The First Rains of Bombay

Through the bricks of the wall, I can hear the city breathe.

It is the month of May, two thousand and fifteen. It is thirty six degrees in Bombay. Summers can exhaust you. Even if you do nothing through the day, just the heat and the sultry breeze can wear you out. Sleep becomes a difficult thing then. You just lie down on the bed, hear the teek-teek of the rotating fan, and stare outside the balcony; the dim lights still lit, shifting in the windows of the faraway buildings.

Trees that grow in Bombay bear no fruits. The thought had occurred to me as a kid. I think I was about ten years old, when I first walked the streets of Bhuleshwar with grandmother to buy raw mangoes. The women would serry around the stall. It is peak hour. See, this is Ratnagiri mango, and this one here is Langra, and that one there is Kesar. Grandma would bargain for a good price when her turn comes. We would come home after a long, tiring morning. The mangoes would be cut and dried over days in the summer Sun. The thumb size pieces would be spread on a mat by the veranda. Oldies would hover around this spread like bees, making sure that the mangoes are not lifted and eaten by children. There’s no greater joy in life than biting on a stolen piece of a soaked, dried mango. Bottles are filled with pickle. A cloth, the size of a tile, is cut-out from an old white cotton sari and carefully tied to the neck of each bottle. Some would be stored at home, some delivered to distant relatives. The pickle is old enough to be served on the dinner plate. Soon it will drizzle. The first rains of Bombay will arrive with a gushing breeze.

Through the bricks of the wall, I can hear the city breathe. And in this pronounced quite I can hear the teek-teek of the rotating fan. Outside it is pitch-dark. No flickering windows. Not even a moonbeam. I think I'm sleepy. I should sleep. I must sleep before the Sun rises and the daylight peeps through the windows. Sleep would be a difficult thing then.

The first Monsoon rains always makes you think of old things. Of your childhood: going to school on a tempo, wearing the rainy shoes bought from Bata – Mom still thinks it’s an Indian company, or else why would all the school kids in Bombay buy from that shop? The stinking socks. Water clogged shoes. Wet school-bag. The frightful thunderstorm waking you up in the middle of the night. That’s the one thing I despise about approaching Monsoons: the nocturnal thunderstorms. I wonder why they are scary only at mid-nights. Like ghosts and howling dogs. They all lose their spirit in the daylight.

Through the bricks of the wall, I can hear the city breathe. The moist air percolates through the layers of thick paint. I press my ear against the wall. I can hear first rains of Bombay pattering on the wind-shields of blazing cars. The wipers whirring speedily. The whooshing sound of wheels rolling on the tarred roads. I can hear the trotting feet of pedestrians, finding trees for shelter. Fat drops of rain slide and accumulate at the edges of the leaves. I can hear the birds flapping their wings. Suddenly, on a quiet languid day, everything seems to be moving rapidly: the birds, the leaves, the wheels, the wind. Only the clothes in the balcony, remain hung on the clothesline, tethered and drenched.

Through the bricks of the wall

I can hear

The water gently seeping through the earth

Through the bricks of the wall

I can breathe

The soothing, balsamaceous air                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

In this air, 

I can smell the redolence of damp soil                                                                                     

In this air, 

I can smell the sky

In some distant land, mango seeds are sown in the ground. Eight monsoons later a tree will flourish. Far away from Bombay, the tree will bear fruits. Packed in wooden boxes they will be shipped to the city. Raw mangoes will be sold by kilos. They will be grated to make a pickle, which will be served with hot rotis. 

Generations may pass and trees in Bombay may not bear fruits, but what will always remain would be mangoes and pickle and monsoons thereafter.

When the Victim becomes the Victor!

A victim succumbs to the situation, while a victor always plays the part of a Hero Actor. A victim holds the hand of vices, while a victor holds the hand of Virtues. A victim is dependent upon and seeks the support of human beings, whereas a victor is always dependent and seeks the support of Almighty God. A victim takes an easy road and a short cut to reach his goals but a victor treads the most difficult path that will lead him to his final goal. A victim is a friend of the darkness while a victor is a friend of the Light. A victim is a zero, while a victor is a hero. A victim sinks while a victor floats. The victim says “This is not done” but the victor says “All is Well.” A victim screams while a victor dreams. A victim cries but a victor smiles always. Who are you? The choice is yours!

So friends, let us be aware of our inner world which will help us to know whether we are victims or victors. If we are victors, it is great! But if we are victims, our effort should be to mould and turn ourselves into victors. As soon as we have negative thoughts in our mind, we should immediately check ourselves, and not be prone to becoming victims.

