He Said It!

My day started well. This morning my newspaper informed me that May 5 is being celebrated as World Cartoonists Day! That brought a smile to my face even before I turned to the daily cartoon strips in my newspapers…something I do before I read the headlines. Faced with the continuous ‘breaking news’ of a world gone mad and bad in every which way, the cartoons remind me that, depending on what lens you use to see the world, there can still be something to laugh about!

Quite by coincidence, I recently read the autobiography of R.K. Lakshman, India’s best known cartoonist, illustrator, and tongue-in-cheek commentator on life and times.  Lakshman was an essential part of my growing up and growing older, as it was for at least two generations of Indians. Lakshman’s You Said It! daily cartoon provided a glimpse into the world through the eyes of the silent spectator, the Common Man.

Reading his autobiography The Tunnel of Time provided a peep into  Lakshman—the man himself, as he rambled through memories of places, people and events with humour, wit and yes, some irreverence! Since the time he can remember he wanted to be an artist. “An artist is what I wanted to be…I decided that I would pass my examinations but I never attempted to get high marks….My parents and elders were a great help, for they never took it seriously when one of the sons got pitiably low marks or even failed!”

As the youngest of 6 sons (one of whom was the famous author R.K. Narayan) and 2 daughters Lakshman grew up in a big household; he was left to himself all day, happily spending his time playing or drawing. So much so, that his parents did not realise that it was time that he was sent to school until a visiting uncle noticed him at home when all other children of his age were at school. He was promptly taken to the nearby municipal school—kicking and crying! From where the young Lakshman promptly ran away, and resumed play, until some months later another visitor took him back to the school. And there he stayed; as he says, “I moved year after year, class after class,” all the time filling the margins of his notebooks with sketches and doodles. The same continued through college days until he graduated with a BA degree; and immediately moved to Madras to try and get a job in one of the newspapers while his elders “as usual generously cheered me on my way into the world.”

As we continue to travel through the tunnel of time with the budding and determined cartoonist we learn about attempts and adventures as he makes his way into the world as an aspiring cartoonist, until he eventually became a cartoonist for the Times of India, and there he remained for the next five decades!

For all of us who imagine that a cartoonist just has a Eureka moment and with a few swift strokes produces a cartoon, it was indeed revealing to learn what it really took to put the Common Man on the front page every morning without fail. “I would be at the drawing board in the office exactly at 8.30 in the morning, reading and concentrating on news items, political analyses, editorial commentaries, opinions, spending the time tormenting myself, waiting hopelessly for the muse of satire to oblige me with an idea for next day’s cartoon before the deadline. When the idea did at last dawn, the rest of the work was comparatively easy. It was like shooting a movie—choosing a suitable setting, selecting the characters, compressing the script into a brief caption. By then I would have put in six hours of continuous work. Mentally and physically exhausted I would go home. But the sense of fulfilment and creative satisfaction would be immense.”

R.K. Lakshman shares delightful anecdotes about his travels and his many interesting friends, his close encounters with the powers that be, and the highs and lows of chronicling the facts and foibles of every aspect of social and political life. The Tunnel of Time is a treat of a read.

–Mamata

 

 

Heaven’s Flower 

Re-telling of a tale from Bhagwat Purana about Nyctanthes arbortristis, night-flowering jasmine or parijat, a species of Nyctanthes, native to SouthSoutheast Asia

(A long-read, this one!)

My parijat tree has just started flowering

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Narada entered Indra’s court. Indra was obviously in a bad mood. All the minor gods and goddesses, apsaras and attendants, ghandarvas and gyaanis looked uneasy. Indra was firing a courtier:

‘How dare you question my decision? Don’t you know that I am Indra, the greatest of the Gods? The ruler of heaven and earth? The warrior before whom the world trembles? Even the Gods listen to me, and you question my wisdom?’ he thundered.

‘Great Indra! I know what a great god and king you are Sir! I do not question your wisdom. I only wanted to give you some information that I thought you might not know,’ said the trembling courtier.

‘Don’t try to act smart. I know all there is to know. My decision stands. Court is dismissed,’ said Indra in his rudest tone.

