"No" is not an answer

"I'm sorry sir but we cannot display your works of art here" a crisp feminine voice carried the message swiftly to him. It was the manager of the Pundole Art Gallery, Bombay.

"I suppose i can ask why's it that my works aren't seen fit for this gallery, or is it the other way round?" the doctor lost his usual calm demeanor and sounded on the verge of demanding an apology, and not sound apologetic.

Artists were a sentimental lot in addition to being creative. But business was a priority if survival mattered. And survival was guaranteed only to the fittest. Inheriting her father's keen business acumen in addition to the gallery, the manager and owner of the gallery knew exactly what her clientele sought. The doctor's menu clearly didn't fit the bill.

"I'm sorry sir but we feature 'art nouveau', creative expressionism. Traditional portraits would go against our theme. Perhaps you could try and Kapoor's at Colaba...?"

"But madam, let me show you some of my better works and perhaps you might be convinced...?" The anger had subsided into what sounded like a meek plea. Plan B, the tear jerker strategy i suppose...?

"I do not have time for this sir. Heartfelt apologies for being curt..."

Outside, footsteps could be heard plodding into the distance.It wasn't easy to take a hit and walk back briskly. Not when the doctor was 70 summers young. And the doctor hated taking no for an answer.

Dr. Who for you

Doctor Who, if we may choose to call him so was a paediatrician of local repute in his neighbourhood of Bandra; at a time when Bandra was qualifiable as a neighbourhood of Catholics, Koli and a smattering of Parsees, Brahmins among others. The advantage of being born 70 summers ago wasn't lost on the doctor; his patients were local residents who'd been visiting his clinic for three generations.

He spent little time at practice these days, preferring to ease time before a canvass instead of the clinic, paintbrushes replacing the stethoscope and thermometer. Back home, the setting sun coloured the sky a deep shade of red, rich and deep; and the doctor was enjoying the while. A piano played swiftly in the background and the doctor played God on the canvass.

Matching tempo with the piano, the paintbrush moved deftly; poetry in motion one could say. A portrait was taking shape. Colours dissolved and fused together to create something they could've never achieved in isolation; symphony. Would it be fitting to say a violin sang over the deep rumble of the piano...?

The track had long since ceased to play but Dr. Who was too far lost in rapture to care anymore. What seemed like a melange of colours took form and shape of a woman; a woman lost deep in thought. Heaven and the doctor alone knew what was she contemplating but that's beyond the point.

Unbeknowst to the doctor, another woman had been waiting for what seemed like a while for him. She maintained a measure of silence and distance from him quietly aware of his need for space and thought. Yet, she was close enough for the doctor to make her presence felt.

"Trust its about time for dinner now? Are there any phone calls i need to respond to now...". The doctor responded without turning back. Years of living together makes communication almost effortless, provided all the individuals understood and respected one another's way of life.

"Just about time now for you to head out to Prithvi Theater today, trust you forgot about it? If you begin now, you'll be in good time to reach the venue before the evening program ends! Of course, you begin after having dinner."

This is Paul Wood's Woman in Waiting

"Heheheh, it's about time then, eh wifey? Time for dinner and dessert." Paint smudged and slightly coloured; the doctor sat down to pay respects to fish curry and steamed rice. Never mind the evening show at Prithvi, he had business of his own. A nibble of roshho golla and he was on his way.

Driving upwards toward Bombay's northern suburbs had long since ceased to be an option in the evenings. Traffic snarls, rash motorists and and endless stream of pedestrians making, snaking and sneaking into just about every possible squeeze of space meant driving was at best left to a professional driver. And the doctor hated to allow anyone drive his beloved Fiat. Clearly, it'd be the rickshaw to Juhu today.

It was a Monday, the last Monday of the month and the Vikalp documentary had just ended. The doctor waited patiently outside as if on cue to receive someone whom he knew among the audience. It seems he knew the organizer of the Vikalp documentaries.

