Will the memories ever fade?

 

An ouevre to my Aunt 'Janaki' – The shining star of AVR

 

Boisterous chatter and raucous laughter

Infectious banter on occasions that have become few

Haunt the memories of all and sundry

For they all remind us of you

 

Natural wit and instant humor

Many a card game, will never be the same

They all seem sudden and artificial

For they ring only your name

 

The truth makes us livid, but the imagery very vivid

When you broke into song and dance

If time would ever reverse itself

Wouldn’t we leap at that chance?

 

In weddings and functions, picnics and parties

Tedium creeps and monotonousness seeps

A feature that was unheard of in AVR land

The faces fake smiles, but the heart eternally weeps

 

When clouds rolled up into one nebulous mass

A sparkle of color would hover into view

Beauty of the 70’s and aunt of all aunties

Nothing could be more true

 

Boys and Girls, Uncles and Aunts

Cousins and aged seniors drawing pension

You were the dazzle of shining light to one and all

That cut through the fog of familial tension

 

You left us in starkness, enveloped by darkness

The world paused its spin, six years to this day

But in spirit and soul, you are very much in our midst

The memories are green and never fade away

 

 

 

The Pacific Limerick

Flying over oceans has always been a gut-churning experience to me. Well oceans or not, when we sit in a plane, we basically hand over the reins of our lives to the pilot. Irrespective of one’s race, colour, religion, social status, physical or mental state of mind, everyone is equal in the eyes of the holy cockpit which is suddenly elevated to a godly realm, till the flight completes its safe touchdown at journey’s end. A philosophical take, experimented in a limerick form (poem with a rhyme sequence of AABBA) which weds my worst trepidations to a dark undertow of the ephemera of human life.

It is an eerie traversal

There lies only the way forward, no reversal

My disposition no longer is steely

As my lines start pouring out freely

Make no mistake, it ain’t no rehearsal

 

The plane though in steady motion

Is stirring up the heart’s commotion

To be more candid and specific

We are flying above the mighty pacific

As I turn into an embodiment of emotion

 

The sight from my window seat

Fills me with morosity replete

As I stare below into the expanse of black

Titillating on the verge of a mild panic attack

At an altitude of Thirty Thousand Feet

 

What do I behold?

Why do I feel the need to be told?

Looks as if the symmetrical night sky from above

Transmogrified and plunged into the vastness below

With every passing instant, I let a new wave of frisson unfold

 

The metallic bird soars across

Sandwiched between the two skies, without a pause

A massive cloud gets in the way, puffy and ashen

Unletting the filter through of the stygian vision

For a second it appeared we had breached aeropause

 

While the nocturnal vistas continues to taunt

Even as upwards, the firmament does flaunt

A trillion coruscating stars

And the effulgent moon – Czar amongst Czars

The stillness of the darkness below aggravates the haunt

 

Face pallid trembling in terror 

I down the shutter looking away to divert from the horror

Attempting to focus on the In-flight entertainment screen

A fleeting mild palliating change of scene

From thoughts of the night sky’s reflection in the Thalassic mirror

 

The IFE doesn’t help much

The images offering plain facts as such

That we are sundered bang in the middle

Of the mighty Pacific puddle

I see no hope, seemingly at straws I clutch

 

And then arrives the inevitable gloom

Unwinding itself in copious volume

I can’t help but presage

A very idea that will spark outrage

But I can’t but help being the purveyor of doom

 

All it will take is one mistake, one pratfall

One Cardinal blunder, leading to another pitfall

If something as slightly as imaginable could go astray

A distressing prospect I will peddle, if I may

Literally and metaphorically, that is our downfall

 

I try peeping at the holy altars and the pulpit

Where the pilots must be working away at the cockpit

To transport us across the seas

Safely, and to put us at ease

One could only hope they are doing a good job at it

 

