March 19, 2010



And such a stock of custardapples. And so many thoughts of you.

And hoping that the season holds till Diwali. And hopefully I will

bring some home. And the guruji has given me a hell of a lot of monkey

nuts. And I am wondering where the monkey stores his nuts.

Like its the 30th of October and tomorrow will be the end of October.

Like when a boy comes home with a gigantic cucumber. And the other boys

descend on it. Like Vultures or Gidhades on a rotting carcass. Like flies are

buzzing around me. And its common property. Like unwritten laws and tradition.

Like I gave some boy some monkey nuts. And he ran away immediately.

And all the boys are calling after him. And he is not within sight or

sound. And I know where he has gone. Like hide and seek. And eat

before they get you. Like vultures or Gidhade. And I’m not talking about

Vijay Tendulkar. And I’m not talking about Alyque Padamsee.

Like the boys have their own ruling. And no one ever cries. And the

law is that of the jungle. And there is a slight difference. Like there are

forty five muleteers. And its all for one and one for all. And there are

exceptions to every rule. And the exception is monkey nuts.

And its not the lusty month of May. And still there are lusty cocks. Like they

are chasing the hens. And one hears a clucking and a running. Like catch

me if you can. And its a man’s world. And the clucking stops. And you see

the cock looking very pleased with himself. See. And its not Camelot.

And our cocks are evergreen. And the dogs are feeling left out. And

decide to get in on the act. And you hear a clucking and a running and

there is a slight difference. And our dogs have a hang dog look.

Like I just see a flock of birds floating outside my door. And I

hastily get out the trusted Minolta. And run out of doors. And by the time I

set the exposure the birds too have flown away. Like its the same attitude

everywhere. Like catch me if you can. And I sometimes feel the best thing

is a box camera or R.K. Laxman. And I’m afraid that I wont be able to

classify the birds. Like I’m not Salim Ali. And I don’t think these were the

Grey Lag geese. Like this is L’Ambatha not Ladakh.

And so it is. And my thoughts and feelings have been here. And they have

remained here from January to October. And I cannot write about

them. Like one thinks thoughts and feels feelings. And so it is that I

am in the whereabouts of Aubrey Menen’s Dang forest trip. And I

haven’t yet found ‘the space within the heart’. And I keep at the

Chandogya and Brihadaranyka Upanishad. And the magic does not get

me. And so it is. And I’m having déja vu. And I’m not talking about the

Crosby, Stills Nash and Young LP. And I have a mood indigo and its got

nothing to do with the IIT.

Like one feels so useless in a rural setting. And one knows one can’t

change the world. And one knows the world changes one. And one likes

change. Like Bob Dylan. And ‘the times they are a changin’’. And I do not

like to leave my heart in San Francisco. And the Indian government does

not encourage people to go to the US. And its brain drain. And I don’t want

to leave my heart nor my brain there. Like Schizophrenia. And I’m Indian.

Like I hope I am. And I want wherever I’m buried that corner to be forever

India. Like Rupert Brooke and England. Like I’m attempting poetry. And I’m

making no headway. And that’s my life’s story. And I’m absurdly happy.

Like Sisyphus and the myth.