"Excuse me miss, but can you tell me if Prithvi Theater can display my works of art...?". There were always questions and queries but mostly regarding Vikalp and its screenings. She turned around to look him in the eye. The weather had taken its toll but the eyes nonetheless retained a childish glimmer.

"Prithvi focuses on theatrical art sir and not art exhibitions. I wish i could help you..."

If there's one thing the old man refused to take for an answer; it was a no. "Perhaps Prithvi could help organize a screening of my portraits? I could arrange for a slide show if that be so. Here miss, have a look at my paintings."

As much as decency and kindness mattered, time too was of essence and more so because time was precious. "Perhaps you could give me your email address and i'll revert back to you sir...? There's the Kabir festival where you can try if they'd accept your work. I'll connect you with the organizers."

He scribbled out his email address onto a random business card, thanked the young girl and just as quietly as he'd materialized, dematerialized into the immediate surroundings. Just another man in a melee of people, just another artists in the world of exhibitionists out there.

Just another old man who refused to take no for an answer...

Quest for the jewel of the forest

Yoo hoo, you're coming right...?

"There are two states of mind, happy or sad and there's a state of being over and above all else. Its called traveling" - Anonymous
ODKF:
For the past two days the term ODKF, an abbreviation for the Oriental Dwarf Kingfisher, a small seasonal visitor in the Western Ghat mountain range of India was repeated more often and spoken of than i'd ever come across. Please do not take offence if i mistakenly call you ODK for the fever pitch of the two days meant the bird appeared even in my day dreams.

The flow of events in life is akin to the flow of a river. Diversions can either change course or be completely ignored depending on the current of the flow. Rumours of a trek i'd signed up getting cancelled meant i had to start planning for the weekend and a photo shoot in rural India wasn't something i'd scoff or turn up the nose at!


                                                                                                                  Five odd hours in a mini-van:
This wasn't one of my singleton ventures and i had ample company for the adventure. 13 keen souls from different places and backgrounds compacted into a mini-van for nearly five hours of road travel. It so did happen most people knew one another and i was more or less the stranger to the group. Never mind these nitty gritties when a cool level headed driver who had a thing against traffic cops.

The van twists and turns with the winding roads on mountain passes and at a sharp turn on the road, two cops try flag the vehicle asking the driver to park on the side. With utter nonchalance which could be developed only with years of practice, the driver didn't even bother to slow down. "They're wanting to make a quick buck. Maybe have some meat for lunch!" he responded in an even tone. As you say my friend...
This same incident was to happen again at a shady toll junction.

Strangers and small talk:

Do i know you??

You do not greet people as if you'll have known one another for ages when you meet them for the first time. Ice must be broken or melted if people are to connect and the first step toward that starts over sharing a meal together over small talk.

The first foray for the ODKF:
A group of 14 individuals from different backgrounds is markedly different from an elite military posse. The hunt was not going to be easy. The plan of action was to sit up near two known nesting sites. The bird could then be captured while flying.

If you could picture a dense and dark forest and intermittent rain thrown in good measure all around you. The quarry in question is hardly 10 odd centimeters but with bright colours known to fly past like a speeding bullet. More often than not sighting the bird means seeing an orange bolt of greased lightning with a slightly squeaky call. To capture this bird on camera was the objective. Go figure how easy it was going to be :)
 
The waiting game and its desperation:
Hunting is a game of patience no matter what be the weapon. My "hide" was an exposed site where the bird could easily sight me, provided i move. After 10 minutes of waiting, the bird was sighted. According to its habit, it took perch on a branch and waited for a few seconds before flying to the nest. The group had divided itself into two and took positions on either side of the location.

Time and again the bird presented itself and my camera was simply unable to focus on it within that time frame to click something good. After three such misses, i abandoned my camera in favour of a lighter and what i thought to be a faster camera. This time the bird was on perch for nearly a minute and at a location my camera could have captured, and the camera i was shooting with could not capture the bird! I would've shot myself with a pistol then, if i was to have one!

