Bend's Journal

Living in a outstate state

2011-12-20T11:03:00.000+05:30

One needs to keep one's memories sharp for that moment, for what is gathered is usually priceless; it takes you to that same wide open plane, that plane of opportunity to do. Evenif you want it to sink in you, you got to follow up for it. Follow up for the individual, and the government he has made. Perhaps, to remember that government must always pay an individual is the mantra.

Testaments through Banjo- Smelling a conflict

2011-11-09T10:11:00.000+05:30

It has been a while, and this notepad and open source pleasure pressure demands I put my impressions here. Impressions, which are my dear God Banjo's Testaments about dealing with life. Me and Banjo, one a dog and other a human being, we having been morning walking almost regularly a few kilometers everyday since a couple of years. While the master is on a recompensing mode, the dog is cool about his existence. Seems, the poor dog knows it all what he can do. For example, teach
his master some new bag of tricks on every walk. Tricks or techniques of either creating a conflict, or solving one. The latter one better, that is by running away from the space (/time) or falling asleep at the situation itself. The Dog would communicate with a blank stare, "Let time heal, you better stay out".

For example, early twilight walks when the sun is yet to rise and morning dew is yet to be defined, the stray dogs of Bodakdev would collectively bark at lonesome Banjo in groups, perhaps trying to assert street dominance. However, Banjo likes to be cool about it. The dog would not care or speak(bark), for one he cannot, and second he need not. He is busy and happy, sniffing, using his best skill, and communicating that smells are perhaps the best source of pleasure.

Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-20

2011-09-09T18:01:00.001+05:30

Now that the 'shameless series' is over. I would like to share some photos I could click.

Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-19

2011-09-04T21:16:00.000+05:30

The truckers they are nice,

Most’a them give you pass and let you by,

so let the car dance,

and stay away so you don’t hit anyone,

drifty you are, so are truckers most of them,

they live on the road,

the highway space really, is to them.

Real state changing hands to real estate helps you when,

the truckers lights and colored reflectors start fad’n,

your body is strong but your head isn’t,

you look for an enterprise and soon you find one,

a fat woman, a brave one, of a great country in all directions,

likes to help but is sure of some denomination,

known socialist and drowned in capitalism.

You the road tripper,

you can sink to darkness and rise to light,

a hundred kilometers just remain by,

slow your speed,

look around,

tall trees until were hidden behind,

closed shops shutters,

families loaded in cars and scooters,

buses are overloaded too,

shadow and sun,

is to all aw them,

they are moving all ways,

and the road tripper,

as time has become still,

has been with him,

and so has the space.

Amen!

Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-18

2011-09-01T10:08:00.000+05:30

God, omnipresent, can come in the bus behind,

He loves dhaba, suvidha, and cheap plastic toys,

But then you can leave this mela grind,

To see come a dusty market in no time,

primary school teacher is thankful since you dropped him by,

and after-a-while,

see hyper sized colleges and idols in places nowhere and you say why,

where dust blows,

possibly is edge to a declared sanctuary,

on horizon is hills you can see,

beautiful Aravali green and free,

takes a good time to cross by,

reach the town of Udaipur I don’t know why,

see the fort and its kings insecurity,

appreciating his own art, grandeur and army,

as the concept and days of freedom they whizzy.

Old city around is crowded and everything is familiar,

villagers have become hoteliers,

highest stacks for the highest flame in every corner,

holi is to burn tonight and more is to come tomoro further,

right now it is all about drum beats, fun and law and order.

Well, they don’t realize it has always been so,

My own misery,

can’t find a cheap place tonight,

so, drinks become too many and the night,

city closed, highway in open,

so wake up the homeless for some gas,

and pursue the journey,

and can’t sleep tonight because,

Time it is to me. Space it’s unto you.

Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-17

2011-08-29T00:48:00.000+05:30

Days of road, hotel and strangers,

of contrasting skin, voices, stares and colors,

I think all are over.

On the smooth highway swift feels smoother and softer,

with morning dew sweet in my mouth I pass some hundred kilometers,

and another a few hundred after,

leading myself home,

for it has been time that has been to me,

and space I gave to you all.

Unless I decide for a detour,

snap out a turn of a tiring moment,

and rather than south find on the road east,

old civilizations anew living the moment,

their customs, houses, clothes, colors,

it can be seen through the road,

through the grains of dusts,

dazzle of the heat,

and thorns of the desert.

Though their brothers are laying bitumen,

on the sides is sifting sand,

containing civilizations within.

Small cities with fresh vegetables,

has colored bangles buying them,

the same railway track I cross,

bus stand next to it,

chief engineers and collector’s homes I pass again.

New roads new signs but still they confuse,

and in India you ask even if you are not lost,

and sometimes in exchange you have to give a lift,

your time it can be to you,

but you have to forego a little space then,

simply you cannot refuse,

a full happy family loaded behind,

they are to see a new temple of the creator God,

the temple this one they say is the only second,

in the whole wide world,

recognized, by men,

armed by retired gun-men,

who won’t allow cameras, only faith on your face,

and thankfully reminding,

Time it is to me. Space it’s unto you.

Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-16

2011-08-27T00:07:00.000+05:30

Enough of restaurants and hotels,

enough of booz and chickan with teens, an’ alls,

one teen boozer says, hey you just said we are equals,

so please shut up and listen to our sequels,

allow us to fight within ourselves.

We own bikes and boleros and are confident,

will pick a fight for any reason, that moment,

just don’t ask what dis all that meant,

villagers are crazy and not worth to repent,

their roads aren safen’t

for the road trip you ment—ion.

It doesn’t exists,

so enjoy youth and entertainment,

what if for you it is dillusion—ment,

it’s jus that we cannot give any accompaniment.

I say, what dus all dis mens,

pick up my bag, I will go sleep some moment,

will leave as soon as it sun comes,

as,

Time it is to me. Space it’s unto you.

Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-15

2011-08-25T00:28:00.002+05:30

Do you know sir Jaiselmer is a great destination?

The name tells, has beer, dunes, fort, foreign women and men?

Trying to find self in our home,

No one knows what to do them?

