OH WILL THE BIRDS STILL SING?

                                                       Musings on Victory-in-Europe DAY, 2020

I woke up this morning,

And found myself humming

The strains of a World War II song;

Which dreamt of birds over

The white cliffs of Dover,

“Tomorrow…” when peace came along,

With joy and with laughter,

And peace ever after…

“Tomorrow…”, sighed this wistful song.

 

‘Twas then German Fascists,

Those self-declared racists,

Who’ brought the free world to its knee;

Now a germ, a new virus,

Unseen and insidious, 

Spreads quickly with fe-ro-city.

Sans rifle or cannon

This unbridled dragon

Does kill with such impunity.    

 

Are we in the mood then,

To dream of a time when

We’ll wake to a challenging day?

Or shall we just dream on

Of blue birds, a bright dawn,

And live through another “locked” day?

THE SILENT SOLDIERS -- a few verses for the nurses

  

Tennyson wrote of the Light Brigade

That charged amid cannons a-thundering;

‘Twas an ode to obedient but valiant six hundred,

Valiant that fell still a-wondering.

 

All those who march in battle formation,

Carrying arms for offence or defence,

With the glamourous aim of “Saving the Nation!”

Aren’t the only great soldiers, my friends.

 

Thousands there are in their sanitised robes

In corridors of care, and of angst,

Flitting amongst a million microbes. 

You don’t know what you’re up against.

 

And when the dark virus from China dropped in 

And little about it was known,

These soldiers took arms, dug the trenches, jumped in,

And like Tennyson’s soldiers, fought on.

 

Ill-informed they were, there was no ‘marking time’

Ill-equipped, they went gingerly on,

Oblivious of breathers or mealtimes or shift-time 

To the Line of Control, they held on.

 

They entered the battle with ne'er a sound,

Abhimanyu was better prepared;

Little was known of the real battleground

And everyone did as they dared.

 

The chakra-vyuha they entered, unfazed,

Not knowing what happens thereafter,

But bleary of eye and sallow of face,

They fought on, averted disaster.

 

The virus has opened our eyes, no doubt,

To so much we had taken for granted;

And obviously ‘cause these soldiers don’t shout

Their valour is never accounted.

 

No praises nor prizes could be adequate

And words are just never enough.

No money, no gifts could e’er compensate

For their deeds when the going got tough.

 

So, here’s to the nurses, the doctors, and all

Who fight all those undeclared wars,

Just be sure that you appreciate them all  

And give them a round of applause!

 

Applause! Applause!!

 

Let it be a resounding applause!

GHAR VAPSI -- an ode to the hordes on the roads in April 2020

 

The migrant workers headed "home" to save their dignity,

Regardless of the miles they'd roam, to flee iniquity,

Despairing for a “life” of sorts amongst their very own, 

Albeit have-nots, there's surety: they will not die alone.

 

At each step, though, the mind's awhirl: Should I go on or not?

If someone calls ‘em back again, perhaps they’d say: Why not!

But on they trod in th’ burning sun, with fever too, 'tis told,

And plod on through the dark of night despite the bitter cold.

 

The single aim of reaching “there” is all that's on their mind

The government's aid did come so late, it almost seems unkind.

The colourful hopes of home so dear that in their hearts they carry

On and on as zombies would; they’ll be there if only they hurry!

 

But all their dreams of getting home will surely be washed out

When they approach their borders, (their energy all ebbed out),

They see the camp that'll be their home until declare-d clean

Not knowing if the "home" ahead has likely lost its sheen.

 

In weary fourteen days and nights of check n check again,

Their hopes and dreams of home, should not, shall not have been in vain.

For years they toiled in silv’r-edg’d dreams while steeped in muck and grime;

They look back now and sadly say: That was a sordid time.

 

The land now beckons, the family reckons that now they won’t reject them.

But, post this purgatorial spell, no metro can attract them,

Knowing that no “Minimum Wage” nor “E.S.I.” protect them.

The joys of “working-for-your-home”, how sadly we neglect them.

CAN I GO HOME? ....PLEASE?

 

The first of my patients came in last month,

A sturdy young man he was;

His face was a picture of friendship and warmth;

Don’t ask what his prognosis was.

 

By evening a bit of the wave could be seen

The next day went by in a haze

We just had no time to sink all this in

As the hours of watch turned to days

 

We were promised some time off for self-quarantine

Post the frenetic and dire multi-tasking, 

Now while we’re putting our lives on the line,

An ‘off’? We’re not even asking.

 

The protective cover they first gave us

Was taken from “HIV”;

There was no time for question or fuss

Our lives would in God’s hands be.

 

I have an ailing spouse at home,

A child who needs my care;

But by the time I’m allowed to go

I’ll be the worse for wear.

 

For one thing I know, I won’t sleep at all

Whenever I do get out;

The constant buzz of the patients’ call

Will ring in my head, throughout.

 

I recall as yet that first young man

Who walked in a month ago

Or was it two …or a longer time span?