All of a sudden we arrive at the foot of nature’s plunder

A dazzling bolt of lightning strikes, follows the thunder

Buffeted by a series of jolts, the plane sharply angles to the left

Of any remaining tinges of optimism, I am left bereft

My gut instinct never sounded more profounder

 

As the sleeping inmates are aroused

Rattled hysterical squeals are quickly doused

By the reassurance of the captain’s

Mellifluous words that this was a momentary turbulence

I try to stem, but fail, the ominous foreboding I had already espoused

 

After five dreadful minutes, we are back to business as usual

Embarassed squealers at center of the hullabaloo, try remaining casual

I uneasily roll up the window shades

The magnetic vision below once again persuades

Me to train my eyes on the boundless visual

 

The Pacific now seems even more scarier

As if browbeating the avian carrier

With its snarling gaping jaws

Summoning it to jump into its deadly maws

To me, why does it does appear?

 

That the aviator might accede to it’s request

And coax the passengers to comply at their behest

Advertising it as the ultimate chance to end all suffering

Without needing to live through the deferring

And once and for all put matters to rest

 

I wish I could talk in telepathy

To the pilots – “We beseech thee

O lord, our lives are with you in the cockpit

Hoping you will honour the refundable deposit

But if you don’t, can we do anything really?

 

Why do I think you may actually laugh it off?

And that you think that we are better off

Floating as mangled corpses on the ocean floor

Whatever it is it’s not in our control anymore

Melancholia is solely mine, but my prayers on everyone’s behalf”

 

Into the skies, everyday a million planes break free

Bouncing from city to city, country to country

It’s remarkable that I feel an emotion so raw

That it would be us who would draw the short straw

Of what use is being a proletariat, or what use is being gentry?

 

On this note, I observe my co-passengers

Who though wholly aware of the lurking dangers

Their exteriors try to wax the sturdiness of an oak

Deep beneath I know it’s a desperate attempt to cloak

Surging inner foretokening of cataclysmic harbingers

 

I begin scrutinizing the specimens

Donning a more punctilious lens

One by one, I hope to unravel

Over the course of this travel

What each one entails, with my acute sixth sense

 

Starting with the ‘consultant-looking-chap’ immediately to my right, Mister

‘Jack’ shall we say, to give it a name, he seems one hell of a blister

He has been ramming away at his laptop

Since the flight took off, four hours non-stop

Sending missives to his subordinates, probably with intentions sinister

 

“Mr. Jack, of what use would be your Armani Tuxedo so slick

Or your sycophantic claque, who bootlick

You, so you can bask under the veil of self-aggrandizement

If I told you our plummet down is imminent

Would you still be so full of yourself, and your shtick?”

 

On to his right I see ‘Jane’ an older lady

In her face I discern a forlorn look of sadness, she seems unsteady

Perhaps a pain too much to be able to cope

With? One that has sapped away the last traces of hope?

She seems stricken with an incurable malady

 

“Listen Ms. Jane, please do not grieve

It may seem though, as diabolical a plot as I could weave

But if this imperiled plane now veers out of control

Over the ephemeral pain, our destiny would steamroll

And in couple of minutes, we shall be handed the ultimate reprieve”

 

Looking in front on my right to the aisle

I see two kids busying themselves in something puerile

Looks like some video game. Perhaps PUBG? Whatever it may be

Boys have you no clue of the decree laid out by the powers that be?

How blessed you are to be blissfully juvenile and not febrile!

 

To my front, I see a mother and her baby

The baby needless to say, looks hardly troubled, the mother maybe

Is brooking pangs of fears and nasty premonitions

Just like I am, she too perhaps is at the receiving end of admonitions

And just like me wishes to be caressed into sleep by a lullaby

 

The weather outside seems to have improved, it brings

Back the sound of the rudder’s salubrious whirrings

And the soughing melody of the plane’s motions

Coaxing me to alter preset notions

That flight journeys are laden with red herrings

 

I still won’t declare a clean bill of health

Imbued pessimism won’t change either naturally or by stealth

My apprehension, certainly won’t cease

Well, atleast till we cross over the seas

And make the safe landing on the morning of the twelfth

 

So with what could have been a more modest critique

I finally am at the end of my distended lyric

Needlessly embellished verses sometimes does the trick

With one final bow to the monumental pacific

I conclude my somber limerick.