A victim broods about the past, whereas a victor chooses to Live in the Present. A victim always looses in the end, while a victor always wins in the end. If we turn our character and personality into that of a victor, then the Impossible wills Become Possible, the Unfathomable shall be Fathomable. Then, no vice of anger, greed, lust, attachment or ego shall dare to touch you – only if you Become a Victor.

A victor always says “Yes, I Can “and never accepts any kind of negativity as a part of himself. A victor always feels connected with everyone, while a victim always feel dissociated and isolated from the world. We all can become victors by connecting ourselves to the Supreme – Light and always remaining in tune with the powerhouse; by making ourselves strong and full with the 8 powers and 7 original virtues/sanskars.

A victor’s personality is always full with the eight powers of withdrawal, packing up, tolerance, adjustment, judgment, discrimination and decision- making, facing power and co-operation. A victor is also an embodiment of the original virtues of love, peace, purity, power, knowledge, happiness, and bliss. A victor always Stands Up and Meets the War, whereas a victim always sits and complains.

So, friends, let us all stand up and meet our own wars and become victors by becoming an embodiment of powers and virtues, to emerge our victorious personalities and become winners forever. Let us all today take an oath of becoming victors rather than victims in life.

Because where the soul opens up its wings and greets the sky with bravery, courage and determination; there, there is victory.

MERCI PARIS

MERCI PARIS

We were on the river cruise in Paris, this time.

Gentle whooping of wind was blowing and smoothly kissing my hair and face.
Old French songs were being played on the boat.

I had the headphones tuck in my ear to follow the instructions for sight-seeing.
The guide was giving instructions for the historical bulidings, places and structures.
He was giving a history of an architectural building of Paris that was connected to Napoleon.

I was least interested in the information the guide was giving.Instead,I was looking at the beautiful buildings and structures and seeking in them for some positive aspects....I was SEEING THINGS IN A POSITIVE LIGHT....
Looking at these intricate buildings and structures reminded me of GOD'S BEAUTY THAT IS SO PERFECT IN ITS OWN RIGHT...

In fact from the day one in Paris, I FOUND ONLY LOVE in PEOPLE, PLACES AND MY EXPERIENCES...
People were so humble, polite, always with a smile on their face....with one word of GRATITUDE in their smiles...MERCI--which means THANK YOU in English.

At the end of the speech, the guide just spoke one sentence that touched my heart deeply---and that was------

"BE THE LOVE AND YOU WILL FEEL HAPPY."

It was as if God had already given me the answer to my question about my transformation----

Only by BEING HAPPY AND BEING THE LOVE, can you SPREAD LOVE AND HAPPINESS UNTO OTHERS....

It's like BEING A SUN. Without RADIATING YOUR LIGHT, you cannot LIGHT OTHERS' LIVES...

The SECRET LIES IN---- BEING THE LOVE, BEING A SUN, DEVOTING YOUR LIFE IN SERVICE TO OTHERS !!....

This TRUTH was DEEPLY UNDERSTOOD by me.....

THANK YOU PARIS....MERCI!!

Rothenburg ob der Tauber

Living in Rothenburg is like running into a child’s imagination.

A small train with three compartments shuttled us to the old town. It was noon. The sun stuck-out of the sky like a nose.  As I stood in the quiet of the town, I could hear myself breathe.  And yet in this quiet, I could feel the merry air dancing around me.

We walked unto the medieval archway, behind which located our hotel. The wheels of the suitcase drummed against the cobblestone street. The faster I walked the louder they drummed. Like a roller coaster ride. It was a long walk and I grew accustomed to its rhythmic sound. And as I grew accustomed, it seemed that the sound was meant to be produced by design – the more I thought of this the more I was convinced – it was I think a personalized welcoming drum for tourists. The passerby smiled as we walked into the town. I wondered whether they smiled at me or at my thoughts or if they were by their own nature smiling regardless of my presence.

I spent two days walking around the streets. Two rows of houses run parallel across the town leaving a narrow passage in between. The town unveils itself artfully. The size of the houses is all the same, hidden one behind the other.  Red rooftops. One small chimney. Rectangular windows.  A gateway for entrance. A small patio if you please. It reminds me of my art teacher who taught me how to draw a house, filling it up with contrasting crayons.

The town has a long winding bridge. The bridge has a balcony. I take this elevated passage created for panoptic viewing of the town. You can walk for hours at this gallery and look at the cascading roof-tops, the hills overlooking the town, clock towers, river flowing in the distance, multitude of coffee shops, gardens, and empty by lanes. I get down at one such solitary lane and walk further into the town.