We stand in groups and make ourselves lonesome,

offer chai and fried stuff in subjection,

mix of sand duned belly dancing and organic farm irrigation,

to dear friend tourism,

and irritation,

water lines and waste bins leaking it must be adding then,

some nice new smell to the musky environment.

Collector sahib, the man from government,

adds this has nothing to do with taxes or local income,

all we can do is put some local policemen,

put a sign saying force that will give assistance,

because we can never trust our local men,

for there are too many of us them,

also are old men sitting on the lap and shade of good old banyan,

in the fort and the mountain,

with age old stone of sand,

turning desert air into breeze soothing arrogance,

like panchayats let them speak alternate governance,

and allow me to continue the phrase gentlemen,

Time it is to me. Space it’s unto you.

Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-14

2011-08-22T10:22:00.001+05:30

It takes some good legs to climb a hill,

way to Rajasthan’s forts now free for cars and honking,

unless you enter someplace somewhere something,

for example, this one, Jaiselmer fort, a settlement sinking,

has tourists and Indians lazing, hunting and drinking.

Scrambling against stones, freedom, clothes and the carving,

hotels are everywhere so no problems sleeping,

in the name of tradition filthed with God and Princing,

all for livelihood which I and you should be earning,

just at the gate half hill at car parking,

show I am confident and I am ignoring,

the guide is shouting,

in case it is his help I may be wanting,

I say I can’t be depending,

because right now,

Time it is to me. Space it’s unto you.

Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-13

2011-08-20T09:55:00.000+05:30

The rail track crossing seems I have seen it elsewhere,

risen embankments people they cross and many appear,

dark face wrinkles, sweat on them, stooped on their shoulders,

with bicycles carrying gunny bag, and arrears,

I turn left, and soon the rail track disappears,

well I know still it goes to another city ahead,

so on a lonesome faster parallel track I tread.

To a destination that has nothing but hill and history,

they say it operates with help of tourism ministry,

A phenomenon that to me is a mystery,

villagers commuting next to my car flying free,

‘therwise nothing except landscape on the road to see,

the road looks lonely,

so I say to its unhearing village folkey,

Time it is to me. Space it’s unto you.

Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-12

2011-08-19T08:20:00.000+05:30

This oasis city Badmer easily it lets you in,

a small radius as it always has been,

should have some craft the guide books say are genuine,

but the city is dirty and dusty no one knows what they are building,

can use a government guest house to live within,

just for a night and I will have seen it all in a whim.

Couldn’t find any artisans the guide books tell of,

only crazy gay youth couple drunk at station looking to go home far off,

paired in groups you have sometimes hear of,

hospitable bars, good for writers, loners and drunkards,

and discards,

people focused going home, watch sellers, air force officers and mining company employees are,

I only can talk of.

Thriving village with glittering shops in lines,

youth sitting in groups,

nothing to do, thinking to join some great college,

Get a qualification get an edge,

a future there then to dream of.

Day light in static town,

even more static the guest house and around,

various men sitting turbaned,

pulling bidi puffs good for lungs,

broken or golden tooth grinning in clean air whistling,

morning dew of the desert morning,

seeing all static space with them all, I tell them all,

Time it is to me. Space it’s unto you.

Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-11

2011-08-16T20:04:00.002+05:30

The car humming is subtle and eager,

to cross that line of state,

drawn by some age old unseen rulers,

now belonging to administrators,

perhaps brilliant as loners,

or as good as loaners,

and’s why want to protect this culture.

Drawing these lines, as it always has been and will be so,

the day gave way to evening low,

the Land again turns to barren and sandy blow,

people on it seemed had somewhere to go,

one of them me I have a ship but nowhere to row,

sailing, cruising and unlike me not talking,

not even to myself,

while,

Time it is to me. Space it’s unto you.

Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-10

2011-08-15T16:54:00.001+05:30

Four or five brothers, some squatting on the wall,

some lazing on the cot.

They smoke endless bidis,

grin for their brother I have brought back somehow,

faster than the mobile phone they agree now.

Great food full of love and family,

then the great perpetual borewell,

along comes biking a friend looks a local biker,

crazy landlord now also a bootlegger.

Soon becomes a great friend of mine,

treats me like a king brother serves salad, wine,

and his connections, and slaves squatting,

some trying to connect, some can’t comprehend.

Also a bank which will give has its loan officer,

asks for such plenty signatures, says,

no need to read, thumb signs will do,

will make a good loot of acres.

The squatting grinners, for them it is all a game,

a feet above is the better of them believes in shame,

alcohol cannot escape so along is a loan retriever,

to show it’s really only a gamer.

The heat is strong, sleep is all we should do,

preferably like this, all the while, under the tree,

the fresh air is look so natural so addictive,

no chemical all organic,

Nah! not my cup of tea,

you have it, I have to leave now,

Time it is to me. Space it’s unto you.

Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-9

2011-08-13T00:13:00.000+05:30

The car is rolling,

so is the whiskey.

On the four lane highway,

I need only one to swivel,

home ground sir your ground my ground sir,

Banaskantha district is all ours and it is here,

crowded toll gate it is right now,

don’t pay this time make the road clear.

Sandy it still remains,

green taking over dry blue skies,

take this side road for my house,

a few miles then there’s food,

only bajra ka rotla, plus ghee, no rice,

that’s okay and it’s nice,

but need to pee sahib,

so stop here very moment on this aisle.

Dear turban ragged sir how are you,

hold my whiskey bottle please for a while,

while I pee on a discarded hut now left to grim,

and relief gives power to observe,

green land, bungalow, factory, and such prosperity so trim,

my view belongs to me not him,

he drank all my bottle and returned a grin,

sweaty feet mine, and whole of his body too,

not yours dude?

No sahib, been just walking by,

to my village nearby,

give me lift sir I live at the close sight,

a small village somewhere inside this road you are going by,

no sorry, we are late plus you drank my whiskey all,

not left a drop for me so good bye,

Time is to me. Space it’s unto you.

Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-8

2011-08-09T17:58:00.002+05:30

The road just got wider,

maybe smooth and better,

an expensive toll booth,

ten years back one point one hotels are replaced by four,

with their special ace see room.

