. If not so, would you say it’s worth being a dream.

Next scene, I was preparing there for the interview, with questions.. that I don’t remember. I can guess though.. : You proposed “Clean India”, people expected Dustbins, But you gave a 0.5% cess and you said “helping farmers” people expected loan cancellations and promoting native breeds, But government gave a 0.5% cess. Why do you do this Mr. Modi? I was asking to the empty chair opposite me. I was nervousness enough in the dream to debacle the hosting place.

Woke-up panting, glad to have not interviewed Mr. Modi.