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A NATIONAL OBSERVATION

(This poem was inspired by a sentence from Mr. Govindu's blog- 'We are a country of not citizens but spectators)  

 

We, the people of India, the

blah blah blah blah speakers, are

also hushhhhhhed spectators, are

nearly always governed by feelings

potent.

Abstaining from the social scene, we

sit in apathy on our cushioned seats

often on the edge, watching the

moving moments go by.........

On the funny side we ‘ha ha' laugh

when tragedy strikes we ‘boo hoo' cry

on the bitter scene we ‘huh huh' carp

in #*$*#* rage we flaunt our fists

in ‘tsk tsk' shame we shake our heads, what

we cannot stand, we

let alone, when  

we cannot sit in ennui, we

take a stand, to

strike, to protest, to fast unto death.

In the interval, we

‘chomp chom' munch, not moongphalli but popcorn, we

‘slurp slurp' sip, not lassi but pepsi, we

tolerate the kicks of Nature, of Superpowers, of Terror with

‘chalta hai', help humanity with

‘chalta hai', pick up the threads of life with

‘chalta hai', carry on with

‘chalta hai'.........we

laugh a little more, we

cry a little more, we

blah blah incessantly

ceaselessly

relentlessly, we

then snoozzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzze, we

wake up in the morning, wait

with bated breath, for

the next big blockbuster release of another

social drama, another

comedy, another

tragedy!

We, the people of India, are

blah blah blah blah speakers, are

also hushhhhhhed spectators, are

always being governed by leaders

impotent!

      

                                           Nargis Natarajan

 

BLINK- The Mumbai Blasts

I had written this poem after the last Bombay blasts. Never imagined that I'd be posting it again after another one. Unfortunately, things haven't changed much. 

 

 BLINK

 

Of late

my eyes have never gone hungry

but yesterday there was a feast

yet again

I witnessed revenge

yet again

It was mounted on a sordid platter.

Roasted with the meat of slaughtered innocence

buttered with spurious convictions

sprinkled with the tantalizing sauce of lunacy

it looked deliciously tempting

but it was cold!

I blinked

and hoped that the blink would last

forever.

 

 

ROMANCING THE RAIN

For some moments I sat enthralled

a lone audience

glued to my window screen

watching the annual premiere release

of the spectacular movie

 "RAIN"

The next moment

they beckoned me-

the alluring fingers of Naturedom

I could not, not but then escape

into the raw and tender grip

of those wild embracing arms.

With a dreamy debut of a drizzle

a simple saga of a shower

a single sequence to my repute

I then became what I always wanted to

An instant celebrity!

The lone idol of an hour

the sole star of a season

No acts, no pacts

no songs, no themes

no cuts, no scenes

no takes, no retakes

No audience

No laurels

Just a feat of feral fever

Pure bliss!

HIPPOCRATIC OR HYPOCRITIC?

             

 

   Hippocrates, the Father of Medicine, developed an oath of Medical ethics that physicians all over the world tend to follow. It is to respect and honour the rules of  a profession considered to be the noblest of all. My Daddy, I know, took that oath with his gifted hands and followed it to the core. However, in the wake of a certain prestigious Hospital being clouded under an ethical mistrust, this is probably the oath that the few medical practitioners under questioning must have undertaken: 

 

“I swear by Apollo Physician and all the gods and goddesses, making them my witnesses, that I will fulfill this oath”……. I also swear by Apollo Hospital and all the politicians, making them my witnesses, that I will try my best to fulfill this covenant.

“ I will respect the hard-won scientific gains of those physicians in whose steps I walk, and gladly share such knowledge as is mine with those who are to follow”..………..even if it means pampering the media or tampering with proof.  

“I will remember that there is art to medicine as well as science”………I will also remember that sometimes there is diplomacy too, especially if there is pressure from the upper quarters to conform to certain regulations.

“I will apply, for the benefit of the sick, all measures [that] are required”……..especially to curb the crimes that a sick but eminent patient may have involuntarily committed.

“I will not be ashamed to say ‘I know not’, nor will I fail to call in my colleagues”….especially to discuss and to conceal what we ‘know’ is the truth.

‘I will respect the privacy of my patients, for their problems are not disclosed to me that the world may know”………but I will also hold press conferences as and when the occasion demands.

“I will prevent disease whenever I can”……I will also prevent the world from knowing the truth by giving a fictional account of a factional incident.

