A Day in a Traffic Cop’s life

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

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

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)

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

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

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

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. 

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.