Arid breeze was breezy anyways,

no bath needed still now fresher in a village,

Patanka we call it and we will always,

friends you meet after long years,

young have grown older,

older could not do better.

They still hold their sun burned clear lined faces,

with same concern and smile,

bidi and chai eagerly they offer.

Cow dung and drains prosperous darken the village,

the excreta still clean, plastics color the mix,

clean breeze cleans all,

even sweat which stays, with,

full of innocence and happiness of the rural,

static and fresh always the air not need a conditioner,

trust open windows no doors and repeating fan.

Sky virgin clean and lake dry with dust,

the rural roads still that curvy and thinner,

a long night sleep, unending open morning,

unended open spaces, fresh air when relieving,

Not hushy the early morning, need to be moving,

people sitting and talking, saying bye, some remembering,

unending lifts they and unending nagging,

sir, see my village too, it is greener,

has same love, peace and stillness where,

Time is to me. Space it’s unto you.

Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-7

2011-08-07T17:06:00.002+05:30

A long lost friend is happy to see,

surprised he is and I can see,

a decade back he lived with me,

drove my jeep all night and in hours of wee,

now lives with his family,

but still we see,

again me in him and him in me,

checks my new car says must have been a nice ride,

let us park it, under the shade sahib.

nice neem air is in a cluster of huts living by,

nobody knows Varahi, Santalpur and the cultures they have kept alive,

living together a small hutment of a brotherly muslim clan,

many times blamed for doing Pakistan,

few houses, a dargah, goats, dogs, hens, friends,

a tired horse travelling from lucknow to bhuj,

tired midway,

has shine whiter than sun,

many more things in that stillness, seems no end,

let us have food sir like to have chicken?

I say problem of cholesterol, cannot have none,

also don’t cook me in oil, or let me make my own.

Help yourself Sahib, some my wife has made,

some you can on your own.

and a lot we ate,

hot sun got hotter at the mid-day,

great home but bad house could not keep that heat away,

we have air conditioner, a car, a highway, that will be better I say.

Stay up for a day or two,

My reflection asks me to,

but, cannot dude, later,

Time is to me. Space it’s unto you.

Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-6

2011-08-06T12:46:00.000+05:30

This thing passing by called land it is funny,

we blame its emptiness for emptiness in our own tummy,

we forget we live, eat and do everything on it,

give it away to our kids, even kill for it,

then ironically they say, Law of the land …isn’t it?

We want water to fill it,

take help of greed, goodness, and everything to keep it.

Lay the road on which I drive,

trees they were and now it is a straight black desert passing by.

Also in between man’s intervention,

canals, water bodies, results of a nation,

bridges anew for faster to use,

for the herders became a muse,

in India you can always stop by,

to ask the herder your way and all his sheep a small hi,

exchange bidis and laughs make it light,

ask who are you and am I going the way right,

scratches his head he says,

don’t know sahib-ji really these new roads confuse,

me too I say, on the highways.

Prolly because

Time is to me. Space it’s unto you.

Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-5

2011-08-01T21:32:00.000+05:30

Familiar roads familiar sides,

some hours, they pass by,

smooth drive this stretch but a bumpy ride,

I say, let’s stop for a chai,

and here, somewhere here, used to be an old enterprise?

Taste in the tea always a trucker’s delight,

such good it puts glints on any tired eyes.

We find the shop after a few roads, distance and sighs,

Hey!, it has been a long time,

Sorry but because of monkey god today no chai,

we say, we don’t mind and stretch in the vacant dukaan for a while

the fleeting moment it passes by,

He says wait now I recall, squeezes his head, his mind he applies,

I say yeah, a smile and then quickly a good bye,

He looks with his little wet eyes,

now recollecting all years that have gone by,

saying do stop by when you come again this side,

I say, sure maybe but not now,

for

Time is to me. Space it’s unto you.

Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-4

2011-07-30T16:48:00.001+05:30

Let us take a break sir it has been a while,

ok, soon, as soon as we find something worthwhile,

then a few miles down the aisle,

on left looks a resort built on tile,

but turns out college one of the pile,

nothing in there sir looks like empty mile.

Outside is better, there is Parle-g and Bristile,

frown is his look the student child,

says he is a local goon but likes our style,

offers his pocket in exchange for what he says has been a good while,

also representing enterprising kaka hangin on his small stile,

all are reasonable with the things they own,

they

ask where you from and where do you rush to in this style,

I say, Delhi, because,

Time is to me. Space it’s unto you.

Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-3

2011-07-26T22:56:00.000+05:30

The Banas king waiting outside said coffee will be fine,

for I don’t drink either whisky nor chai.

The two shots’d already given me a nice high,

crazy villager I thought would not recognize,

but he did not drink the cup I said was chai.

Never mind the road is smooth,

The hard working chief’s gift,

He calls it’s for you, your brothers,

the state the whole nation.

Rather anyone I am so open,

so come out in the open,

the road all yours,

walk, sit on it, buy a car if you can,

but Banas king has some other notions,

sees beautiful girls asking for lift,

give them sahib if you can,

Can’t, I said my friend,

This is Mehsana and there are too many of them,

and,

Time is to me. Space it’s unto you.

Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-2

2011-07-23T09:26:00.000+05:30

Not sure to do it alone,

but at dusk the Banas king he mobiles me,

reminds me, “don’t we have to go?”

I says okey, “let me wash my face if so”.

Took rungs about the ring road,

finally find the banas ka king , the same rural hoe,

but a friend of yore,

looking to find himself even more.

This reminded me of another friend then,

so I go to the doctor to borrow the latest handi cam,

lightest in weight and heaviest in definition,

also took some whiskey shots,

saying, “so long see you soon,

I am back on the road”.

Still I offer two hoes could be three,

but the doctor says you go,

I have a family, golf, pussy and a dog,

City of Gandhinagar, I don’t know an ego?

Well, you go,

Time is to me. Space it’s unto you.

Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-1

2011-07-20T19:05:00.004+05:30

'Shameless Broadcasting' is what I should have probably named this blog. This comes to my mind after Refugi mentions this is what we should do, from now onwards, to overcome the guilt of badly written posts as well as to keep in pace with the times. Also, I am jubiliated by the fact that through this kind of writing I have a chance to express myself un-opinionated and internally uncensored. Anyhow, the present name of this blog 'Bend' intends to achieve some adverbial connotations, and has been sufficient a name since beginning; and, I now feel more strongly acknowledges truth with a sense of sublimity.

Now, improvising on this new insight given to me by my Band co-existent Shri Pankaj Refuji Khanna, I am attempting a series of posts in a prosey-poem form, with the same shameless spirit of writing, and therefore would like to call it 'Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip'. This prose poem is about a week long road trip I took in a Swift Maruti covering parts of Gujarat and Rajasthan. Map below, I will post blogs as I dole out paragraphs until I am shamelessly, if not sufficiently, satisfied.

***

This time they did not stop me,

neither I ‘sked nor they could,

crazied by a crazy steel crafter from Banas,

farmer also he asks me really if we would.

He busses himself to Ahmedabad,

tho’ last night bussing to Nadiad,

and when I gave him only a notion,

over the telecommunication,

that the road trip tomorrow is to happen,

he asks for a small postponement, and I say, “no”,

Time is to me. Space it’s unto you.

Wireman

2011-07-03T01:13:00.000+05:30

It was one lazy night, and I had to do this- pictures below - how a line (a-line-n) can be turned or twisted to make anything. Alien, man, dog and off-shoots.

A Day in a Traffic Cop’s life

2011-06-23T13:42:00.002+05:30

He looks in my eyes,
waves his palms,
tilts his neck and says with his eyes,
come on man,
you have waited your due time,
seems long looking but you will be fine,
so, now you can,
proceed to your destination.

He has angry eyes,
and his hands and crotch to use to stop my bike,
insists I skipped the light.
I insist back I couldn’t sight,
asserts I broke the line too,
I checked down and said, I didn’t see, these are new.
Then tells me like my mama I should protect myself
wear a helmet instead,
I say it’s my head damn-ed.
So, we exchange stares for a good while,
now he wants my money,
in exchange of a receipt with a lesson.

I noticed that he has red eyes,
They look like devils,
for they smoked chemicals,
all day long.
The hot day sweat, night flashlights,
loud honks or smokey di-oxides,
seems don’t bother you anymore dear uncle.
You are now used to them.
Bound to raise your temper.

Your eyes you don’t show but they show law,
well mine show order,
they match, sometimes they don’t,
so I lower my head and turn my neck,
on my back I see another cop,
In middle of the road,
Busy, dancing, swinging, his hands flying,
stuntman guiding the traffic,
bending his back back,
shoulders swinging waving.

My watery eyes they spot lost children,
his guide them,
are compassionate,
speaks softly to them shows them way,
stretches him arms,
to the horizon away,
sweaty pits, innocent momentary smile,
just doing my job, he says,

Big rounded eyes his are staring,
at all unknown but known.
Sunnelly both hands are up,
locked to a fellow man’s.
Who though he is supposed to guide,
now scuffling because a rogue driver,
owner of a big car.

What is a blog

2011-06-22T18:30:00.002+05:30

When a writer friend reminds that you have to write regularly so not to lose it, practice; writer friends are waiting for your new words, why so long?; and you recall Sartre telling not to stop for philosophy sake, writing sake; all claiming that there is no recourse, you say what the hell, why? why such a pressure when my mind is blank; I have nothing to write, so I don't; probably I am done or I have no inclination, or there are so many things happening around that I cannot put my mind to rest. And, here you see you have punched keys on your keyboard, and seen the magic letters appear even though your heart and mind are all empty. Some writing, editing and writing; you just wrote.

A story of a bike rider

2011-06-07T08:38:00.004+05:30

Mr. Factor Axe, a traveler, has been traveling across the world; he has been for last twenty years or so. New places become old after a visit, and so did they, on the routes he has traveled so far. From a child traveler escorted with his hippie parents in early seventies, Axe who is in his forties now, now travels to his own chosen destinations, from countries united as states or kingdoms. No latest car, airplane or train untouched, except fighter jets, his work or vacation desires have taken him places richest in economy and flora, as well as the poorest and the finest. Axe is waiting for the space travel to become popular in next ten years or so.

Factor also loves local travel, which he would do in a motor-cycle or a bicycle or even foot. And, as he grows older, he is finding that places closer to his home are perhaps as alien as faraway places he has never been to. In a way, the environment, as he has been growing older, has become friendlier and the people a little more stranger. It seems his traveling will never end because the thing called exploration in him is always on.

But with most of the world traveled now, he has started thinking of a new place, or to say a new route. Also, with almost all regular purposes of travel fulfilled in his life, Axe now wants a newer reason or a new thrill in his travels. Making new friends and meeting relations again in well settled places is regular but now this time he would like to make a trip alone. Not really that a lonely travel travel but a travel that is popular too. This gets Axe’s mind to ponder what avenues, modes, destination, routes, and many other pleasures and requisites of travel can he create.

So, it takes Factor another two years of persevere efforts to think of a route and mode, and a coincidental meeting with a beer and airplane dealing light and ever laughing smiling tycoon, who with his big hearty laugh and by slapping his own thigh promises Axe a lavish sponsorship. The sponsored money is hundred times more than what a local entrepreneur would eventually earn after running hundred times and ten places. Axe has been instantly promised, and instantly transferred a healthy sum in his bank for this bike trip. The brave task is to bike ride a hundred mile chunk of path along and just outside the Indian border in the east. This piece of land between two sovereign countries is well understood as no-man's land. The trip would be a giant step in improving the political and feelings climate at both sides of the irregular line, is the understanding.