Narada was worried. ‘Indra’s arrogance is growing beyond limits now. He is rude to one and all. He respects neither age nor wisdom. He doesn’t listen to his well-wishers. If a ruler is so arrogant, it does not bode well for the kingdom. A ruler must be open to criticism as well as praise. He has to listen to all before he takes decisions. And he must be kind and just and fair. Indra has forgotten all this. He needs a lesson.’

Narada in his tension was playing with the flowers he had gathered for his puja. Suddenly he looked down at the flower basket. His eyes sparkled.

‘Ah ha! Two birds with one stone. Two nice people who have become proud and arrogant can be brought back to their senses with one drama!’ There was a smile on Narada’s lips

And when Narada smiled, someone was going to be in trouble!

It was but a jiffy before Narada was over Dwarka.  He smoothly landed in Rukmini’ courtyard. He knew this was the time Krishna would be there.

‘Narayana, Narayana!’ he said—that was his usual greeting.

Krishna and Rukmini welcomed him warmly. But behind Krishna’s smile was a small doubt. What was Narada up to now? He never went anywhere without a purpose!

‘What a privilege that you have come to my house Revered Muni! How may I serve you?’ asked gentle Rukmini, a bit flustered with such an important visitor.

‘I just thought I would visit friends on Earth, Rukmini. And obviously the first of these friends are Krishna and yourself. Just a casual visit, to chat and catch up.’ Narada turned to Krishna casually. ‘Vasudeva, have you seen the flowers of the Parijat tree? The tree that came from the seas during the Manthan, the churning? It has the most beautiful and fragrant flowers! See, so unusual. White petals with a coral stalk.’

Krishna and Rukmini peered at the string of flowers in Narada’s hand. Indeed it was exquisite, unlike any other flower they had ever seen.

‘Oh, how foolish of me! I brought the flowers for you Krishna, and look at me, holding on to them! Here, take this sting of heavenly flowers. Give it to the one you love,’ said Narada with an innocent look, as he handed over the flower to Krishna.

Krishna saw Rukmini looking at the flowers longingly. He knew he had no choice but to give it to her! ‘Here Rukmini, put the flowers in your hair. It will look beautiful.’ Rukmini was thrilled!

Narada stayed chatting about this and that and the other for a good hour. Krishna and Rukmini couldn’t stop laughing at all the stories that he told about the rishis, devas and asuras. All true no doubt, but with a little Narada-masala sprinkled!

‘Oh, it is getting late. I must take your leave Rukmini! I need to visit dear Satyabhama too before it is time for the lamps. Thank you for your hospitality. I will come around again in a few months’, said Narada as he made his way out of Rukmini’s palace.

Rukmini gazed at the flowers in her plait. They were so beautiful—like pearls set in coral! It had such a lovely fragrance. Never had she seen anything like it! “Oh, Indradev should share the flowers of his tree with all. It is so beautiful. If I could get these flowers, I would make garlands every day for you and for the Gods in the temple! Everyone looking at them would be so happy.’

“Yes indeed Rukmini! Beauty should be shared. I wish I could get you more of these flowers. But Indra is very possessive about his tree,’ said Krishna.

In the meantime, Narada was already with Satyabhama. After all, her palace was right next to Rukmini’s. He got as warm a welcome there. Satyabhama set out the most delicious snacks as he regaled her with news and stories.

Just as he was about to take his leave he said: ‘Oh Satyabhama, how rude you much think me, that I have come to visit you without a gift. But I did bring one. It was a string of beautiful parijat flowesr, from Indra’s tree. I gave it to Krishna and told him to give it to his loved one. He gave it to Rukmini.’ With this parting barb, Narada bowed to Satyabhama and disappeared.

It took Satyabhama a few minutes to digest this news. She hadn’t ever seen a parijat flower. But she knew that the tree grew in Indra’s garden and that he wouldn’t give it to anyone. It was heavily guarded. So she knew it must be very special. And Krishna had given the flowers to Rukmini! What was he thinking? Was she not his loved one? Was Rukmini more precious to him? Her eyes blazed with anger.