‘I will remember that I remain a member of society, with special obligations to all my fellow human beings”……….especially the high flying types, so that my post in the swanky surroundings that I work in is never jeopardised. 

“If I do not violate this oath, may I enjoy life and art, respected while I live and remembered with affection thereafter. .………….but if I ever violate this oath may I continue to enjoy life and art. The respect and the affection don't really matter!

 

                                                                            

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE BBC TOUR

  When Shanker suggested we take the Big Bus Company Tour I was in two minds. We had already visited almost all the landmarks in London. ‘But this way you’ll get to know its history’ he said. Well, History was never my favourite subject. I abhorred burning the midnight oil dissecting biographies and detecting dates to simply vomit it all out into sheets of examination papers. But this was no theory. This was hands-on Practicals, with a British guide’s alluring broadcast and company. Even though we weren’t exactly swimming in cash, we decided to lighten our purse and take the BBC tour.  

The Open Bus

  We boarded the bus at Hyde Park, the 350 acres of London’s finest historical landscapes, where lakes and meadows flourish. The commentator said that every Sunday a corner is designated to whosoever wants to voice his opinions on whatever topic they desire- as long as they did not insult the crown. If Hyde Park was so forthrightly beautiful, I cannot imagine how amazing a Jekyll’s Park would have been- had they decided to build one

The Speaker's corner in Hyde Park, where all one needs is a platform to speak.

   The deserted look at James Park, the guide said, was not because of winter but because of the fact that while walking with the King one day, the Queen asked him to pluck a flower and give it to the most beautiful lady around, naturally assuming it would be her. The honest King however, a true man by all means, handed it to a passing lady who he thought was more beautiful. This angered the Queen and she demanded that the entire Park be denuded of greenery. This tongue-in-cheek narration was so believable we could hardly fathom when the facts melded into fiction.   

  Even in the cold some of us opted to sit atop the open bus, as frozen as the occasional statues that the entire city was dotted with. Don’t know who each one was, but there they were, all immortalized in bronze, marble or stone, some fully clothed and some not.

Achilles- the first nude statue ever.

  Eros stood there in the centre of Picadilly and legend had it that anyone who leaned on it at the stroke of midnight and took a pledge would gain eternal love. Once there might have been quite a mad rush but I doubted if today anyone had the time or the inclination. In Baker’s Street he stood in his overcoat, cloak and hat- the sleuth of all sleuths Sherlock Holmes, smoking his inimitable pipe, privately eyeing the crowd that thronged towards Madame Tussauds.

London's Private Eye

  If architecture was outstanding as in St. Pauls Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, simple buildings like 10, Downing Street also stood out, more on account of their age and import rather than from any excellence that belonged to it. Almost every street was pickled in history- sweet and sour instances that kept us hungering for more. Even outmoded constructions, flavoured with spicy contemporary styles, firmly stood their ground. Made me think of back home where we were fast losing out on our heritage with worthless imitations called Plazas and Multiplexes. Wonder what it takes for people to understand that sometimes the complete ordinary ambience is also what makes it extraordinary.

At St.Paul's Cathedral with the rest of the group.

 We passed Hamleys (seven floors of toys), Harrods (an expansive expensive plaza), Veeraswamy’s restaurant (called the first restaurant of curries), a Sports Café (famous for its TV installation in toilets- so one doesn’t miss even a single second of sports action), Her Majesty’s Theatre (which made the guide wonder if it would change to His Majesty’s Theatre once Prince Charles took over), the Bakery where the Great Fire of London started and much more. The spire of a church that had inspired a baker to bake the first ever wedding cake in history was also pointed out. Not wanting the outside world to miss out on the hidden spectacles of Royalty, the cool tour guide was also kind enough to show us the shop wherefrom the Queen bought her undergarments.

      Another way to see the city was to take a cruise from the heart of London (also included in the BBC tour together with the delicious commentary). Across the skyline stood the Big Ben (name of THE clock and not the entire building), Shakespeare’s Globe theatre, the Tower of London (an expansive fortress and home to the Kohinoor Diamond) and the multiple conventional and bridges and buildings.

  The pangs of yesteryear fell away as we cruised alongside the Millenium Bridge and a few other modern structures that flank the Thames. What was noticeable was the London Eye (no gigantic eyeball, but a colossal unconventional Ferris Wheel wherefrom one could have a breathtaking view of the city).

London's 'Public' Eye.