This, a good enough challenge may even cost Axe his life. Axe has unlimited numbers to worry for him in family, friends and well-wishers; and now more well-wishers as the news of this expected adventure catches attention all over the world. It all started with a publicity plan with help from the sponsor himself; a French bearded easy spirit, and his discrete media team, who started designing enthusiasm in the people who watch Tee-Vee too regularly. And, as few months pass by, the boss and the rest of the world are all worried now. Now, of a conspiracy that a terrorist outfit may highjack this event, this amazing bike ride; a representation of what would be a historical point for a step to counter fear by a libertine step. In spite of the assurances from both eastern and the west side of the division, the danger in such a trip was only an assumption until all the security agencies agreed that it is best to postpone the event. The organizers, seeing nothing to lose, continued with the advertisements and talking, suddenly started noting the profits they have suddenly started to collect. Soon there were more sponsors and stakeholders. In other words, the postponement has been a blessing in disguise. During this time, somehow the mint that capitalism generates has mixed so well with the socialist connect that the air has become sweet in everyone's interest. All the book-makers have broken all their historical records, and everybody loves Axe.

The general consensus tells that six months will pass by in no time, and the Olympic games is the subsequent big event after next year. The excitement rush is high everywhere; six months is hardly any time, and it passes by the security agencies and the Interpol who could not nullify the chances of a conflict to zero, and in turn assure that Factor will be safe. However, they promise to take up the challenge of protecting him. Unbelievable efforts are then put into organizing security at all levels, the event to be watched all across the world.

It is all colored skies and cheers when Axe starts his historical ride on his Japanese bike with a roar. The noise is deafening as the whole South Asian subcontinent roars in cheer with their victory signs and flags and painted faces. Everyone takes to their respective country’s border as if it is a picnic they have been dying to see. The lone rider would start with his bike lifted up on its back wheel at first few beginning moments. Both sides of the border is covered by people and protection- rich and poor. The enthusiasm so strong that half way, when only a couple of hours have passed by and couple remain for history, and spectators now appear in patches to cheer or just to watch, Someguy hammers a rocket launcher aimed specifically at Axe. The sniper has been waiting for last two months at that spot. The shot is precise. The canon, when it hit Factor, tears his bike and body into flesh pieces which flies in all directions, and falls on both sides of the dividing line, as if it are feathers and flowers. Most of the big chunks take a curving trajectory to land on the cheering people at both sides, and the air and the soil to be its forever.

Believe in (G)DOG(D)

2011-05-22T00:03:00.003+05:30

The thought of God comes across Bend's mind many a times- and appears in series and again. Both blog pieces are liberation pieces, rich in creative content, and I look for some liberation too; so, one more add to the digital gob here.

Mostly, during my daily early morning walks, when there are lesser people on the road here in Bodakdev I get ample space and time, hence many opportunities to delve into myself and think, "Oh! where do you find God?" and I recollect the best answer I have found so far, "No need to fiddle right or left, being a living being your search is useless. Perhaps, the only best place to look for God is within you". Well, I must admit I have tried this but I think I did not and will not find anything. Then my eyes fall at my daily-morning-walks partner, Banjo, a Labro-dog, and he becomes an easier unknown to think about, “See him, he looks so busy in his own world, he doesn't need to talk to me. Another kind of living being and looking at him shows he is fine". Banjo is usually unchained during 99-point-99-percent of our duet walks, in other words, the Dog is left to his own devices. I call him Freedom Dog, for example- mostly, he himself would be dealing with the strays, people, traffic, but is mostly busy sniffing one thing or the other, or the real other that keeps him busy. But, that's all right. I get my share of pleasures of the morning walk by thinking this crap, and the dog has his own right to his share too- remember, mostly he is busy sniffing. Perhaps, it is this entire scene what God is all about.

Well, in really, I have nothing to say or claim more substantial than this about God, it is unnecessary, for there is no real feeling, only a self-testimonial, like this one.

The vibrant Japan

2011-03-13T21:43:00.001+05:30

A free literature ride,
took me to the land of Samurai,
my best black brother, I don't remember, maybe my yellow bhai,
happy and surprised asked me why,
why have you come here, why?
I said, to see heights of technology,
and humanity, if it has survived?

His eyes went round,
he liked my free style.
Then I asked where do you get manga?
He asked, cheap or mahanga?
I said, I don't care,
get me one.
So, he put his right hand on his side,
swoosh he took out his cell,
told me it works only in human hands,
with the heat that it felt.

I said that is fine,
ok get me a bookstore my man,
maybe some coffee, and some Sushi.
So, forty stories high we went for a beer,
he said, look this is Japan,
nothing here now to fear,
radioactive is already our blood,
see it in our great comics,
our baseball, telly games and saki,
where robots and human combine,
only to pass some time,
nuclear reactors are our babies,
of that is human endeavour that will always shine.

A free literature ride,
took me to the land of Samurai.

The Laari Rider

2011-03-07T07:48:00.004+05:30

I didn’t succeed to define this livelihood, for it is easy; some say Shakhpbhaji wado, Pasti wado, some something else. They are good talkers and they own four wheelers, otherwise known as hand-carts, good for legs. Rs.6000 it costs to buy one and what it carries is something more valuable- a livelihood, most likely of a family, sometimes an entire village. I hear of their informal involvement in moving India’s economy- a large involvement - moving along.

Then I think, and perhaps accept or accept not, their sweaty feet which glide and run the country; roads not designed for these, they just happen to be, feel its roughness, its fatigue? I also sometimes go to the extent of blaming these Laaries anti-developmental, because they are not mechanised and run purely on sweaty-feet power.

But then I wonder, perhaps un-sub-consciously, are the four wheels of these Laaries symbolic of 'no-change'? for the times they are a changing, or not-changing?

The folklore of flood

2011-02-01T09:35:00.001+05:30

The people of villages in Bihar they live in harmony, most villages are situated closer by when compared to other parts of the world. There are people from almost all religion, caste, income-status, and so on. Evening Bhajans and folk songs are a routine at these fertile and feudal lands, which hasn’t seen much progress so far. Perhaps the rich fertile alluvial land, the perpetual supply of soil from Himalayan erosion and floods, gives strength to all the men to stick to their viewpoint.