I stumble upon an open theatre: long wooden benches; a sheet of fresh leaves covers the stage.  There’s a sense of serenity in the place. It makes me sit down on the steps of the theatre. There isn’t a show. I stare at the stage and look at my own hurried life. There’s a calm breeze, placating my thoughts. I sit, until it’s late in the evening, until darkness falls, and it’s time to leave. It’s a long way back to the hotel. I stroll along the narrow lanes of Rothenburg. The night is quiet. The sky is clear. There’s not a soul in sight. Somehow, the emptiness is fulfilling.

Late after mid-night, I lie down on the bed and paint the town behind my eyelids. I think about this magical place and who must have built it. It feels like it’s a child’s imagination. It’s make-believe. Cars look like toys, and toys pop out of a clock, and when the clock strikes, the time slows down the onlookers, who stand and gape at the town: the merry town, the medieval town, the quiet town, the colorful town, and the town which makes you believe in a child’s imagination.  

Next morning, we wake up before dawn. The bags are packed. Through the window I look at the view outside for one last brief moment. The town looks like a photograph straight out from a story book.  It’s a small wonderland: there are gardens and stone walls and bright houses and flowers pots hanging out from every window and bistros with chocolate balls dressing the entrance.

We climb down the staircases with our luggage. The bills are paid. The hotel door is opened and closed.  There is no passerby to smile at us, but the wheels rock against the ground, leaving behind a trail of little complimentary music in the town. It’s how perhaps the tourists say goodbye to Rothenburg.

Bombay, in the margins

Let me tell you the story of India’s most glorified city.

On the streets of Bombay lives a little Uttar Pradesh and Bihar and Jharkhand and Haryana and Orissa and Bangladesh and Sri Lanka; one cannot point at a dwelling and say this is it, this is where a little of Bihar resides,  it’s like asphalt on the road, found in heaps at every turn, like beggars at every signal.

My story does not include them or their grief. It’s about the lives of twenty million people of Bombay. Not about the people who have come to Bombay in the hope of finding it.   

They have come and emptied their homes and children on the sidewalks of the city. They stand-out like a sore thumb, like knots on a rope, like splotches of pigeon shit on rooftops, like boards of political advertisement spat on the lampposts and trees, which attracts nothing but apathy; they are like pesky flies which hover around in the hunt of food, often snapped-out with a roll of newspaper.

They are like scribbles on the leaf of a book, always living in the margins. And in this story, their side of anopisthograph will never appear.

When it rains in monsoons, the bedroom and hall and kitchen, architected under a single sheet of tarpaulin is washed-out, like the cheap paint of the political hoardings. And when the faces on the gaudy advertisements are distorted, they are taken off temporarily, like several hundred homes on the streets. They both reappear after the last thunderous rain of Monsoons.

Sometimes, when an important man of foreign origin, decides to land his plane at Vile Parle, an impromptu overnight clean-up drive is conducted. Hundreds of houses are huddled into the busses and dumped somewhere outside of Bombay. Thousands of beggars are whisked out of the city. They will all reappear along with the blobs of government spit.

But this is not the story I’m about to tell you. The Bombay you will see will be beautiful. The man of foreign importance will soon alight. He will step into a sedan and speed off. You will see Bombay through his tinted glasses. The gibberish scribbles on the margins of the pages written in convoluted running handwriting will be hidden in dog-ears. I promise the monsoons you will see will have peacocks dancing in the verandah. Children will frolic the school campus. Boats will float around in the puddle. Elephant God will appear mysteriously in the clouds. Snails will slither out of the damp soil. And on one night, a pleasant winter will return after the last thunderous rain of Monsoons.

Roma

Rome smells like the pages of an ancient scripture.

On a hot sunny day, I perambulate the corridors of Colosseum. I wonder, astonished at the vastness of the structure. Heaps after heaps, years after years, thousands of slaves must have stubbornly walked these corridors, carrying tons of stones on their backs. Generations of kings must have marched these aisles, arrogance locked in their heavy strides. Stanch the bloodshed! Their benign hearts must have announced, seldom in their years of monarchy.

After reigns of several kings, after many civilizations, after battles and wars and human tyranny, I stare hopefully at the arches of the Colosseum. The man-slaughter has stopped. The kings have died. Their arrogance escaped through ruins of these arches and dissolved in the air, hanging low on the streets of Rome.

I feel the sporadic slaps of hot air as I spend some time in the city. Voluminous architectural monuments landscape the city of Rome. Roman Catholic churches. Roman towers and hills. Roman temples and fountains. Fountains are big and sculpted. There’s a fountain at every Piazza. There’s a Piazza in every address. Every address has a glimpse of different eras of Rome.

There’s an Old Rome and a New Rome. There’s Rome which welcomes you and there’s Rome which reminds you that you are a tourist with a return ticket. The New Rome makes you sit on the Spanish steps where a local street-group performs jauntily. The Old Rome tires you with the walks around the antiquities.