‘Call Krishna here immediately! I want him here, now!’ she called out to her maids.

They knew better than to dally! With Satyabhama in this mood, they didn’t want to be in the way. Obviously Krishna had done something, let him take the flak!

A breathless maid soon ushered in an apprehensive-looking Krishna. ‘What is it my dear Princess?’ he asked. ‘You look so bothered and flustered. What has happened? Has anyone offended you?’

‘Oh innocent Gopala! Oh intelligent Sumedha! Oh Vasudeva who runs the whole world! Of course you don’t know what’s wrong! Of course you don’t know what has happened and who has offended me!’ began Satyabhama, who had resolved not to tell Krishna what the problem was. But she couldn’t desist! ‘Narada gave you heavenly flowers to give to your loved one and you gave them to Rukmini! So I am not worth such special gifts? I am not the loved one! I am just some stupid ill-tempered girl who must make do with some silks and jewels bought from the local merchants! I am the one who can be ignored and not counted in this household!’

Krishna understood what this was about! His unease at the sight of Narada was borne out.

‘Beautiful Princess! Lovely Satyabhama! How can you talk so? It was just another flower! Rukmini happened to be there, so I gave it to her! See, for you also I have brought so many lovely jasmines and lotuses,’ cajoled Krishna. ‘Don’t you understand, it is just Narada pretending that he gave me something very special, when actually he came to see me with one little string of flowers.’

Satyabhama was not taken in. The argument went on and on, till finally Satyabhama completely lost her temper. ‘Krishna, I have had enough. You gave Rukmini parijat flowers. I want the whole tree. Nothing less will do. That tree had better be planted in my garden in the next week. Otherwise, I will never ever speak to you. Nor eat, nor go out.’

Krishna knew that this was serious. Satyabhama was the sweetest girl, but she was prone to throwing tantrums when she didn’t get her way! And boy, could she be stubborn. He had no way out but to get the tree!

‘OK Satyabhama. Of course if you want it so much, you will get it! Your wish is my command, Princess,’ said the harassed Gopala.

Krishna left immediately for Indralok. He knew he had a tough task ahead. Indra was very possessive about this tree. But Krishna was sure he could convince him. After all, it was not just about Satyabhama. If the tree came to Earth, everyone could enjoy its beauty.

But Krishna was not prepared for the new not-at-all-reasonable Indra! Indra would not even talk civilly to Krishna! ‘No Vasudeva! Sorry! I cannot part with the tree. I got it as my share in the Manthan. It is for me. It is too beautiful to leave Heaven. No other place deserves to have it. I am sorry,’ he told Krishna. And then turned away to talk to his other courtiers and ignored Krishna totally!

Krishna was shocked! This was no way for one god to treat another, for one ruler to behave with another. Even in refusing a request, there must be politeness. And anyway, there was no reason to refuse the request. But Krishna knew how to keep his cool. ‘Is that your last word Indra? My request is reasonable and I have been polite. But don’t you think that you have been both unreasonable and rude?’ he asked.

‘I have every right to refuse the request. You may be a big guy, but you can’t get whatever you want. Thank you for visiting me,’ said the unrepentant Indra, and started to walk out of the court.

‘Indra, you have exceeded all bounds of propriety. You need to be taught a lesson, and I shall do so. Prepare for war!’ said Krishna, cool but firm.

And war there was! A war in which Indra had no chance before the skill, intelligence and technique of Krishna. In no time Indra suffered a humiliating defeat.

And with that humiliation, came good sense! He realized that Krishna had not fought the war to get the tree, but to teach him a lesson for his arrogance. He fell at Krishna’s feet. ‘Jagadisha, forgive me! I understand that I had grown too big for my boots. My pride had gone to my head. I thought that I was so powerful that I could behave as I wanted, do what I liked. But that is not true. No one is above anyone else, and no one is above law. A ruler especially is here to ensure the well-being of all. It will never happen again.’

Krishna was pleased. His mission had been accomplished. The parijat tree was but an excuse. ‘All is well Indra. Rule wisely and kindly. I take my leave now.  All earthly beings and Satyabhama will be so happy with this tree—I thank you.’