<br>

Bhola Rajak is a routine performer with his Harmonium and heartful cracksome vocals. Others would assist him with percussion instruments such as Tabla, making arrangements for dari, mike, fetching chairs for elderly, and so on. A loud-speaker masted as high as possible, which would be ten odd feet, or even higher, is a continuous invitation. Recently, most songs of Bhola and partner have been devotional songs, songs devoted to Gods, otherwise also known as Bhajans. They also play Folk songs which may sound similar to Bhajans to the uninformed ears, but hey, we know what Folk songs mean. They are truthful and unsophisticated but intelligent structures which portray the struggles of the times they are played in. Folklores attempt to transfer wisdom, mostly through a story. Unlike Bhajans, Folk songs usually do not take God that seriously. Bhola, to his own as well his audience’s demand has been keen on Bhajans, and on my inquiry if he has his own orginial Folk songs as well, more specific my question that if floods are so common to you you must have some flood songs under your belt. He could not refuse my friendly request and played one on floods for next ten minutes.

It is also quite likely that he made up the song just there right on spot. The song had kanyas- three of them, a bamboo raft on which they floated, a snake on top of the raft which they find later, and finally encountering robbers at the end down-stream where the flooded river slowed. Now, where should these three helpless women go? In front is a deep well, and now behind a valley. And, all of a sudden, the dangerous looking snake transmogrifies into Lord Krishna who then took good care of the robbers and the three helpless women too.

Oh my God…

***

Bhajan: (N.) Song devoted to God.

Dari: (N.) Floor rug

Harmonium: (N.) Portable Wind based instrument which has keys. Modern synthesizers/casios come from this.

Kanya: (N.) Female of the human species

Mike: (N.) An Indian alternative for sound amplification. Altertive to Mic./ Microphone.

Tabla: A Melodic percussion instrument which comes in pair.

Lack of ready food options for pets and owners in Ahmedabad

2011-01-06T00:27:00.000+05:30

Bend recently was watching TV with Banjo, some foren channel, a programme called, ‘Heavy Petting’ in a channel called NDTV Good Times, and he discovered humans employed, to taste, to do something called pedigree quality testing. The same way he had heard of lipsticks tested on pigs lips before they are out in the market.

Either loners or busiest people on the earth keep dogs. They both do not live with their families mostly, so find two advantages in pedigreed food. One, complete nutrition; second, negligible effort required to feed the pet.

The numbers of loners or busy people increase in a city. Bend and Banjo live in comfort of Amul’s city, Ahmedabad, where half of the dogs are also vegetarians. Their owners insist and are quite convincing that a dog can eat whatever they would otherwise eat normally.

Banjo usually complains, by making a disgusted face, how pedigreed animal food tastes lame compared to the tastier options of cooked food or meat. Bend can’t help, for the local market cannot provide the variety. He barks back at Banjo because the latter wouldn’t care how human beings feel about eating the same cornflakes regularly, while watching TV.

Red and White

2010-12-29T09:14:00.001+05:30

Photo courtesy: CEPT Website http://cept.ac.in

Or, ‘The Internet’- according to the wise men/women

There is a rumor at times that Santa dresses a combination of red and white because of Coke’s influence in the history. It is an American phenomenon, otherwise Santa used to be green and white. Ask one of my color challenged friend, who lives in America, and with whom I used to share the same green lawns, note green, and do idle nothing but gaze at the stars. This portion of South Lawns has a nice gentle slope to lay on one’s back. The lawn has a small, and only one inside the lawn, a small eight foot tree. Owl has big eyes, and when they gaze they really gaze. It was year 1998. We then felt, Christmas goes well with the soft chill of the city. This tree was frequently used as Christmas tree.

It was by sheer coincidence that I walked past the same lawns recently on the evening of 25^th December 2010. And, looking at the small area on the green lawns around the tree, it took me no time in recollecting a conversation I had a few days back, before christmas, with one of the cultural secretaries, a student of the place. He mentioned he is looking for a good Christmas party this year. He also has had ideas not only for a Santa but a Banta as well. Now, walking past the lawns I noted bursted remnants of red and white balloons suspended to the delicate branches of the delicate tree, and some remnants and discarded white paper plates around. The red and white combination was left to the next agency, the puens and the safaiwalas. In fact, in that distinguishable waste, I also saw a Classic Milds packet too, not an American product at all.

It looked like the party went well with all jubiliancy.

“So this is Christmas…”,

John Lennon <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HG7TZEaO6lI>

---

Puen = n. Handman

Safaiwala = n. Cleaner

Race to Liberty

2010-12-26T20:47:00.000+05:30

India is a phunny country, some like to call it absurd too, I say the same too, sometimes. Its communal places, like hospitals and schools have alertness and educational messages, mostly on walls, and sometimes on desktop screens. These are one liners usually. Such as-

"Nobody will believe in you unless you believe in yourself"

- Liberace

Now, who the hell is Liberace?

Mahes?

Morning sun, dew and games for the handicapped

2010-12-25T13:09:00.002+05:30

Morning orange sun feels nice on the face. The sun is not strong, and one can feel the morning dew. This is one of the common mornings in Bodakdev of Ahmedabad. Bend is happy to see kids being loaded into the back of a tempo. They are to be transported to the play grounds at Maninagar of Ahmedabad. He is told, recently made, the play facilities are well equipped world class. One staff tells these kids are being transported to prepare for the handicapped games. The P.T. teacher dressed in white pants and white shirt is ensuring each one is tightly fitted on the back of the three-wheeler. He wants to ensure their safety on the unsafe roads of Amdawad city.

In the same compound, Banjo and some left out kids are busy in their own world. They are happy having Banjo fetch the ball thrown long-distance every time, which the dog when he brings it back drops to pant his tongue out.

Bend doesn’t belongs to the happy lot, for he notes the dismal infrastructure, slowness, condition of the tempo, frowning teacher blowing whistle all the time. He sees a team that will perform yet underperform at another handicapped games arrangement that exist in a big nation; a country that houses one fifth of the world’s population. Inside the country the differently-abled will perform, internationally not to be seen.

Or, the reason for Bends disillusionment with this disabled arrangement could be something else. It could be his upbringing, living, and the way he perceives things presently. The sun and the dew are stronger, they sooth him- also, the panting dog.

Liberty downer

2010-12-20T17:26:00.001+05:30

I don't understand this part of the doctrine of democracy. Why do some really want liberty downest to the lowest level of an individual, like, a man's? I suggest, we bring it downer; say, to a dog's level.