The Panipuri Wallah

The story of migrant workers has always been one that has piqued me. The ones I come across the most are various costermongers that line up the affluent South Chennai neighbourhoods, hawking a variety of ‘Chaat’ and other savouries. Have we ever delved into the world of one such guy and tried to view the world from his perspective?

His looks were haggard, worn out by hours of toil

He wore a sweaty shirt, fighting like a lone ranger

Rusty palms, rugged features, eyes dreary,

His countenance was far from cheery.

In my town, he wasn’t anymore a stranger

But neither was he a son of the soil

He was the Panipuri Wallah

 

He didn’t speak a lot

Largely remaining taciturn.

When spoken to in Hindi, he didn’t fret

English and Tamil, he could barely interpret

Linguistically, he didn’t care to learn

But still, he was one of the most sought

Men in the locality.

 

For, in his possession were those skilled fingers

That whipped out the tastiest Panipuri

Twenty rupees for a plate of five

The competitive pricing helping him thrive

Amidst mushrooming cafes, still considered a luxury

That scented business in the area, harbingers

That our favourite fellow was to face competition.

 

Whether it was a hot summer noon

Or during autumnal rainfalls

 

Or on a breezy wintry evening

One could see him leavening

Wheat to be fried into crispy wheat balls,

Piquing tempted taste buds in the commune

As crowds from near and afar thronged all year along.

 

Students, professionals and gallivanters,

Bikers, walkers, drivers, and the like

Gathered around, as the Panipuri Wallah stood encircled

By wagging tongues and edgy hands, bearing recycled

Paper plates. As the sales for the day was ready to spike

So did the buzz and the lively banter

As the crowd wolfed down the moreish snack one by one.

 

One such noon, I was on the road.

I passed by the joint, that gobbled up my paltry savings

Though I was in a hurry to keep up a tryst,

The caressing thoughts of the mouth-watering snack I couldn’t resist.

Deciding to appease my sporadic dose of cravings

I parked by the side and made way to his esteemed abode,

Mingling into the queueing gang.

 

The ceaseless crusader was in the thick of things.

Grabbing a plate, I joined a small party,

Preliminary steps, without any curtailing

Need to be described in full detailing

To capture the end-to-end in its entirety.

The joy of this exercise alone brings

As much pleasure as the delicacy itself.

 

A quick run through his dexterous talents

Is in order. Firstly he scooped up a semi-fistful of mashed potato

And a euphonious ticking sound followed as he crunched

The puri. A perfect little hole he had punched

Then laced the potato scoop with blended traces of sliced onion and tomato

And poured the heady concoction into the Puri’s hollowed contents,

Scooped it up in fragrant mint water, and dished out the end product.

 

As the party enjoyed a satisfying repast

Caring two hoots about the sun firing down its piercing rays,

From the corner of my watchful eyes

I spotted a teardrop wriggle itself from stifled cries

As an unspoken sorrow enshrouded the Panipuri Wallah’s face.

His demeanour had long turned overcast

As I continued to scrutinize.

 

During the next minute and half

The teardrops spurted down his cheek and onto his shirt

While his hands, in all glory, continued speaking his brand.

A virtuoso exhibition of sleight of hand

While none of us even attempted to comfort,

Show concern or enquire on his behalf

In a deplorable show of apathy.

 

He capped off the final complimentary ‘dry’ serving

Sprinkling smidgens of Sev and Masala.

As we wound up the feast with a few final slurps

And followed it up with odorous burps

A short stint, having concluded a time so gala,

We paid up the money, still preserving

A mephitic air of indifference.

 

Moments before I paid

My initial inclination was to quickly ascertain

What caused him trouble, and offer any help I could within my capacity,

When I caught sight of my watch. The paucity

Of time nudged the selfish inner beast in me to abstain

And told me to move on, I was already delayed.

