Ever wonder why so many locals set up Chinese Carts and serve Yumrican Chap Sewey.

Ever question why so many Hyderabadis think that Smi Ling is a Chinese word for laughter.

What do you think of the globalisation of Biryani and how do you respond when it is now often served with a sprinkling of raisins and passed off sacrilegiously as Dubai Biryani or Saudi Pulao.

Thoughts like this trouble me.

Am I going mad? Or am I just bored?

After years of running behind sheep, goats and cows, buffaloes etc., and mimicking their locomotion habits which meant never walking in a straight line, never looking left or right before crossing a stream or a path, never thinking about whether stopping suddenly would create a traffic jam and so on, many people from the rural parts of Andhra Pradesh migrated to and settled down in Hyderabad.

Here too they continued in the same fashion. Genetically of course, the next generations of these early settlers were blessed with the same characteristic. Over the decades it is they who formed the chaotic core of the typical Hyderabadi pedestrian.

When some of these people graduated to bicycles the congenital defects in their basic metabolism continued to drive them in circles. Circles that began but never ended. Circles that sliced arcs of disaster. The city soon became famous for several inanimate objects ...people who had stopped cycling, either too tired to pedal up one of the city’s many slopes or too lazy to do so while freewheeling down the other side.

In search of livelihood, some of them even started to pull rickshaws for a living. Called cycle rickshaws, these means of transportation soon garnered a reputation for being some of the most erratic users of public domain roads, streets and lanes. Unpredictability became their epitaph.

As the city progressed and evolved into a metropolis, more mechanised forms of transportation drove into our lives. The three wheeler cycle rickshaw was soon outnumbered by the three wheeled auto rickshaw. Powered by a pepped up scooter engine and blessed with an advantageous roof, the auto as it was called, became the basic means of commuting in the twin cities.

But since the men who drove these autos traced their ancestry back to the cycle rickshaw and also to the goat herds, their driving habits remained as erroneous. Turning left while signalling right. Stopping when it was actually time to go. Slowing down when in the fast lane. Following line of sight instead of lane of discipline. All these were endemic to the cause. And a common curse in Hyderabad lamented the fact that the uncouth cycle rickshaw wallas had unfortunately been powered into the new menace.

However, faced with the option of relying on buses that never stopped at their stops. Buses which offered hanging room only. Buses which served harassment and molestation long before things came to a squeeze or to a pinch. The people of Hyderabad adopted the auto rickshaw as their favoured means of going from point A to point B. And many even compromised on their children’s lives and sardine packed them off to school.

It is these auto rickshaws that the Government now proposes to replace with taxis. It is these maniacs that the Government wants to empower.

Can you imagine the chaos? When suddenly over 100, 000 men whose only qualification to be on the road is their innate similarity to goats and sheep, are given the four wheeled treatment. Far from alleviating the traffic problem, these taxis are sure to add to the mess. Whatever hopes we have of ever enforcing the basics of traffic rules, will be dashed to smithereens.

Because they will be joining their Sumo, Indica, Qualis and Innova brothers who serve the needs of the IT & ITES industries. The midnight maniacs as they are called, these white coloured criminals are a disgrace to road safety living as they do by their own clock and driving as they do to their own discipline.

Because they will be joining their cousins who have left the bullock carts back home and promoted themselves into becoming RTC Murderers, Setwin Assassins and Private Bus Executioners. A whole breed of professionals who sit back in their drivers’ seat only to enjoy the direction their beast pulls them in.

Between taxis driven by shepherds, taxis chauffeured by the genetically handicapped and buses driven by agents of Yama and representatives of several Road Rage monsters, the self driven automobile will soon die a cruel death. By cold blooded murder. And unavoidable extinction. And the only people who will enjoy the newly improved roads of Hyderabad, the elaborate flyovers and intricate clover leaf intersections will be the squad attached to the Chief Minister who will rev their black Scorpios down empty roads with all the adrenalin that blazing sirens can pump into their bloodstream. And the handful of drivers who are blessed with being in the employ of fat cats who are stupid enough to let their chauffeurs drive them around when they are rich enough to buy the latest Mercs, Bentleys, Audis and BMWs.