What place is this? What's the name of this sanctuary? Where am i?
Strange sounds could be heard around me most of which i could not understand. This question was raging in the head. And then everything became crystal clear. I was dreaming! This happened because i fell asleep while traveling for a late night hunt in the forest. Lack of sleep was to haunt me again...

Stumbled upon a prize catch
Sunday dawned and Nandu (the owner of the property where we were) and i set out on a short walk to a nesting location we'd seen on the previous evening. A slight squeaking sound was distinctly ringing during periodic intervals. Opportunity knocks at your door or so they say but this time it was squeaking! And wonder of wonders, what would it be? The Oriental Dwarf Kingfisher hidden in the foliage. It was a fledgling and was perched meekly blissfully unaware of two people keenly observing it. The rest of course is history...

 

                                                                                                             Cool water and "Doodhi Halwa"
As much as the three have nothing in common with one another (water and Dove do go along though!), they are but a part of a few things that at some point of time in life, make life lovable. The best things in life are the small joys and pleasures. Is there anything that'll make a day more than a cool water bath after a hot and sweaty day, and lunch accompanied by "Doodhi Halwa", a delicious dessert dish prepared from a cucumber like vegetable stewed in butter and sugar syrup :)

What next?
Well, i fell asleep on the seat next to the driver's, woke up to sleep someplace else, woke up again and slept again and some random conversations here and there!

Went back home with some fond memories, a rotund man whose shirt could not cover his midriff, a junkie and some other characters in a local Mumbai train.

FIN

In a dusty little highway town...

"Zindagi ka safar, hai yeh kaisa safar. Koi samjha nahin, koi jaanaa nahin..."

Moving on...

 An old Indian film pays homage to the eternal journey of life. Life is but a collection of experiences. All the colours we impart to it, good or bad, are our perceptions. In the end, life's what we make of it to be. Life, a sexually transmitted disease or life, the evolution from darkness to light...

"Please fasten your seatbelts and remain seated until the indicator goes off. The lifejacket is stored right below your seat. Please wear the lifejacket on instruction from the crew..."
The airhostess had been doing it for God alone knows how long. Her obvious distaste for the exercise was showing clearly. With much difficulty in holding a neutral expression, she explained in sign language the automatic message that was broadcast as the plane was taking off. Security protocol meant that the drill had to be done. Wonder how many people actually regarded the drill with attention...

A large metal tray wheeled across the aisle selling sandwiches, aerated juices and other little tidbits for those who deem fit to eat somewhere near Heaven. It was a time for those like me, to be snoozing. Wherever the eyes'd open, measured straight lines, little dots of colour speckled the otherwise uniformly brown landscape. Wonder how'd the landscape like the feel of these "decorations" on its surface; but hey, earthquakes are a way for the landscape to shake them off.

At 1000 AM, the sun was beating with a ferocity it'd show at noon in Bombay. There were the birds of prey going about their business basking in the sun, and those others who had business just escaping from the sun.

The dusty little town

A highway town is a class apart by itself. Its pride of uniqueness and subjectivity lies in the fact that across the length and breadth of India, every highway town bears resemblance to some other or almost all highway towns, unless of course the geography itself is completely different. Peel off the layers of language, culture, religion and everything else that renders a unique colour, and you'll find the common cement that these towns share among themselves.

Flies. They're everywhere. On the floor, on the doors, on the table, on the glass, and of course the dining plate. Make fuss and a face at them and you might as well starve yourself to death. They're not just flies. They're citizens of this place called a highway town and deserve to be accorded respect as much as you'd accord to a "civilized" bipedal. Gently whisk them away whilst you eat and they'll linger around patiently, waiting for you to be done, to gorge on what little remains of your meal. Hardship demands tough measures. A little highway town is the last place that's catering to your every whim and fancy. You either survive and learn to coexist or head back to the surreal reality you call your city...

