AN EPITAPH (A Pup)

A cute little pair of wondering eyes,

From the pavement on the roadside,
Gazed at the nonstop passersby with sighs.

Wherein lost that world that I was in?

Was small and cozy yet safe and quiet.

Far from this daily quivering, hollow din.

A sniff here and a sniff there 

A pop on the steps of a doorway

Hopped the pup in the open lair.

A blare pierced his small ears

Wheezed past something huge

Ah! how unsafe, loud and fierce.

The fluffy ball took a fast roll

To reach the open lair across

But, alas! lay there a bloody ball.

From the broken spirit of the boy,

Two drops of tear ran out to see

The cutie coy now a red pulp of toy.

Rolled past more and more wheels, 

Tossing and crushing the toy underneath

Till it was flattened like banana peels.

Squeezed hard and shut tight

At the plight of that short life,

Those tearful eyes scanned the site.

The quivering hands, with broken faith
On a small wooden plank, gathered 

The last remains of death wraith.

Thus, on the pavement was a life born

And on the pavement was it buried 

Where from rose an angst, a scorn.

बेवड़ा बेचारा 

आते जाते राहगीरों 

के पैरों की ठोकरों 

से अलमस्त, बेखबर 

वो सड़क के बीच, 

अर्घ्य के बहे जल 

सा पसरा पड़ा था। 

मुहँ से बह निकली

सुख कर चिवटें

हुई लार पर,

भिनभिनाती मक्खियों

ने अपनी अनधिकृत 

खोली बना ली थी। 

साईकिल सवार ने 

एक उचटती नज़र

उस पर डाल,

अपनी घडी पर डाली। 

हिचकते, थमकते पैर 

पेडल पे फिर बढ़ गए।  

ट्रैफ़िक की बढ़ती जाम 

पर बजने लगे हॉर्न, 

किसी ने उसकी लटकती 

बांह खींच किनारे कर दिया।

उबड़ खाबड़ सड़क के किनारे,

अब वो अधजली बीड़ी 

के कुचले टुकड़े सा पड़ा था। 

झुग्गी के कुछ बच्चों ने

कौतुहलता वश, 

छड़ी से जब उसे उकेरा,

तो किसी ने फिकरा कसा- 

"बेवड़ा लगता है... 

पी के कैसा धुत्त पड़ा है,

मर तो नहीं गया बेचारा ?"

  

A Trip to the Land of Dhokla and Khakhra

It seems really a tall order for me to make a proper beginning to this travelogue- A Trip to the Land of Patel and Bapu. The advertisement of Gujrat Tourism on television by Amitabh Bachchan had already been there a source of attraction but it was the presence of my Nidhi there at Gandhidham that acted as a catalyst to this tour plan. The old palaces and formidable towers on the one hand and the far off  remote lands on the other, seem to have specialized in my nature and interests that whenever I think of writing a travelogue the situations start falling in line. Since I had never been to sea shore, it always caught my fascination and this time it was the call of the sea that gave the final shape to this trip-the open sea beach of Mandvi.


[Part One- Aina Mahal and Prag Mahal]

The first stay in the tour was Aina Mahal and Prag Mahl at Bhuj. When we reached there driving through the narrow and congested lane, I was, at first, a little dismayed at the contrast of its location...the congested street and lane, with makeshift shops, seemed to me, nullifying the magnificence and grandeur of the palace. But once we were inside the periphery, the crowded street took a backseat in the mind.

The name 'Bhuj' brought back the reminiscences of the earthquake of 2001 which though, almost has been swept off by the time and tide of industrialization yet had left those deep scars on Prag Mahal and Aina Mahal, clearly visible in the riuns of Aina Mahal and the corroding cumbling plasters, walls of the Prag Mahal lending them the forlorn, haunted touch of seemingly Gothic tone. Adjoining the huge doorway were the remnants of Aina Mahal in a dilapidated condition, holding back its sleeping mysteries from the world. A sigh escaped my lips,"Would that the place had not been ruined by the destructive forces of time!

Aina Mahal has been completely prohibited for the tourists for the ongoing renovation work. So, we made our way to Prag Mahal which has been partially renovated. The Aina Mahal in its ruined state,held more charm for me... may be because the place was blocked for tourists or may be for its originality not being destroyed by the renovation work.

The dazzling entrance, belying the antiquity of Prag Mahal, infact, seemed a journey from the present to the past. The deer and the stag heads on the wall and the pair of Bengal tigers stuffed in, the semi dark room and the musty, decaying smell, in fact, were the shadows of the past reminding me of the crushed ego of the great king Ozymandias, "
                                                    “My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: 
                                        Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!” 
                                        Nothing beside remains. Round the decay 
                                        Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare 
                                        The lone level sands stretch far away."

                                       


Part II- Vijay Vilas Palace and the Mandvi Beach-

My next destination was Vijay Vilas Palace, well known for the shooting of Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam. The entrance and the drive through the wild plantation, at first, reminded me of the Rebecca but the place hadn't that eerie, Gothic essence of Prag Mahal...maybe for its regular upkeep. The spiral staircase took us to the upper dome where the cool sea breeze was so refreshing that we lay down on the marble  floor for sometime...Hmm..., that's why, the place had been the Summer Resort for the then king Yuvraj Shri Vijayaraje.