Thousands, did you say?
Millions would be closer to the truth.
Millions of silk worms, cocooned
into a self deceptive shell of security.
Rudely awakened by the boil. Stripped
of dignity, of shelter, of life.

And all the world’s Ms. Jones, Ms. Smiths,
Ms. Wangs, Ms. Reddys, Ms. Raos, Ms. Khans.
And who have you.
And the men too, those fashionable sorts.
Those wrapped in silken desire. Those shrouded
in deadly accoutrements. Those pouting
vacuous lips in vapid protest against cruelty.

They killed them. After over feeding them crunchy
green mulberry leaves. After pampering them
with neat layouts of efficiency.
Cold blooded the murders were.
The motive was but a fabric of celebration.

And they got away scot free. Not even the whisper of
remorse tinged their conversations. As they swished
their silks, as they showcased their spoils.
We are not cruel to animals, they said.
We just kill them a little before they die.
And instead of slipping into oblivion, we allow them
the privilege of living on as the ultimate symbolof luxury.

Murder. The crime.
Guilty. As sin.
Proven. Beyond contempt.
The sentence, if they haven’t cottoned on yet,
is silk by non-violence.

Ahimsa. The silk of human kindness.

When we were young.
Or maybe I should say younger.
When we were devout.
Or should I say more devout.
Definitely more blessed.
There used to be a finale.
That was the children’s responsibility.
It used to be called the ‘Mangala Harathi’.

Most of our cousins were musically trained.
We of course were musically challenged.
Most of our cousins were musically talented.
We of course were musically tainted.
But sing we would, with more gusto.
Just to see our mother beaming.
And Dad squirming his discomfort.
Wishing that a nicotine wand
would smoke up a magic spell.

Then my Mama and Attha came back.
From bonnie Scotland. Without the kilt I may add.
And settled down on the shores of the Ganges.
And soon, it was Varanasi, here I come.
To see Granny. To see my cousins
Raju and Radhika who spoke English.
Who read the kind of books we read.
And wore similar threads. Well sometimes.

And it was on a trip to their house.
In the University Campus where Mama was a Prof.
That we first heard the song that would change our lives.
Of course we didn’t realize it then.
We heard it. Clapped along. Meditated.
And peaked at the crescendo.

A few months later, perhaps it was the next year.
We had forgotten our trip, definitely the song.
But Mom had not.

Out came a sheet of paper. With the lyrics.
And as the lamp was lit. As the bell started tinkling
in quivering hands. As the congregation got ready
to warm their hands over a camphorised flame.
Ready for the blessing by fire. We heard the words.
Pure Hindi. Sung with a distinctive Telugu flavour.

To the rescue we sang. Jumping into the fray unbidden.
Took over with what we assumed was a ‘shuddhar’ Hindi twang.
Not realizing then that Mom had achieved what she wanted.
She had us singing of our own volition.

Even today, when we hear the song ‘Om Jai Jagdeesh Hare’
We remember Granny. Mom. And Dad. Mama. Attha. Raju & Radhika.
Except now, we deliberately twist a few key words
into ‘pucca’ Telugu...with a smile.
That’s our way of counting the blessings.
That we know are being showered from up above.

Innocence died yesterday. Again.

A popular Gol Gappa & Pav Bhaji joint could not have been a hot bed of irrationalists. Neither could a bunch of youngsters watching a laser show have been an opportunity for ethnic cleansing. Someone obviously crossed a line. Of reason. Of sanity.

I don’t care whether he or she was a Hindu. Or a Muslim. Or a Christian. Or even a closet Buddhist. I don’t care if he or she had a deprived childhood. Or had been wronged by society. Or had been trained in a camp on the other side of the border.

I want him, her, them caught. And shot. I want the message to be heard, loud and clear. Don’t mess with Hyderabad.

For all those who died in the bomb blasts yesterday at Hyderabad. For all those who died at Mecca Masjid a few months back. For the calmony that was Hyderabad. For the heritage that we seem to have forgotten and for the legacy that we seem to have lost. For the culture that we are proud only to talk about, I don’t feel like observing a minute of silence. That’s dumb!

What we need is immediate action.

Rain saves lives.