Transportation modes available to Banjo

2010-12-16T08:57:00.000+05:30

In Ahmedabad, year 2010, mass public transport vehicles such as the public bus, known as AMTS, is a complete no for Banjo. His presence may create panic and scare otherwise ordinary people traveling by the bus. He is already a perceived danger when he walks the streets- a fifteen month old Labrador pet. It is highly likely that the kind-man (man-kind) may protest his presence in the bus too. Well, things are not that bad, for Banjo is among the lucky few of his kinds around. He has other personal modes of transport available too, although walking is his favorite.

Let me tell you, he is crazy about the Bullet, a heavy motorcycle which his master Bend owns. Since a few decades, the production of this R(G)oyal Bullet has had ceased in Royal England as old generation bikes have given way to the new. And, recently, these Bullet bikes have found a new immense popularity in India with a certain youth – the youth which can afford it. The Bullet which never ditches you, has style, is louder in loud streets, and is relatively a comfortabler and an exciting ride. Banjo would always insist for a ride.

Car falls later in Banjo’s preference list. Bend usually drives it with the windows up, closed, and perhaps Banjo doesn’t likes its secure cut off air with the outside world. There is a risk that Banjo may jump out of the window in excitement of the smells outside or eye contact with the other dogs on the street. Inside is a micro-climate envelope, where this contact, in particular smell contact, is broken. Climate changed, just images the dog may be observing. It gets more boring in winters, for in summers the dog at least has the air conditioner to eat up? Bend learns, you rob a dog of his smell, you rob him of everything. On longer drives on highways, country sides, Banjo prefers to curl himself for a comfortable doze in the car. It is beautiful when the sun shines through the glass and the living creature is sleeping quiet.

Halfway during one seemingly long morning walk with Banjo, one day, Bend chose to return home in an auto-rickshaw. The auto-rickshaw driver was surprised with Bend’s question if he wouldn’t mind a dog. The poor looking wrinkle faced man laughed on an unusual question. He was amused to see two smart chaps early in the morning, requesting a paid ride. Bend thought Banjo would love auto-rickshaw too because he himself loves the sound and air of it. He was keen to take a note of Banjo’s reactions. Rather, the unconcerned dog preferred to bark at the street dogs he came across, and aroused their curiosity in return too. Banjo didn’t find anything special in the alternative transport form, except for the driver, who perhaps just loved another small excitement in his life, otherwise a tough day, which has become a regular, just about to begin.

Bend uses Banjo to take notes

2010-11-30T13:01:00.000+05:30

How much Banjo makes it easier for Bend to gather a few notes, only Bend knows.

These days, local Gujju shops have started to put air-conditioned cooling and glass partition at their front- be it an ATM, a bakery, frozen meat shop, or a local grocery store. These are only a few though. When the dog walk is accompanied with a purpose of some errand in these shops, Bend would have to leave Banjo outside these spaces. This has a few reasons- one, when these spaces are empty, Banjo is scared to venture inside and starts barking on the door with only his face inside; and when the place is full of people inside, people express either fear or joy, like, “oh my god, dog…”, or, “O mumma, see, kutro*”. Banjo, depending on the friendliness in the atmosphere inside, would venture inside.

In one such incidence, outside an upper crust café bakery in Bodakdev, a Rabari*, sees Bend pat Banjo on his neck and fluff some love massage. It is an unusual sight, for the Rabari himself realizes WTF is he doing here in a city begging and why is he not with his goats. Surely he has Bodakdev contacts, or he is from nearby. He assumes Bend is friendly, cannot help his habit or need, and asks him, “Saab*. Can you give me some money to buy some atta* for the kid?” There are two, less than ten year olds dangling on him or running about in yonder. They are happy. Bend doesnt likes to encourage begging, so he doesn’t say anything. The Rabari is disappointed.

A few moments later, a fat, round and big guy gets out of his heavy big car, BMW type make, or similar. Full of fat, vulnerable as an animal, he is fast paced in his steps towards the bakery; gets startled when he suddenly notices Banjo unknowingly blocking his way. He requests in his commanding voice, “Please, can you control your dog?” Banjo has been standing unchained at the bakery door hoping to get in. He is standing free, head shaking, tounge out in hope.

Bend is somewhere in vicinity, taking notes how as time changes, people now talk more of two extremes that is India.

***
Atta: (noun) Dough
Kutro (noun) Dog
Rabari: (noun) Grazer from Gujarat, India
Saab: (noun) Sir. (Similar to Sahib (Colonial))

China make or India make?

2010-11-04T09:14:00.000+05:30

Any dog's face, if you stare and observe at the animal will show you how cute or angry or worried it is. Many times he may also convey hope on his face too; usually when you have biscuits or something tasty at bay. Banjo who Bend lives with, gives the same different expressions at different moments to him. Since they both live together, man and dog, Banjo can also easily read Bend’s gestures of love, anger, or worrieness.

It is well documented that Labradors were first reared in NewFoundland (source: Wikipedia) in around 1800AD as waterdogs, and since then have travelled the world afar, making it to one big corner in India its city called Ahmedabad. 2010, Bend cannot gather which route Banjo’s ancestors took, for the friend who had arranged the dog simply refused to divulge his source, ancestral and route details. He said, “I take hundred percent guarantee that it is a Lab. And what more do you want? You wanted a Lab dog and here he is. Look! He is a nice looking one too,” sipping tea.

Both Banjo and Bend, during their Amdavadi morning strolls, when air dew is not yet spoiled by the dusty traffic, frequently encounter other Labradors (Labs) accompanied either with their maaliks or servants. Banjo had been a proud possession to Bend until both had met the biggest Lab of them all – Dg. Sniffer. Surely, Dg. Sniffer is not an exception, because if here in Ahmedabad city, a big Lab double and huger than Banjo and many all the other Labs can exist; it therefore, raises a small fleeting question on the supply source of these increasing numbers of Labradors in the city. Trust Bend, you drive in the new part of the city and in most corners you can see a Labrador being walked.