  Immediately after the eye catching London eye, the guide showed us The London Eyesore, a horrendous graffiti on a building, preserved perhaps for the hilariously smooth effect of the running commentary. Something that really amused me was an ultramodern spherical building with orbed storeys with a slight slant and which he termed as the ‘Leaning Tower of Pizzas’. Whether or not one believed such anecdotes was up to them. Whether or not one approved of these innovative structures was like weighing a loaded question- admitting your admiration proved you were a tasteless tourist. Denying it was an insult to modern architecture .    

The Leaning Tower of Pizzas.

  The guide continued to amaze us further, with stories of valour, of dread and of romance. Most of the times, he cupped his hand and whispered aside theatrically. Since people will believe almost anything if you whisper it, I don’t know how many tourists got off the bus believing in his factional narration. If you want to know history, you have to read it. If you want to feel history, you have to go where it is. But if you want to enjoy history, just hop on to one of these buses and let the guide take you for a ride!  

A TOAST TO CHAMPAGNE!

  Today is this gentle giant's ninth birthday. In human years that makes him the oldest member in our family:-) Join me in a unique toast- not with Champagne but for him! 

Champagne

 

Snuggled in a woven cane

You strode into my life

A podgy woolen fluffy ball

Of delightful surprise

 

Into your sweet and soulful eyes

The moment that I looked

Trust was writ in black and brown

I knew that I was hooked

 

Even before my Midas touch

You were a golden treat

Even with my pampered charge    

You mastered every feat.  

 

You freeze the guests with puffing breaths,

With playful leaps and darts,

Yet when you steal their smelly socks

You also steal their hearts.

 

When filled with mirth you fan your girth

A dozen times a second,

Come rain or shine, you charge in line

Every time I beckon.

 

You rest your flews upon your paws

With torso spread like toad

And when you blink, is it you think

Of runs you’ve never scored?

 

When home alone do you then hone

Our one- way conversation?

Do you then chew the foolish cud

Or try to solve solutions?

 

A dead end I can always fend

With a sixth sense by my side

A warm wet tongue, a cold moist nose

Will always be my guide.

 

A toast to you dear Champagne

A faithful friend in strife

Of this there is no doubt you are

My elixir of Life!

                                

                                 Nargis

 

SHAKESPERIENCE

                                               “We are such stuff

                                            As dreams are made on

                                                and our little life

                                             Is rounded with sleep….”

 

      To wake up, to take time out from this ‘little life’, to make a trip to the countryside of the most famous, yet the most elusive of all playwrights, was all that was needed to see what dreams are made of. It was like placing Shakespeare not in my historical imagination, but within his own time. Readers from abroad have a mixed reaction to the work and reputation of this most English of writers. Those that fall in my league will wholeheartedly agree that this experience was like opening a box of delights that would last a lifetime. Those whose opinion differs are merely wasps that do not want to acknowledge the elephant in the room. 

     The train that we boarded at Marlyebone Station was the magical gateway through which we entered Stratford upon Avon. As luck would have it, it was a Friday, thus we even got to see one of the oldest chartered markets in the country dating back over 800 years.

Market

   The streets were lined with a wealth of unique black and white timber framed buildings. On reaching the  Tourist Information Center, our immediate plan was to climb atop an open bus tour and hop around covering every inch of the stunning countryside, including the five historic houses, their glorious gardens, the classic theatres, the Teddy Bear museum, the Butterfly Park and anything and everything upon Stratford.

Bus

But life doesn’t work like that- it doesn’t necessarily conform to all your plans. Since Spring had still not sprung, most of the attractions were closed. Fortunately even the bitter chill could not put their shutters down on what we had come all the way to see- A little of the surviving sixteenth and seventeenth century. A time that Shakespeare knew! Of course there were a few modern improvements with Air conditioning, tinted glasses, Telephone booths, Internet cafes, Macdonalds, Pizza Huts- a time that Shakespeare, even with all his imagination, would never have dreamed of!

'Pizza'in a unique'Hut'

     Stepping inside the cottage of the birthplace of the poet was like entering into the Tudor world. Here we got to witness what life was for the young Shakespeare. In the room that he was born, a cradle held a tiny replica of baby Shakespeare. Many rare local artifacts as a well as a copy of the first edition of his collected plays were neatly stacked in his workroom. Everything was so well preserved that one could almost feel the pulse of another time- the time when the dramatist must have sat at his desk, chewed at his quill and pondered endlessly. It was just as well that photography wasn’t allowed inside. The meddling medium called a camera, probably would have defiled rather than captured those sheer moments. Some memories and some artifacts are better left unruffled.   

