Saturday, August 16, 2014

The African elephant Myna!!

I seemed to have exhausted my stock of pictures, and was sitting in one of the parks, thus landed Jungle myna. I have written about Common myna, Pied myna, Bank myna, Brahminy myna, Hill myna, Blyth’s myna, Chestnut-headed myna, the migrant Rosy starling so on but the ubiquitous birds seen right in the middle of the cities like Bangalore and Mysore skipped my attention!! So here was Jungle myna (Acridotheres fuscus) staring at me in amusement “What about me dude?.” Next I was at the Mysore zoo and as most were keen on African elephant –the impressive fellow leisurely masticated his grub, my eyes were on the vicinity of his trunk where a Jungle Myna patiently waited like a cattle egret hence African elephant myna!  

Jean Cayrol: Wake up death is already on its horse

The other day I was watching Ivan’s Childhood (Tarkovsky’s poignant take on children trapped in war), and quite coincidently found Night and Fog (Resnais) in the collection. I recall watching this documentary at Gandhi peace foundation (Delhi) almost 15 years back, atleast two people in the audience fainted, I too was nauseated for quite some time. I must have picked up the CD from the grey market few years back and since forgot about it, so decided to watch it again. This documentary is about the concentration camps of the Nazis, and was made about a decade after the war, most likely the first one to show the actual footings of the conditions inside the concentration camp in its horrifying details. It’s not for the faint hearted the scenes of piled up bodies, deskinned to make leather products so on can easily distress anyone. It need to be pointed out that Corporate like Heineken and Siemens who rushed to exploit cheap labour at the concentration camp are shockingly still around, seeing Indians as cheap labour does have a historical framework. Clearly not everyone was Schindler! (indeed Schindler’s List movie also has these bodies pile up, a soldier apparently loosing it as they are burned up. Horrifying images).
This time around, while watched Night and Fog, I focused my attention on the narration, the detached tone was quite haunting, little search in the net led me to Jean Cayrol, he had escaped concentration camp hence the authenticity in narration. I also came to know that he had also scripted it. While reading about him I came across few of his poems, unfortunately all in French without any translation. Now that I was riveted to his views, I somehow had to get it translated to know what exactly he was expressing. So finally got it translated from a multilingual German lady who has made Mysore her home. 
Are you sleeping?

Wake up the cold is already at our doors
and the moon has stiffened like the mouth of a corps

Wake up at your doors they have laid
a sword like an abandoned child

Wake up death is already on its horse
you can hear it gallop echoing in our daily chores

I accuse

In the name of the dead that without name has gone
In the name of the doors that have been barred
In the name of the tree that responds
In the name of the wounds and the meadows wet

In the name of the sky on fire with our regret
In the name of the father who's son is dead
In the name of the book where the sage falls asleep
In the name of all fruits that ripen deep

March song

The spike eaten grain by grain
by the wind and by the dogs

The heart wondering from saint to saint
by the fire and the knuckled fists

The hot night on your chest
her two eyes resembling yours

The happy past that comes
to get dizzy with the first wine

From my scribble pad…

It is the silly season

The streets are decked and noisy
Children happy and chatty
Gods benevolent and deigning
Dogs howl rest of the night
It is the silly season
When propitiating and alms can bring 
Instant and expected results
Bypassing karma and spells
Functionalist give reasons
While religious have not much to say
An explicit celebration looms the populace
Private is public, and public is no longer
the place to be in

Why doesn’t she suicide?

(“There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy” Camus)

Why does a farmer suicide,
we have reasons galore
and solution suggesters too
But why doesn’t a farmer’s wife suicide
Is still a matter of speculation
Because she lives for hope
And care for her children
Because she doesn’t think about things
Like the profit and earnings
Because she believes in sustenance
And future in matters
Like happiness in little things
Everyday births and deaths
More on emotions than mounting facts
Faith in fate than reckless acts

Friday, July 25, 2014

The junglee crow

 The Indian jungle crow (Corvus culminatus) has become quite common these days in cities. Happen to spot this one in the morning feeding. You also see the common crow in the picture, and as you can see the jungle crow is all black and larger.