Yesterday we had visitors. As lady after lady, aunt after aunt, in law after in law, cousin after cousin trooped in to meet the wife who had just prayed to Goddess Lakshmi (or Lady Luck as I sometimes call her), my dogs were going ballistic. Not being used to being kennelled for so long they experimented with various soulful renditions of operatic grandeur hoping that I would at least heed the plea of a Pavarotti or Bocelli.

I am certain that one of them, and I think it was the Labra'dog', even tried a combination of Diana Ross and Karen Carpenter. But my hands were tied. So they remained behind bars. My little Sallu and Sanju.

And then it was over. And they were let out on bail. After rushing around madly, pushing every semblance of order and cleanliness into the nozone of beyond, they rested. Their tongues elasticking. Their chests heaving. And they just looked peacefully at wet paw prints as they listened to the torrential.

And I heard the gate.

One last cousin. Running between raindrops. Leaped from Car to Gate in one easy movement. And froze as she took a hurried step in.

The Doberman froze too. Shocked that someone actually had the guts to be so casual. Or maybe he was wondering whether it was worth getting wet. Perhaps waiting for her to take a few more steps so he could attack in dry run mode.

I don’t know. She doesn’t know. And he won’t tell.

But that one second freeze gave her time to recover her wits. And pull back behind the security of the iron gate.

She is today like a mixed up James Bond Martini.

Shaken. And stirred. Out of her wits.

I am homesick Daddy.
My little one cries.

And my heart skips a beat.
Tumbles. Stumbles. And then rhythms into a smile.

I think of the woman she has become.
Of the confidence she exudes as she puffs
away her stress and drinks away her blues.

I think of the adult she has evolved into
as she takes decisions
as if she was born calling the shots.

For a minute I can’t come to terms
with the apparent contradiction
between her voice and her words.
Till I remember my mother telling me
that children grow up only for the world.
For parents they remain infants in arms.

Hush my baby. I think out loud.
Wishing my hug a safe journey
straight into her arms.
Wishing my kiss a speedy return.
Praying that my love
is the only strength she really needs.
And she always has.

Today I am told is Friendship Day.

I must be getting old.
I thought it was yesterday.
And day before.
The week before.
In fact I think it is tomorrow.
And the day after.
The week after.
A couple of months from now.
I am you see, of the old school.
Where every day is a day of remembering.
Friends. Friends. And more friends.

But that’s perhaps also because
I have been blessed.
My life has been enriched.
With friends who have lit up my life.
By igniting a smile on my face when I was down.
By coming through when all else seemed lost.
By hanging on to a value system that’s fast headedtowards extinction.
By sharing mad moments.
By suffering bad jokes (and yes, even bad poetry).

Or just being there for me.
When it counted the most.
Or even just being there with me.
When it didn’t matter at all.

As I enjoy each trigger that reminds me of my several friends.
Most of whom have many years ago, graduated into becoming more family than friends.

I wonder why there is a generation that can only dedicate a day to friendship.
When I have always felt that even a lifetime would not be enough.

But today, I am told is Friendship Day.

So I thought I’d just invite you to the bar that I call my heart.
Where there is a drink waiting for you.
Everyday, as long as I live.
And if technology permits, even beyond.

So cheers my friend. The drinks are on me.

When did all this begin?

This violent reaction to inflammatory writing.
This insensitive knee jerking.

When did all this begin?

This intolerance. This bigotry.
This utter lack of respect for a
freedom called expression.

When did all this begin?

This chucking of brickbat missiles
where bouquets were actually de rigeur.

When did all this begin?

This drawing of lines.
This crossing of them.

To the dark side of indecency.
To the muddy depths of inappropriatism.

There’s a painter hiding in the canvas of London. Cowering.
A knighted muse whose wife has left him with a baby death threat. A fatwa.
A princess who stays awake most Arabian nights.
And an author who prays five times a day, religiously.
Asking only for the freedom to give her feelings the vent of a voiced thought.

When did all this begin?

Perhaps it began when those who wanted to speak, forgot to listen.
Perhaps it began when those who had a view, turned blind to others.
Perhaps it began when those who lost a cause, found a heart to wear on bloodied sleeves.

When frustration was ministered to by
the masturbatory ejaculation of misplaced angst.
When satiation was but a sigh of relief
that at last, a distraction was at hand.
However demeaning. However debilitatory.

There is a cure for this disease.
And it is us.