Shakespeare's birthplace

    The spectacular gardens outside every house- Hall’s Croft named after Dr.John Hall (who married his daughter Susanna), the cottage of Anne Hathaway (his wife), house of Mary Arden (his mother), Nash’s house (once home to his grand-daughter and where he died), contained many plants, herbs and flowers mentioned in his plays. There were tree and sculpture gardens, romantic willow cabins, mazes abundant with herbaceous borders, box and yew hedges and splendid Elizabethan style knot gardens.

Garden

   Except for the Hall’s Croft, which boasts of an impressive 16^th Century house with Jacobean additions, outstanding furniture and paintings, the rest were moderate but picturesque cottages indicating that Shakespeare’s ‘salad days’ when he was ‘green in judgment’ was relatively simple. Unfortunately Shakespeare lost his son and all his three grandsons very early in life, thus having no legitimate descent to carry on.

The Royal Shakespeare Theatre

   Set on the banks of the River Avon, Stradford is also home to the internationally recognized Royal Shakespeare Company where his plays were staged and to the most beautiful of all Parish churches- the Holy Trinity Church. Here in the chancel we got to see the graves of Shakespeare and his family.  Surprisingly, in place of a florid doggerel one would have expected of the dramatist, his vault held an ominous inscription instead- ‘Good friend for Jesus sake forbeare/ To digg the dust encloased heare/ Blest by the man that spares these stones/ And curst be he that moves my bones.’

The Holy Trinity

  And so he lies there, tranquil and at rest, the ‘Bard of all bards, the Warwickshire bard’, below Stratford Upon Avon. And even in his sweet eternal sleep, his still lips portentously continue to pour forth a combination of a blessing and a curse.

 

Shanker Upon Avon:-)

   History is usually viewed in terms of a monotonous past. In Shakespeare’s countryside, I was lucky to experience it in the splendour of a glorious present!

OF PLAGIARISM

All that I write has been writ before

All I have learnt has been taught

Yet, were I the quill, I’d strive to dive

In a unique ink of thought.

 

The Pierian fountain is the one

Wherefrom the juices flow

No greedy gulps but a steady sip

Is what makes verses glow.

 

The sun sets in the West, not East

Nothing can change above

Only three words can mark a script

When lovers pledge their love.

 

All my dreams have been dreamt before

All I think has been thought

What scores is how I cross my ‘T’s

On my ‘I’s how I style the dot! 

 

                                           Nargis

 

MEANTIME, GREENWICH

   On the first weekend, with plenty of time on our hands, we thought it was a good idea to go visit Greenwich. As is with the other English places like Leicestershire (lestersher) and Worcestershire (wostersher) where surplus letters are often muted when uttered, in Greenwich, the 'e' and 'w' are also treated with silence, thus turning what a foreign eye would normally see as a ‘green witch’, into something that sounds like Grenitch. When we finally arrived at the famous Royal Observatory there, our aim was hardly to measure the Prime Meridian Line. It was, to say the least; to simply copy the other visitors- click each other’s snaps while standing with feet apart on a metallic line that separated the Eastern hemisphere from the Western.

The Historic line. 

This line ended on a refracting metallic telescope, which we were told was at the forefront of contemporary astronomy and quite active in the growing disciplines of astrophysics and photography. I truly don’t know what that means and to my non-scientific eye it seemed nothing more than a pretty imposing background for our two-feet-on-two-hemispheres ground breaking photographs.

The Refractor

   What I knew (and what is common knowledge) was that the GMT is the mean (average) time and Greenwich the source from where all time zones are measured. What I did not know was that before the International time was standardized, every town in the world kept its own local time. Why? Simply because no one knew how to measure it! None knew how a day began or how it ended and none knew the exact length of an hour. Sounds Ripley doesn’t it? But with the vast expansion of Railways and the communications networks during the mid nineteenth century, the worldwide need for a standard time became imperative. Thus in 1884, the Greenwich Meridian was chosen to be the Prime Meridian of the world. 

   However, coming back to the refractor and the line- the miracle of being placed in the center of world time and space, the marvel of having covered an entire span of rotation in a second and the wonder of witnessing one of the most important scientific sights in the world happened, only when we actually stood there. Unfortunately I can find no other words to describe this unique feeling.  