As Krishna turned to go, he spied Narada standing in a corner. A smile came to his lips. ‘I take my leave of you also, Kalahapriya!’ he said.

‘Farewell Govinda. Take the tree carefully and plant it as soon as you get to earth. I know a spot where the soil is just right. On the edge of Satyabhama’s garden, right next to the compound wall adjoining Rukmini’s garden is a nice spot.’ He said. ‘And oh! I hope you know, parijat flowers are never picked off the tree. They fall on the ground early in the morning. All you have to do is spread a nice clean cloth on the ground and the flowers will fall on to it. You can tell Princess Rukmini that.’

‘Tell Rukmini? You mean Satyabhama?’ Krishna was confused. But when he saw the gleam in Narada’s eye, he understood. He understood why Narada had asked him to plant the tree near the compound wall next to Rukmini’s garden.

And sure enough, that is what he did! As soon as he returned to earth, he made for Satyabhama’s garden. A triumphant Satyabhama stood beside him as he planted the tree in the spot indicated.

‘Oh Krishna! This is a magic tree from heaven, right? It won’t take time to take root. I think it will start flowering tonight itself.’ She said.

And she was right! She got up early the next morning and she looked out of her window, thrilled to see the tree in her garden. But what she saw the next moment did not please her so well! It was true that the tree stood in her garden, but all the coral-stemmed flowers had fallen into Rukmini’s compound. Rukmini and her maids were picking them up.

And Satyabhama understood Krishna’s message. She had got the tree by throwing tantrums and being unreasonable. But she was not going to get the coveted flowers!  She smiled wryly to herself. Krishna had indeed taught her a lesson! Bad behavior does not pay in the long run!

And in his palace, Krishna smiled. And in the heavens, Narada smiled.

–Meena

WHODUNNIT? THEYDUNNIT!

I love detective stories! From the time I cut my teeth on Enid Blyton’s Famous Five, Secret Seven and Fatty and gang, I was hooked on mysteries, and the sleuths who cracked them. As I am sure many other 10-year olds have done, I even attempted, with a cousin, to write The Mystery of the Missing Pillow.

Graduating to the classic Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie I began to enjoy not just the answer to ‘whodunnit?’ but equally the cleverly crafted plots, and distinguishing nuances of the sleuths who cracked the cases, starting with Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, and Hercules Poirot and Jane Marple, right up to the ‘traditionally built’ Mma Ramotswe. Over the years I have discovered, and delighted in, the quirky characters of the detectives created by writers in many parts of the world. I continue to explore, and discover, new and exciting detective fiction authors and add to my list of favourite detective characters.

On my last visit to the British Library I chanced upon a book called the Detection Collection. It was a collection of short stories by a number of authors I like. What made me curious was reading that the book was first published to celebrate 75 years of the Detection Club, and republished in 2015 to mark 85 years.

Digging deeper, I discovered that The Detection Club comprises the cream of British crime writing talent.  It was founded in 1930/1929/1932 (ambiguity surrounds the exact year) on the cusp of the Golden Age of detective, crime and murder mystery fiction which began in the early 1930s. The club’s first president was GK Chesterton, and since then the mantle of presidency has passed to some of the most significant names in the history of crime fiction including Agatha Christie, Dorothy L Sayers, Julian Symons and HRF Keating.

The Club in true British club tradition has a Constitution and Rules dating back to 1932. As described by one of its members “It is a private association of writers of Detective Fiction in Great Britain, existing chiefly for the purpose of eating dinners together at suitable intervals and of talking illimitable shop…if there is any serious aim behind the avowedly frivolous organisation of the Detection Club, it is to keep the detective story up to the highest standards that its nature permits, and to free it from the bad legacy of sensationalism, claptrap and jargon with which it was unhappily burdened in the past.”

Besides contributing individual stories to The Detection Collections, the writers have also occasionally come together to create a multi-authored single novel. One of these, published in 1932 was titled The Floating Admiral. Each chapter was written by a different Detection Club member and at the end of the book most of them also offered their solutions to what happened, and who had perpetrated the murder!