Let me get home. I don’t want to know.

 

 

 

STANLEY COUTINHO

composed in April 2020 soon after the panic started.

The Squirrel Tale

A birdie and a squirrel had a quarrel O'er a toadstool that they found one early morn. For the bird it was a perch quite like a table But the squirrel thought 'twas breakfast right at dawn.   The periphery he nibbled And drew the LOC; She stood her ground and quibbled Superciliously.   The squirrel was with mushroom fully sated, (His greed wasn’t "human", as you’ll see); His anger just as soon dissipated The battle had no loss, no victory!

MY LIFE WITH PABLO

 VICTORIA EUGENIA HENAO

MRS ESCOBAR

MY LIFE WITH PABLO

Translated by Andrea Rosenberg

Penguin Random House UK 2019

Pp 526 price ₹599

PABLO ESCOBAR – THE DRUG LORD

Biographies of criminals only serve to prove that “the evil that men do lives after them”; another despicable story gets recorded for posterity – oftentimes in an attempt to show the “better side” of the criminal (Bollywood hasn’t been far behind). Pablo Escobar (1949-1993), the “King of Cocaine”, has been the subject of at least eight books, several feature/biographical films and TV series including HBO, ESPN, Netflix, National Geographic; he now appears in a biography written by his widow.

Is she trying to justify his activities? Is she trying to gain sympathy?  It was unconditional love, she claims, laced with “fear, powerlessness and uncertainty about what would become of [us] without him.” The book all but begs to be allowed to live – without any reference to the man who mercilessly killed thousands and destroyed the lives of a whole generation with his drug trade (80% of cocaine entering USA was Pablo’s).

She married him at 15, against the admonitions of her family, and was a mother by the age of 16. Fourteen years later, she was widowed by the joint action of Colombian and US forces. She says that by the time she realised … the brutal reality around her, it was too late – a claim that is not quite acceptable. The young Pablo, one of seven children, had to buy a second-hand scooter on instalments (his mother a school-teacher, his father a security guard). Within the 15 years of their married life he had amassed over $30 billion. Her own collection of works of art (which included Dali and Rodin) was worth millions of dollars. And she claims ignorance – even when he gets elected to Parliament and dreams of becoming president….

After “settling” with Pablo’s rivals, she leaves Colombia with new names for herself and her two children (she signs the Preface with her original name though) – but the past has a way of catching up … It’s a book worth reading, if only for the first hand account of their fugitive lives.

OFF THE SHELF -- ON BOOKS, BOOK PEOPLE AND PLACES

 OFF THE SHELF

ON BOOKS, BOOK PEOPLE AND PLACES

SRIDHAR BALAN

SPEAKING TIGER BOOKS 2019

₹399                Pages 246

Reminiscences of a  Book-lover

 

Sridhar Balan taught at JNU and the North-Eastern Hill University, Shillong, before he moved into publishing in the 1980s, denying his father’s wish for him to join the civil services; perhaps, underlining his assertion that a career in publishing may not be a conscious career choice for most people. Now a senior consultant with Ratna Sagar, he is involved in promoting reading in schools. This is his first book.

In this book, we meet Rieu, who was a “curious choice”, says Balan, while his successor, Roy Hawkins, (Hawk), joined OUP in 1930 “under some very curious circumstances”. We also have writeups on Ravi Dayal of OUP, Ram Advani, a bookseller in Hazratganj, Dhanesh Jain, (Managing Director of Ratna Sagar Publishing House till 2019), Dean Mahomed (“the first Indian author in English” who also ran a coffee house and massage parlour in London, and published his record of travels and adventures), Swami Vivekananda and Pandit Nehru’s meeting with Andre Malraux.   

One can hardly disagree with his assertion that if reading itself is to be kept alive, we need to motivate our children. One would also lament with him over the general lack of importance given to books – in short, when we declutter our homes, the first casualty is books – and it hurts as “we lose our memories”; and that holding up a kindle is not quite the same as proudly displaying one’s library.  

The real bonus in the book is the report on the First Folio, and the efforts of John Heminges and Henry Condell in publishing the first collection of Shakespeare!

Detailed accounts of libraries in the various cities are available particularly the Biblioteca Alexandrin. The outer wall of this library, is known to carry words “from the languages and civilizations of the world” – apparently a random selection. But Balan finds a character in Tamil (see the pic) – the last character of the word “Kalyani” in the Tamil or Devanagari script, and arrogates it to Malayalam!

Then he translates the work to mean: “you”, and then waxes on the “plurality” of the centre of learning because the “you” includes everyone of “us”. The word for “you” both in Tamil and Malayalam is “nee” as it is found at the end of the word “Hindustani” in the Devanagari script. Even this is equivalent to the Hindi “tu” – an affectionate term when use with those close to us, and as an insult to others…and incidentally, “Company Bahadur” as used in the Moghul times, was the East India Company (not its officials) and Alexander was a Macedonian (not a Greek).