Henry David Thoreau: Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour, For now I've business with this drop of dew

Thoreau happen to me quite early in one of the dusty libraries, I was going through writings of Emerson and Whitman that I happen to get into transcendentalist writings among other things. Thoreau has been an elemental impact, he tends to grow on you. His writings on Civil Disobedience have inspired Gandhi and Martin Luther King among others in the long list of people, in particular, has been source for many environmental movements and counter culture initiatives. Aren’t we grateful that he decided to spend two years, in a self build cabin, next to Walden pond, and not took up ‘some job and be responsible’!! Walden was published in 1854, and was received poorly. He died in relative obscurity few years later of tuberculosis. His thoughts slowly grew and has been quite a phenomenon ever since, and it spreads all the while. His insights touch deep into the humanity’s core and seek to wake us. The universality and contemporariness is astounding. Walden lake since has been a sort of pilgrimage for many. Surely every lake has the potential to be a Walden.

My life has been the poem
I would have writ,
But I could not both live
and utter it.
So next few days I was in the library going through Walden, few years later on a walk at Bodhgaya (Bihar) I got the American edition of this book from an unlikely second hand book stall, most likely a foreigner dropped it to lighten his luggage as he or she headed back. Since then I have read chapters here and there whenever I fancied (I had earlier written about Thoreau in context to reading). The other day I was flipping through Thoreau’s Walden again and thought of writing about him in the blog. 

Thoreau is an influential American thinker and provides a necessary counter to blatant materialism that had taken over the society. His views are universal and even after about two centuries rings quite personal. Reads these lines I was engrossed in “A saner man would find himself often enough ‘in formal opposition’ to what are deemed ‘the most sacred laws of society’, through obedience to yet more sacred laws, and so have tested his resolution without going out of his way. It is not for a man to put himself in such an attitude to society, but to maintain himself in whatever attitude he find himself through obedience to the laws of his being, which will never be one of the opposition to a just government, if he should chance to meet with such.”  

These riveting lines are so pertinent in the time we live in “If a man walk in the woods for love of them half of each day, he is in danger of being regarded as a loafer; but if he spends his whole day as a speculator, shearing off those woods and making earth bald before her time, he is esteemed as industrious and enterprising citizen. As if a town had no interest in its forests but to cut them down! Most men would feel insulted if it were proposed to employ them in throwing stones over a wall, and then in throwing them back, merely that they might earn their wages…The ways by which you may get money almost without exception lead downward. To have done anything by which you earned money merely is to have been truly idle or worse…The community has no bribe that will tempt a wise man. You may raise money enough to tunnel a mountain, but you cannot raise money enough to hire a man who is minding his own business. An efficient and valuable man does what he can, whether the community pays him or not. The inefficient offer their inefficiency to highest bidder, and are forever expecting to put into office.” “When I observe that there are different ways of surveying, my employers commonly ask which will give them more land and not which is most correct.”
“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation. From the desperate city you go into the desperate country…a stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called games and amusements of mankind. There is no play in them, for this comes after work. But it is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things. …Age is no better, hardly so well, qualified for an instructor as youth, for it has not profited so much as it has lost. One may almost doubt if the wisest man has learned anything absolute value by living…I have yet to hear the first syllable of valuable or even earnest advice from my seniors. They have told me nothing, and probably cannot tell me anything to the purpose. Here is life, an experiment to a great extent untried by me; but it does not avail me that they have tried it. If I have any experience which I think valuable, I am sure to reflect that this my mentors said nothing about…The greater part of what my neighbors call good I believe in my soul to be bad, and if repent of anything, it is very likely to be my bad behavior. What demon possessed me that I behaved so well?"