Imagine the best writers of detective fiction in Great Britain coming together three times a year—to dine, to exchange ideas, and to plot murders! Theydunnit!

“The detective story is the normal recreation of noble minds.” Philip Guedalla

–Mamata

The Pelican Has Landed

Raghu often lectures in various places. One of his favourite places to do so is the Silver Oaks School, a unique school in many ways. When he went for a talk there a few years ago, they gave him a potted plant. It looked pretty nondescript. We just left the pot on the verandah and watered it occasionally. But then, a few months later, it burst into flower! The flower whose pic you see below! Pretty exotic! It never grew very much but gave about 2-3 flowers a year, and were we proud of it! All our visitors made quite a fuss over it. We asked the gifters the name of the plant, but they didn’t know.

 

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20180415_091803And then we moved to Bangalore, and decided to plant it in the ground. And were we in for a surprise! It was a climber, and boy, did it climb. It climbed to the first floor and went all over the terrace rails and roof. And flowers? About a hundred a year! Huge purple ones, with yellow centres. And very cute kind of seed pods—they burst into a parachute shape when they were dry. Our house became known for this creeper which was all over the roof.

Everyone was fascinated with the flowers, though a lot of people were a bit uncomfortable—as we sometimes are, especially with some types of orchids.

Then a friend decided to do a bit of research, and told us it was a Pelican flower (Aristolochia grandiflora). With that lead, we did our own research, and figured this was Aristolochia littoralis, a sort of cousin of the Pelican flower.

Apparently, these flowers are called Calico flowers (because they look like cloth?). Or Elegant Dutchman’s Pipe, because the flowers look like Sherlock Holmes’ pipe (now why would that be? Holmes was not Dutch to the best of my knowledge. But he may have been elegant, I concede.)

A lot of people had commented that our flower looked kind of carnivorous. But actually, it is not. Apparently, it is pollinated by flies and it does trap the fly inside to ensure pollination, but lets it out in a day or two, when the job is done. So machinating yes, but carnivorous no (sensitive readers, please excuse my anthropomorphism).

Nor do the flowers smell of dead carrion, as the books say they do. At least, ours don’t!

This plant, which is a native of South America, is an invasive species in Australia. But hopefully, not here. A lot of friends asked for the seeds but they couldn’t propagate it, so while my plant grows and grows, at least it is not spreading.

—Meena

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Bibliophile’s Supermarket

Know the feeling you get when you walk into your favourite store with gift coupons to be spent on whatever takes your fancy! The delicious sense of anticipation, the excitement of browsing the shelves, the difficult decision making…should you get clothes? Something for the house? Toiletries or accessories? You spend a happy time wandering and comparing before you make up your mind. You go home happy with a bag of goodies–an afternoon well spent!

That is just the feeling I get when I go to a library! Faced with an array of books, what could be more fun than to browse? What do I feel like this month—something light and happy? Something thrilling and gripping? Something serious and profound? A favourite familiar author? Best seller or Booker winner? Decisions, decisions!

This wonderful feeling has been a part of my life ever since I fell in love with books. The B.C. Roy Children’s Reading Room, more familiarly known as Shankar’s Children’s Library—a haven through the hot Delhi summer vacations; Grover’s hole-in-the-wall lending library in the neighbourhood market where one graduated from Archie comics to Mills and Boons! The American Centre library where one discovered the classics and the contemporary.

Moving cities, the first thing one looked for was the nearest library. In Nairobi it took the form of the next-door neighbour’s collection of crime and detective fiction which kept the suspense going! In Ahmedabad it was Raju’s circulating library that provided a menu of “time-pass” options. And now the British Library beckons every month. At the rate of 4-5 books a month, I seem to be running out of books to borrow. Panic!

But till then, every day is World Book Day for me!