I had never been to the sea shore before...had read mostly in the novels, stories and poems. The sea in my imagination was the amalgam of "The Old Man and the Sea", "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner",etc. So, I was much excited about my visit to the Mandvi sea beach.

On reaching there , the sea of my imagination took a back seat before the vast stretch of the sandy shore and the sea to that distant horizon...the foamy waves breaking one after on the land like the cur that keeps on returning to its master to please him/her. Its magnitude and humility overwhelmed me.

I enjoyed every bit of my stay there...walking barefooted on the sandy beach, the call of the seagulls, sitting on the sand making sand castle only to be swept away by the waves, listening to the murmuring of waves growing louder by passing hours, taking snaps of the prints of waves' patterns, standing in the knee deep silvery breaking waves, the sun setting in for the night's rest and lastly, the slouchy ride on the camel's back.

Part III- Sabarmati Ashram

The gap between the arrival and departure from Ahmedabad gave me the opportunity to visit the birth place of Mahatma Gandhi- Sabarmati Ashram. The place has a quiet, soothing effect on soul and mind. Here quietly flows the Sabarmati in between the two paradoxical banks, the dream and the reality...the Swadeshi, handwoven textile and the machine made, synthetic textile. 

Some days, hours weigh down upon my soul like the mire which the sun beam fails to penetrate and reach down the bottom to clean. If I try to take a dip to clean it, they choke me down and I need an aid to surface up...but even the eyes become full of murk, my hands get tied with floating entangled hyacinth...It's then I feel the weariness tearing off my spirit and body. 

Chai Story (childhood)

My Maiden Sip of Tea-

The title may seem a little out of place to the readers as Maiden has more to do with games/sports, speech performance, etc. So, what has that humble and servile tea to do with 'Maiden'? Well...reading this first person account will surely make the readers empathize me.

The tea, served in that bone china cup and saucer in the tray to the guests, held one of the greatest mysteries to me in my childhood. Not only me but both of my brothers would be puzzled too. The most fascinating thing with tea was the sound of its 'Chushki', that 'surrrrrr...' sound followed by that expression of relaxation of every muscle on the face. On the other hand, we were always made to drink milk with Protinex or an egg mixed in it in large tumblers which gave a nausea to me and I always sought for an opportunity to throw it into the drain or flush it off.

So, tea for us, was the forbidden fruit of the Garden of Eden. "Children must drink milk...it helps them grow tall...makes bones and teeth strong etc."...toppled up with the cherry of Krishna Kanhaiya's and Yashoda's story of hair growing thick and long by drinking milk. Well...the adults left us with no choice except to see them with vying eyes and wait eagerly at each birthday to find ourselves in their much coveted category.

We then, tried to please the cook by helping him in his work and letting us have a few sips of that ambrosia. But, the cook had more stories of the harms done by tea in his store to tell us "Tea is not good for little children...it makes your teeth black...it also makes your skin dark...only elders can have tea, etc. etc."

Finally, we reconciled with our destiny to wait for that opportune time to arrive. Days passed by swiftly but those hours of the arrival of the guests with tea being served to them seemed unusually long and impatient.
However, we kept on nurturing the hope in our little hearts and one day, luck smiled on me.

One fine Sunday, the servant, Shivlal being out on some important errand, my mother asked me to carry the tea-tray back to kitchen, to which I humbly obliged. I put the tray near the sink and found that a little tea was left in each cup. That golden brown content, I swear, seemed more tempting to me than a potion of opium to an opium addict. I wanted to taste that forbidden fruit but my conscience pricked my soul. I kept oscillating between the temptation and my conscience. Just then I heard the footsteps of someone approaching the kitchen and in a fraction of second the decision was made. I picked up one cup from the tray and tilted it to my lips "How sweet and savoury the flavour is!" I gulped the last drop of tea one by one from each of the four cups and wiped my lips with the back of my palm but was a little late in wiping off the evidence from the scene of crime. My younger brother had seen me wiping my face "You were drinking the left over tea...nah! I am going to tell mom."

The saddest part of this story of my maiden sip of tea is that I had to bribe my brother for keeping his mouth shut and thus had to part with my favourite scented eraser. And, with it vanished that sweet savoury flavour too.

Sometimes, I wonder about tea as the deciding factor for treating a growing child as grown-up adult and that urges me to add one more stanza in the poem "Am I a Child or an Adult" by Margaret Lawrence-

"Am I a child or an adult?
I am tall, I understand tea talk
But, Oh..!.

No, not a child now- it's not a glass of milk I love.

Its cherished position is taken.
Just because the protinex-eggs have lost their charm,
Does that mean that I am an adult?

मजबूत इरादे भी कभी कभी सिले बिस्किट की भांति नर्म पड़ जाते हैं.

चीख 

तुमने जो दम भी लिया
तो वो कराह बन गयी
और जब कराहा तो 
वो चीख बन गयी।

इधर मेरी चीख बेचारी
को तो तुम्हारी चीख ने
कभी निगल लिया,
कभी तुम्हारी कराह ने
चाहा तो कुचल दिया।

मेरी चीख ने भी
चोट खाए सर्प
की तरह फन काढ
ली एक फुफकार तो
तुम्हारी चीख की भी
निकल गयी चीख।