I tire myself and sit at the steps of a fountain: embellished with bare statues, rarely a robe draped on a shoulder or a lap. The folds of the fabric fall gracefully in the air. As the sunlight gleams on the monolith, reflections of the statues silhouette on the sheets of water. A rivulet falls at the side of the fountain, where tourists gather to drink water in their cupped hands. The fountain is a symbol of pure water.

A couple stands at the circumference of the pool. Theirs backs held straight and facing the fountain. A coin is pressed between a thumb and forefinger. It’s flung from over the head into the pool, after murmuring a silent prayer. Standing thousand miles away from home, with a little furrow in the forehead, they see the coin slowly slide into the shallow depth of water; a silent wish sinks to the base of the pond. The fountain is a symbol of faith.

The sculpted statues are always narrating a story: pointing at some direction, hinting at some history. Is there a Roman riddle? There’s a sudden urge to read the secrets - - not just to know the past but to be able to read it. There’s a sudden urge to fathom the arcane knowledge hidden, in the folds of the fabric, in the shadows of the silhouette. The fountain is a symbol to be solved.

Voluminous architectural monuments landscape the city ofRome.                                                                                   Voluminous architectural monuments lay buried beneath.

I sit at the steps of a fountain, cross-legged, rubbing my palm on the coarse earth. I look at the shadows in the pond. I look at the fading Sun. Soon the shadows will recede unto the statuettes. Soon the Sun will dissolve into another sky.  We need to get home. The finality of thought hits me, and I get up, taking the support of my knee, sucking in a long draft of air. 

Rome smells like the pages of an ancient scripture. The pages are tattered, the text is trenchant, and the sheets are bound firmly to the spine to survive centuries of storytelling.

Praha

Somewhere behind the blanket of pudgy clouds, sun rises and sets in the city of Prague.

Standing on the oldest bridge of the city, I look, not at the artists or their artwork. I look, not at the sauntering tourists tapping their feet to the lilting music of the musicians. I look, not at the flailing yellow trees or their carpets of fresh laden leaves.

Standing at the Charles Bridge, I do not look at the waves of the river underneath. I do not look at the swans at the banks. I do not look at the walls of the far standing forts or the spires of the castles. I do not look. I blind myself from the beauty of the old, old town.

Standing on the Fourteenth Century Bridge, I stare at the vast canvas of glowing sky and look inwardly. I look within. I walk with a lamp into the dark passages of a small vestibule. I find an empty wall. On this wall I etch: the birds, banks, trees, castles, forts and fallen leaves. I paint the bridge. I paint the old town and its astronomical clock. But I pirouette this wall and wonder, how to paint the sky that lights this beautiful, beautiful city. I wonder, leaving the lantern at the foot of the wall.

Somewhere behind the blanket of pudgy clouds, sun rises and sets in the city of Prague. Sometimes, when the daylight filters through layers of thick mist, the sky lights up like soft glow of lamps, like the flames of a yellow bulb that leak through the florescent film of a lantern.

Paris

Paris is like a watercolor painting.

At the boulevard streets, handsome policemen walk up and down the banks of Parisian trees. The cool breeze brushes the edges of their sleeves as they patrol the historic sites. And as they walk, they look at the herds of tourists re-grouping, following, posing, wondering, staring at the edifice, gaping at the skyline, plotting on the map.

The old lady reappears, with her umbrella held high, a flower perched on its tip. She speaks in English, French, German, Spanish, Portuguese. A group follows, their eyes fixed on the solitary flower: red or green or blue or yellow, whatever colour is their flower; and they are bundled back onto the bus.

The bus rambles through cobbled streets. An open café with French windows hosts tourists and Frenchmen. Sitting at the windows, they sip on their coffees and behold the beautiful city.

The city is covered by the vast plateau of artistic mansions. Mansions, ancient yet stylish, and as tall as tamarind trees, converge at a chateau, or a museum, or a church, or a figurine, or a garden, or a palace. Hundreds of monuments dot the city. These clustered dots are joined by Siene, the flat flowing river that snakes through the breadth of Paris. At the steps of the river, there's a row of stalls selling old books and paintings.

I wonder if the city is more beautiful or the art it has produced.

Hongkong : Wordscape

I can't decide. Does Hongkong have more buildings or more people? It's crowded but not chaotic. Fast, Planned, Lively. People live to shop or people LOVE to shop!? (and I learnt to shop!). Chow Tai Fook everywhere. Neon signs that don't let you forget you are in Hongkong. Where you pay even for a pickle. Where time passed a little slowly staring at the largest jelly fish exhibit. Where I met Yin & Yang, the pandas. Where I went only coz I couldn't afford Italy and I am so glad.