–Mamata

At the Gym

Designer derrieres

And sculpted six-packs

Designer track suits

And funky shoes

Designer keto shakes

And salads and bakes

 

Hunks who could strut into

A wrestling rink

And girls who could walk

On any ramp

 

And then the four or five of us

Desperately battling mid-life bulges

Sagging muscles

Unruly paunches

 

As if that were not enough

I had to overhear this yesterday:
One PYT to another:

‘All the uncles and aunties in my office

Are damn inspired by me, yaar

They all want to start coming to the gym

You know, all those 35-year old ancients.’

 

And I picked up

My 55-year old face and muscles

And slunk out.

 

-Meena Raghunathan

P.S: written a few years ago!

Life as Poetry

For many of us a poem was something you learnt by heart and recited in a monotone before a bunch of relatives when urged by proud parents; or as you grew older, reproduced and analysed in the exam paper. The few of us that survived these stages went on to read and enjoy poetry. In all cases, poetry was always associated with something that came in and out of a book.

Many of us have not connected poetry to a living tradition. Poems were created by all sorts of people, poetry grew out of the experiences of life and living and reflected its rhyme and rhythm. It was a blend of the art and the craft of the potter, the weaver, the cowherd, the sisterhood of women who sewed together to create the most beautiful patterns.

As eloquently described, ‘Poetry reaffirms our common humanity by revealing to us that individuals, everywhere in the world, share the same questions and feelings. Poetry is the mainstay of oral tradition and, over centuries, can communicate the innermost values of diverse cultures.’

To celebrate this power of poetry, UNESCO proclaimed 21 March as World Poetry Day. In celebrating this day we recognize the unique ability of poetry to capture the creative spirit of the human mind.

Sharing a poem that reflects this very spirit.

HABIT

Last night when my work was done

And my estranged hands

Were becoming mutually interested

In such forgotten things as pulses,

I looked out of a window

Into the glittering night sky.

And instantly

I began to feather-stitch

A ring around the moon.

Hazel Hall   1921

Hazel Hall was an American poet and seamstress born in 1886. Paralysed at the age of 12, she was confined to a wheelchair. Her days were spent in an upstairs room her family house; she never left this room. To help support her mother and two sisters Hazel took in sewing and occupied herself with embroidering garments. She died in 1924.

–Mamata

 

Writing Poetry

The only other time

Ever I wrote poetry

Was when I was fifteen

 

And pretty awful poetry it was

Generally whiny and confused

Written in a fit of anger

Against the world (as personified by my mother or teacher)

Or from the depths of despondency

(After a ‘I’ll never talk to you’ fight with a best friend)

 

Never did it rhyme

Have a spark of originality

Or rhythm

Or any redeeming grace

 

Now that I am fifty five (plus!)

I find myself writing poetry again

As awful as before

As whiny and confused

As graceless—if slightly better spelt!

 

Second childhood I have heard of,

But why did no one warn me

That adolescence and the mid-life crisis

Have so much in common?

-Meena

An Ode to Letters

For the dinosaurs who lived through the age of pen and paper, and those who may read about it in history books!

An Ode to Letters

The last time I wrote a letter? Why, just today!

I need it like therapy, at least once a day.

I do not twitter nor tweet, tho’ the world finds it so neat!

Instagram and Snapchat…What’s that?

I like my words to be spelt as they must, and sentences that don’t rust.

Alas, now I too must type my words and SEND an e-mail

Oh for the days when they were penned, and were snail mail!

I so miss the prelude, the preparation and the process…

Choosing the paper and filling the pen (with an ink called Quink!)

Trying to capture the words as they tumbled and tangled and dangled,

Protestations and lamentations, explanations and vexations.

Reports to parents, and advice to sisters, news to share and opinions to air,

Musings with friends–from mundane to surreal,

Sweet nothings to that someone special!

Drafting and crafting late into the night,

Stashing the sheets in the envelope before first light.

To the post office the following day, to weigh and decide

The stamps to be bought, and pasted on the top right side.

Then drop into the big red box with swish and a wish,

And the delicious anticipation of the letter in return… a month, a week, a fortnight,

Counting the days, awaiting the post, what a splendid way to spend days and nights!

I cannot think of anything better, than the sheer joy of penning a letter!

 

“The palest ink is better than the best memory.” Chinese proverb

—Mamata