I wonder if Bend cares, but he assumes that as life changes in the city, individuals do find a good companionship in dogs, and especially Labs, because of their calm relaxed nature, almost zero maintenance, and their ability to express affection when needed. So far so good, but now hearing rumors, Bend is now also diverting his opinion that although Banjo has his roots in Newfoundland- Since a few generations, he and his likes are kind of a dilution, influenced by India or Chinese or other en route genetics. Size is one reason I just mentioned, and the other could be people breeding them in increasing numbers, as giveaway to relatives or for selling in the market. Bend guesses there are more reasons. Take example of Banjo’s actions. Banjo understands the street environment well enough to run, enjoy and play freely on the roads, and not be crushed under a vehicle passing by. He ducks, speeds or adjusts his butt or head accordingly in case the driver has to brake suddenly and thereafter honk. Banjo also has an inherent capacity to judge when to cross roads banks in a flash.

The other thing is Banjo’s eating Habits, Bend notes. Both just love noodles. One should see Banjo waiting persistently in hope for a small doodle of the noodle. And, throw some, he will tilt his head up, fly and grab if needed, and sip the noodle needing help from both tongue and lips.

Chuski

2010-11-01T17:55:00.001+05:30

Many a times, I use Google for translating difficult words. For example, to find what 'sage leaf' would mean in Hindi. But this is crazy - see the image below when I tried to search the English for 'chuski'.

Breaking Barriers by Barking

2010-10-27T09:40:00.000+05:30

I mentioned somewhere in my earlier posts, Labradors living here in Amdavad will fall under the paltu* category, and are generally bigger or stronger than their faltu* counterparts, excepting unless not well fed by their maaliks*. Bend is accused of overfeeding Banjo, but then they both compensate by walking a few odd miles every day. During these walks they always meet the faltu type, also known as desi*, who collectively are a loud type. The collective loves to bark endlessly and some like to show that they will bite. They even scare some humans who are taking their hurried morning walks, and their children too starting for their schools at beautiful morning twilight. Strong in posture, Banjo’s personality ensures he is a pet; Labrador and therefore lovable. At first meeting Banjo can look scary too.

For some reason, the faltu types are usually angry with paltu types, and come running chasing in groups, and especially towards Banjo, who communicates to them in some dog language that life can be more than being territorial and protective. Some bites here and there, their morning walks continue.

****

desi = (n.) of the country India
faltu = (n.) of the streets
maalik = (n.) master
paltu = (n.)of home

Footsteps to follow

2010-10-20T18:28:00.000+05:30

Sometimes, it is nice to dig old incidents. This one crops up here because of Steinbeck's brief plot-synopsis within 'The Pearl' used as an archeologist’s tool. I remember how in a village scenario, tracking someone by merely looking down and following his foot-tracks is a simple skill.

Ten years back, fresh out of college, I used to get confused with the word 'footprint', for I had learnt that it means a foot-mark left on a surface. But, working my ass in a village called Patanka replacing traditional mud houses with houseowner’s organic designs, some two hundred odd of them, I used to have my more sophisticated friends talk and discuss, elitely, of a the same word 'footprint', but with a different meaning. More precisely, the word carbon was prefixed and the word became more than words. That time the grassroots concern was somewhere else, and now you can see it is a global concern now.

My concern stays smaller. It is of the skill, the skill which John published of back then in 1947; the skill of tracing/chasing someone wanted or unwanted by following the footprints left on the dusty ground. The melancholy plot-synopsis is of Kino chased during his run. Reminded me of how I was chased by the best chasers of Patanka , a community called Rabari, basically, grazers here who own a lot of sheep and flock, lowest in that village's social ladder of four to five categories. Vajabhai, chased me to be allotted his quota of cement, and complained I had been the toughest catch in his life. My job was to walk around and visit different houses that were being built, to inspect that they were being done proper. He complained that I would circle and walk too much. This made me happy then, and now makes me proud when I look back, for they were good times as we cracked them as jokes. When I discussed this with others in the village, the superior people of the village, they told me that these grazaers are best with this technique of foot following and are usually of help to the community when a theft had taken place. As soon as a theft alarm is raised, unknown footsteps are followed, wrong ones eliminated and a track path invented, in a particular direction, with probabilities worked out that in which village would the thief would have gone to. Villages here, then and now, are distributed by a distance of five to ten kilometers in an average. If pursued, it took a month or two to apprehend the thief.

Now, slowly most of these villages are access roaded with roads that are super highways, otherwise called expressways, motorways or freeways. It can be a useful observation to find how much of the footprint identification skill still remains. I am talking of the smaller issue.

One regular bronze

2010-10-10T01:00:00.003+05:30

Read the news (link) to understand the word effort.

A 20km walk, daily, to get water for her family is comparable to once-in-a-lifetime bronze in the commonwealth games for a 10km one. Less distance, she ran. As for authorities, this way there isn’t much expenditure in training players. Let the tribal practice. Whatever- running, swimming, shooting…

Chain Snatching incidents in Ahmedabad city

2010-10-09T14:26:00.001+05:30

Chain Snatching incidents in any community are serious and regular ones in a big city as bad. Ahmedabad reports this in its daily churan* type newspapers, and in its other better city dailies here and there and and so on. The chain snatching incidents go unnoticed in the middle of multiple issues of multitudal concerns, but still making simple or singular or feeble impacts. People read the news, gather that it is serious, acknowledge it it is bad and move on. Some do their bit.

And more it hurts, when in neighborhood an auntie well known is hurt because the culprits slashed her neck as they snatched away her gold chain running away with it, doubling* on a hundred CC bike.

This is not good.

Because, a small civilization or a big city, first, she is hurt; second, she will fear, to wear, or never from now on, to wear a flashing expensive necklace at the evenings and enjoy the care-free nice warm breezy evening walks in her community next time.

Police say they will and are trying their best. But they themselves read too much of the newspaper too. We the neighbors make a visit. If we do not, then we send some condolences. Even if that not too, we convey our pity or compassion and hope for better. We also hope that the culprits are caught soon. We also try to gather, who is responsible for all this?

Who?

The Employment Directorate?

****

Churan (n.) An Ayurvedic preparation, in dry powder form, provides post lunch/dinner taste, and is helpful with restoring bowel normalcy

Doubling(v.) Two riders on a bike

Ref-yu-chakker (v.) To run away