kasmenon

  MEMORIES OF DAYS GONE BY AND A TRIBUTE Radheshyam was a middle aged, tall and a bit heavily set man. His face never reflected any stress whatsoever in life. Pleasant and always with a welcome tilt of the head and an occasional bow when he sees his regular customers. All this while his hands magically circumnavigated the head of a customer, deftly trimming and shaping the hair. As always, he had a tale to tell, an incident to narrate and a couple of political points to make. To whoever was in his shop and willing to lend an ear. He was not unduly concerned if anyone participated in this attempted conversation or not but an occasional nod or a smile would suffice to egg him on. The radio, ever present, tuned to Vividh Bharti, relentlessly in the background, rendered those wonderful and evergreen melodies of Rafi, Mukesh, Lata and Kishore. While we went about losing a bit of hair, the memory cells replaced matter lost with the lyrics and tunes of these songs. Forever etched. ...

HAS THE CRICKET MATCH BEEN WON? NOT YET!   The West Indian batsman shuffled across and met the ball slightly outside his offstump , the ball hurtling at about 90 mph, and thumped it past cover. Immaculate and perfectly timed. The cherry hugged mother earth, green as green grass can be, and raced to the fence. The four slips, a gully and the wicket keeper, waiting for that snick, along with the extra cover, just stood and watched. The moment was greeted with silence. Deafening silence. I felt sad. The eleven men, the two batsmen and the two umpires, all in majestic white flannels and green cap, against a green top ground at Southampton, England, was playing cricket in all its majestic glory. Test cricket and not the short variety. The red cherry that defines real cricket. The English speedster, hurtling with nine men breathing down the neck of a young West Indian batsmen , the ball dug in hard and then moving away off the air or off the seam at 92 mph, the young batsmen, nonchalantl...

WILL A US HAPPEN IN INDIA? It just took a spark in the US to get people , lakhs of them, onto the streets protesting. In almost all cities. Imagine one black man killed as compared to a lakh killed due to corona!!  Disproportionate response, is't? Why did this take place ? Why did the people  abandon  all  the corona fears and, without following social distancing norms, mingle freely and then violently protest. Anger spilling over like never before. Surely, the lockdown ,with its accompanying  loss of jobs and businesses , inadequate response by authority etc may have bottled up the anger and frustration. But that alone does not lead to a tinder box  like situation.  Racial tension has existed in the US for ages and  that too cannot , on its own, lead to a flash point. So what could be the underlying  factor that lead to this flash point, of this ignition. Lets look at what had happened  in the US during Trump's regime. Economically...

A HOST AT THE NICK OF TIME The weather was hot as the summer had set in around a well to do suburb of Mumbai. The location was the narrow corridor of an apartment block, in a congested lane. A door of an apartment faced the corridor. Dimly lit by a bulb that had a thick layer of dirt covering its lower hemisphere. An otherwise busy bustling lane where vendors sold Vada pav, Behl and Pani puri. Where children played cricket and the ball managed to dodge Two wheelers and motorcars. Today it was deserted but for few sullen looking men, out on errands or hunting to buy bread and a policeman, who was bored stiff. Coronaji was hovering in front of the door of that apartment, facing the corridor. Anxious but relieved that he had managed to reach here after all the turmoil. Coronaji happened to be born inside a big fat bald and not so gentle a man , somewhere in the UK. A business man trader, he had made his fortune in UK . He was getting ready for his usual visit to his native country, India...

THE GODS ARE ANGRY Brahma trooped in hurriedly, huffing and puffing. He was late, held up. He had to get the approval of a million sub gods to nominate him for this meeting and that took time. He walked over to his seat on the round table and acknowledged everyone with a radiating smile and a nod. Others waved him to his seat. The room was moderate in its decor, minimalist. The walls were painted white. On a table across and on the far side were the books. The bible and Gita with immense wear and tear was followed by the Koran and Granth sahib, etc. Above on the wall were posters, vividly depicting the occasions each faith fought the other, vanquished or lost. The dates and events were described below. Humans like a guy called Picasso, Ravi Verma etc were commissioned to do these. The wall was still half empty. The rest of the room was wide and empty but for the centre table. A large, 50 plus seater, round table made of teak with ornate work and cloth upholstered chairs, was the ...

ABOUT  EVES, CARS AND  RAFAEL S It was the usual peak hour traffic in the city of Hyderabad. Less chaotic due to better infrastructure and maintenance than many cities here in India. However, the same eulogies cannot be showered on the Hyderabadi drivers. They are a unique lot. Not that other city motorists are saints. Here the guy or the lady has unilaterally reserved the road for him or her, with the meek backing of the traffic cops. The rules modified then and there. Anyway, this was not meant to be treatise on the Hyderabadi drivers or roads. As mentioned, I was travelling in my car and my driver was at the wheels. He is a good driver and is also adequately equipped with expletives needed on the Hyderabadi roads. I usually do not interfere as I am oblivious to what is happening. The morning was bright as the sun, after months, had gathered courage to come back. The chilly mornings were giving way to warmer summer ones. We were waiting at a signal. Three more...