The north-western flank of India harbours what is locally known as the Thar Desert. Rajasthan bears the brunt of it whilst Gujarat tries to share a slight little part of its weight. Our town earns its merit, its fine dust from the desert winds blowing southward. The dust is but desert sand...

Desert sand like river sand, has a unique way of getting into shoes. If you fervently pray for the dust to keep away, they'd come all the same. Just grin and bear with it and the feeling of it won't be that bad.

Shit happens:

"Shit happens when it has to happen, where it was supposed to happen, and when you were least expecting it..." -- Murphy's law

When it comes to traveling, i consider meself one of the better gifted ones when it comes to luggage. A backpack usually carries my load for a lifetime's existence be it in Neverland or Newfoundland, but official visits demand niceties. Perfume, pressed clothes, books, laptop, ties, things that pretty much had nothing to do with me nor would ever be found on my person (or my backpack for that matter) in other situations and circumstances, but...

Carrying niceties meant carrying adequate protection, sophisticated protection. A number protected Masterlock that locks forever after two unsuccessful attempts at opening. Hours before the journey began, i set the password that i'd remember to store in my mobile phone. Screwing the dials with sleepy eyes, i'd secured the suitcase firm. It'd take a lot to break open a Masterlock. The Masterlock was the equivalent of Winchester (the famous gun that won the Wild West) when it came to locking.

 After sundown and a tiring day at work, i tried (what would be a series) opening the suitcase to slip into something more comfy (formal clothes aren't really bedtime friendly). The password was 456, and that's what i entered. Presto, the clasp comes undone and my case's open for all Heaven and Hell to see, right? Wrong...

If you remember i was dopey eyed (if not sleepy) while setting the password for the lock, and there seemed to be, what can be classified as a f... up while setting the password. Somewhere someplace something had gone wrong. Heaven burst open with a clap of thunder and lightning and a hazy but brilliant form of light seemed to be saying something. It was only much later that i understood Murphy's famous laws were being rendered upon humanity, upon me, on the ordained day...

"Cut the fucking thing open, i don't care!"

"But sir, this seems like an expensive lock, why do you want to cut it? You won't be able to use it again. Why don't you ask the missus for the password?" A genuinely frank look would have been at that moment difficult to find anywhere else except there. The bell boy was a boy of reason and was taught and trained to be careful with money. Die if you may but don't be wasteful with money was a way of life he and his people followed. Money and i never did share a homely relationship. To make things worse, the boy thought me to be an arse to want to cut the Masterlock open, and wanted me to ask my "wife" for the password.

"My dear boy, i've set the password myself and i know the lock's shut up forever because i've fucked up one time too many. So just cut the lock and clear the place..."

Filing away with a metal cutter, 20 minutes later i was a free man and an unkind soul in the eyes of the bell boy for having wasted good money and not having listened to my "wife".

The local flavour

Highway towns have a little something of everyday niceties and necessities of the city (including premium tobaccos) and Himmatnagar was no exception. If it wasn't for Gujarat and its abhorrence toward spirits, Himmatnagar would have undoubtedly had some fine local liquor to satiete the truckers and highwaymen who lived briefly in Himmatnagar (in addition to the locals).

"Daal, rotli, baati, shaak" Handpainted signs and printed signboards proclaimed the message alike. In these parts, this was the staple diet and was undoubtedly something that'd taste best. When traveling with other people, curiousity toward savouring local flavours does not go down well when others in the group are keen to have more "modern" food. Whatever...

The moon was shining brightly and she was out there, waiting. There were others but everyone engrossed in the art of making the mouth move but shed no words, in other words masticating their dinner. The clothes were the giveaway and those who noticed looked at me for a while, including her. Wearing shorts revealing my legs in a traditional and perhaps conservative highway town was not looked upon very favourably. It's not often that men are whistled and cheered upon for exposing their not very delicate and hairy legs!

Just as beautiful...

It was business time for her and she looked at me longingly. This'd be a good start for the evening but i had other things in mind than a quickie with a streetside courtesan in rural India (must we forget we're traveling for business and such deeds will not be looked upon favourably in addition to exposing hairy legs...?)