    

   Photographs having taken, we were about to turn back when we saw people entering into what looked like a gallery. Normally tourists are like herds that blindly follow each other even if the path leads them into the well of doom. So we behaved normally and pursued the crowd. Had we not, we probably would never have unraveled another extraordinary phenomena. For it was inside the gallery that we learnt the history of the birth of time. And the augmentation of its girth!

Gallery

   If outdoors I was baffled by Time’s technical overtones, indoors I was even more confused. With its subtle undertones of measures and calculations, it was like watching Time being chronicled from the sun to the atom. There were dials, clocks and maritime chronometers of all shapes and sizes. There were stories of people finding longitude every which way- the Astronomical way, the Timekeeper way, the Navigational way. Time was portrayed in so many shades it was difficult to keep pace with it- Observatory Time, National Time, International Time and Global Time. Photographs of astronomers, ship navigators and clockmakers adorned the entire room. These were people for whom accurate time was the cornerstone of their trade. These were people who had saved, solved and steered the world’s greatest navigational problem. But alas, these were also people I had never even heard of!   

 

Pathway coming down from the Observatory at Greenwich.

     As we came down the hill, all I could think about was our journey with Time and its astounding behind the scenes facts. So much was involved in the making of Time. And here we were, often killing it, sometimes wasting it and nearly always taking it for granted. We had spent hardly two hours inside the Royal Observatory of Greenwich. But to me it seemed like a lifetime of discovery. 

 

 

 

THE BRIDGE ON THE RIVER THAMES

Is it or is it not?

     The first time I heard of the London Bridge was when my teacher made me learn by rote that it was ‘falling down, falling down, falling down’. It never occurred to my green mind then that there was a history of misery and marvel embedded in that delightful nursery rhyme. Every word uttered with a joyful act of childish abandon was in reality a chronicle of gloom and wonder-of fires, floods, destructions, constructions and relocations.

     When we reached the area where the London Bridge supposedly stood, I was totally baffled. Not only was it ‘not falling down’ but in its place were a number of bridges, each standing straight and tall, each connecting North London to the South, each linking the past to the present with a unique history and architecture of its own. My eyes scanned fervently for ‘the’ one. And then I saw it! Unlike what I had imagined, its architectural decoration was exquisite. Surprisingly it turned out to be a bascule bridge (one that opens up on its hinges, like the one in Calcutta). It looked as if it was created, not with the expert skill of engineering heads and laborious hands, but woven into a web of beauty by the adroitness of a creative and gigantic spider. As we neared, the fine screen of silken threads gave way to a metal mesh with cream and blue ornate pillaring. We clicked as many pictures as we could and came back thinking we had captured the London Bridge.

 

 

What we thought was the London bridge (at dusk)

    How wrong we were! A day later we came to know it was only the Tower Bridge, the false impression rising from the fact that it was the only one that not only stood out amongst the others, but was also the one most often depicted on postcards of London.

    There are different versions of how the Thames was first bridged. Some say it was the Romans while some swear by the Saxons. Whoever built it had initially made it with timber. Since wooden viaducts were vulnerable, a lasting stone stamp was finally put by the English. Thus the first stone London Bridge was built.

 

This is not the bridge either.

    Although it remained a busy thoroughfare with shops and houses lining the borders, its silhouette kept changing constantly until it was finally demolished and in its place was built a new London bridge. Although an engineering near-marvel this proved to be a navigational near-disaster too. And while an essential part of the city of its time, it proved inept to be a slice of the metropolis that London would soon become.

 

The Blackfriar's Bridge

      My kindergarten teacher was however not totally wrong. In 1962, not able to handle the ever-increasing traffic, even the new bridge actually began ‘falling down’. It was then that the British government put it up ‘for sale’. The bridge was auctioned off to the highest bidder, who incidentally happened to be an American. In its place was built yet another London bridge.  

 

The Millenium bridge built during the turn of the century.

 

THAT'S THE ONE!

     Finally, as we stood atop the latest of the several bridges to be called the ‘London Bridge’, we took some time off to gaze a few yards downstream. It was almost like observing a two minutes silence of bereavement. For amidst the backdrop of London and a few other newer Bridges- the Tower Bridge, the Blackfriars Bridge and the Millennium Bridge, all that remains of the original are only memories.

   So the next time you plan a trip to see the New London Bridge, visit Arizona- because unfortunately it was felled and transported, stone by stone, from London to Lake Havasu City, where it stands not atop the River Thames, but above Lake Havasu. And the Medieval London Bridge- Fuhget it, my friends. It is not even there!

 

 

 

 

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