Moodily I trudged back to the car.

 

As I drove away from the scene

Our coordinates though moving apart

With every second out sprang

A new choppy wave of passing pang

Guilt-laden, gnawing at my heart

With nothing much to do, I endeavoured to glean

Inferences from what I had seen.

 

Was it some sad news received from out-station?

A thousand-mile distance conveying the inheritance of a new loss,

The thought of which possibly kindled an unnamed dread,

Or perhaps did he simply miss his kindred?

The sheer absence of which scatters his daily life for a toss.

Maybe it was the ultimate dawning of a silent realization

That he was merely a pawn in the game of presaged irreversible destiny.

 

Whatever it was, the least I could have done

Was to stay on for a while in deference

To his situation. A contrasting attitude

A warm clasp of the hands, words proffering solicitude

Could have still made a world of difference

To him. However all I managed to do in introspection

Was to incur the wrath of my own conscience.

 

So haplessly do we beguile

Ourselves, ending up as ensnared prey

In self-aggrandizing illusory traps

Not realizing that, to the stratagems of ephemera, we eventually collapse

Fraternal human emotions that, in its significance, far outweigh,

Are ignored, positions from which our greed cannot easily resile

Meliorism, even in its most utopian proximity, for now, seems a far cry away.

Beginnings

The lyric may be lesser in lines and content, but redolent with the imagination of a man who drinks in the growing darkness of the evening and within. All he hopes are for new beginnings to fill the void of an unexplainable emptiness he is subjected to.

The evening shadows lengthen

The burning sun tempers

The twilight silhouettes the trees

The panoptic imagery fades

A silence impregnates through the stillness.

 

Sinews must strengthen

I resist the urge of growing whimpers

I try to put my heart at ease

Fleeting memories evade

I begin anew at the mark of nil-ness.

Eulogy to a Noble Nonagenarian

This eulogy is a poetic tribute

To sing praises and to

Celebrate the esteemed life

Of dear Thiru. Narayanan.

 

Rarely did a man walk on the surface of this planet

Who had a multitude of virtues rolled up

In every fiber of his being.

 

An epitome of integrity and rectitude

A model of uprightness and dignity

A stellar example of righteousness

He was loved by one and all

Revered from near and afar.

 

His simplicity and humility

Kindness and compassion

Taught us awe-inspiring lessons

To lead a happy and healthy life.

 

His sage words of advice

On matters ranging from trifling to momentous

Keep ringing in our ears.

 

His perspicacity and clairvoyance

Guided us in the right directions.

A paragon of independence

An exemplar of Aatma Nirbharta.

 

He never wished to be a burden on his brethren

But always helped all and sundry.

 

A great grandfather

And the grandest of fathers.

 

A wonderful brother

A peerless husband

A dutiful son

 

And a great grand uncle to one and all.

 

It is inconceivably magnificent

That he executed all roles on the stage of life

To immaculate perfection.

 

Born on the banks of the nectared waters of Tamirabarani

The birthplace of Tamil birthed its own son.

 

Brought up on the holy shores of Mother Narmada

Which instilled probity and sagacious Hindustani principles.

 

It was ironical but on second thoughts foretokening

That his end had to come in Cauvery

Where he battled till the very end

In the process embodying all the lessons he taught through his life.

 

The ashes of a life defined by the riparian triumvirate

Immersed into the big blue pond,

Brought to a close the chapter

Of a colossus who strode this earth

Instilling a virtuous exhibition of how life had to be lived.

 

Gandhiji once when asked – “What is your message to the world?”

Replied without blinking an eye – “My life is my message”

 

And so shall be the same message

Of this noble nonagenarian

The crème de la crème of humanity

An ennobled soul nonpareil.

 

Who will forever live in our hearts

And whose life and deeds we will cherish to eternity!

 

                                                                                     By

   Nikhil Bharadwaj