The place where everyone "knows" everyone

Walking along the road in search of an ATM (yes the phenomenon is not as rare a sight these days as it once used to be), the hour was getting late and it was well beyond sundown. If nothing, it was dinnertime. In a corner of the town, an ATM was discovered and the deed accomplished (not as much as for me as for a friend). The walk back to the hotel would be well over 20 minutes. Heck! Why walk when rickshaws ply? And the quest for a rickshaw began in earnest. The security guard of the ATM, evidently a local was a man of no small means. At the sight of a green box on three wheels, a quick shout and some garbled words in rural Gujarati (being a linguist does not render one with the gift of understanding rural accents) and what was a rickshaw with passengers suddenly turned into an empty one ready to take us back to our hotel. As for the passengers, they simply alighted and didn't necessarily disappear into thin air, but nonetheless, the guard was a man of no small means...

As i'd earlier hinted upon, highway towns also have some of the city's niceties. This time it was indulgence time at a local thaali restaurant. For those not acquainted with a thaali, this is the Indian equivalent of a full course meal complete with hors d'oeuvres.

After much time spent without much noteworthy experience...

Flying back to Mumbai was a little bit more interesting than the journey to Himmatnagar. My neighbour sharing space with me adjacent to the window of the airplane wanted to break the radio silence with a joke. A pity the joke was on me and further attempts at conversation only ended in full stop sentences.

Immediately upon takeoff, the man began praying fervently. I knew the prayer he was chanting and if i'm not wrong was my co-religionist (doesn't go to say anything about my practicing it), and was also, a native speaker of Tamizh (Hooray for the Tams!). He seemed to be a wee bit spooked with the flying experience and kept chanting until we touched ground. I was more content with my fate (whether it meant landing safely or turning to toast in mid-air) and was having more grievance with the Amazon Kindle Ebook reader. Apparently, the reader would not show certain pages from pdf documents from spurious sources (perfectly useless when all your documents are classified and cannot be traced back to source).

That was about all the adventure and melodrama midair and by 1800 hours IST, the airplane landed on a Friday evening which saw a young man walking out into the sunset tuned in to music...

To my love, the moon...

Midway during the second week of January '12, i went out for a walk under a moonlit sky. Not very much to my surprise, there was a star that tried to shine just as much as the moon was. Despite its puny size and limited brightness, it seemed to be just as attractive as the moon herself. And somewhere in the back of the mind, this poem began to take form...

Immortal is your beauty, brilliant is your shine
It's you i worship, nothing less than divine
What am before you, nothing but a mere star
Blinking at the world below, from a distance afar


Lover's light and poet's delight,
Guide to the seeker in the night,
The Master couldn't have been more right
Blossoming hearts at the merest sight!


I swear upon your eternal light, know this to be true
Come what may ahead, i will not stop loving you
Content to forever remain, i'll be by your side
No force can ever, separate us or divide

Bear in mind who this 'star' was. It was none other than Jupiter, the king of among Gods, the largest planet in the galaxy. Hearing Juno croon so, the moon replied but hesitatingly.

King of kings, and king of many a moon
Your meek words are none less than a boon
I can for you, feel nothing but feel sad
I know your plight, i know it to be bad


Bound by love, i'm bound to my mother Earth
Her love for me, knows no dearth
As for my light, the Sun soaks me bright
He's my lover, he is my true delight!

I beg you your Highness, think not of me so...
Lest you earn my sorrow, and the Sun a dreadful foe

Upon hearing this, Juno was broken hearted. But being the divine King as he was of the galaxy, he accepted the Moon's decline for his love magnanimously.

I have no sorrow, i'll have no regret
Though no fruit did my love for you beget
Content i am to remain with you,
As a companion, i promise to be true...

On a clear moonlit night, you'll see Juno near the moon, appearing like a small speck compared to the moon. The distance 'tween them is great, yet on immediate sight, it seems as though they're together...