These lines really stand out as a statement on arrogance of Indians: “...All change is a miracle to contemplate; but it is a miracle which is taking place every instant. Confucius said, ‘To know that we know what we know, and that we do not know what we do not know, that is true knowledge’. When one man has reduced a fact of the imagination to be a fact to his understanding, I foresee that all men will at length establish their lives on that basis”

Men say they know many things;
But lo! They have taken wings-
The arts and sciences,
And a thousand appliances;
The wind that blows is all that anybody knows

Thoreau has something quite interesting to say about philanthropy –that carries the haughtiness of religion. In Indian context philanthropy is amazingly crude, it seems like a deal for better godly returns and afterlife concerns. It is ‘tainted goodness’, I would rather prefer higher taxation and planned intervention by the government than philanthropy by people who have gained by lax laws and exploitation, and now seek to cement it through godly favors as also positive branding. However there are people who are quite genuinely involved in making others lives better and absorb the shock of lopsided development, but these are mostly exception to the rules, most are self serving attention seekers. Also, degrading philanthropy in Indian context will most likely make the elites more blatant and is another ammunition to be crude.   
“There is no odor so bad as that which arises from goodness tainted. It is human, it is divine, carrion. If I knew for a certainty that a man was coming to my house with the conscious design of doing me good, I should run for my life…Philanthropy is almost the only virtue which is sufficiently appreciated by mankind. Nay, it is greatly overrated; and it our selfishness overrates it…I once heard a reverend lecturer of England, a man of learning and intelligence, after enumerating her scientific, literary, and political worthies, Shakespeare, Bacon, Cromwell, Milton, Newton, and others, speak next of her Christian heroes, whom, he elevated to a place far above all the rest, as the greatest of great. They were Penn, Howard and Mrs. Fry. Everyone must feel the falsehood and cant of this…I wouldn’t subtract anything from the praise that is due to philanthropy, but merely demand justice for all who by their lives and works are blessed to mankind. I do not value chiefly a man’s uprightness and benevolence, which are, as it were, his stem and leaves. Those plants of whose greenness withered we make herb tea for the sick serve but a humble use, and are most employed by quacks. I want the flower and fruit of a man; that some fragrance be wafted over him to me, and some ripeness flavour our intercourse. His goodness must not be a partial and transitory act, but a constant superfluity, which costs him nothing and of which he is unconscious”. Brilliant.

I leave with these lines that surely has enduring impact “I could not but notice some of the peculiarities of my visitors. Girls and boys…seemed glad to be in the woods. They looked in the pond and at flowers, and improved their time. Men of business and even farmers…though they said that they loved in the woods occasionally, it was obvious that they did not. Restless committed men, whose time was all taken up in getting a living or keeping it; ministers who spoke of god as if they enjoyed monopoly on the subject, who could not bear all kinds of opinions; doctors, lawyers –young men who had ceased to be young, and had concluded that it was safest to follow the beaten track of the professions –all these generally said that it was not possible to do so much good in my position. Ay! there was the rub. The old and infirm and the timid, of whatever age or sex, thought most of sickness, and sudden accident and death; to them life seemed full of danger –what danger is there if they don’t think of any? –and they thought a prudent man would carefully select the safest position, where Dr.B might be on hand at a moment’s warning. To them the village was literally a com-munity, a league for mutual defence, and you would suppose that they would not go a-huckleberrying without a medicine chest. The amount of it is, if a man is alive, there is always danger that he may die, though the danger must be allowed to be less in proportion as he is dead-and-alive to begin with. A man sits as many risks as he runs. Finally, there were the self styled reformers, the greatest bores of all, who thought that I was forever singing,

This is the house that I built;
This is the man that lives in the house that I built;

but they did not know that the third line was,

These are the folks that worry the man
That lives in the house that I built.

I did not fear the hen harriers, for I keep no chicken; but I feared the men-harriers rather.”

These are some of poems from ‘Poems of Nature’


O Nature! I do not aspire
To be the highest in thy choir, -
To be a meteor in thy sky,
Or comet that may range on high;
Only a zephyr that may blow
Among the reeds by the river low;
Give me thy most privy place
Where to run my airy race.

In some withdrawn, unpublic mead
Let me sigh upon a reed,
Or in the woods, with leafy din,
Whisper the still evening in:
Some still work give me to do, -
Only - be it near to you!

For I'd rather be thy child
And pupil, in the forest wild,
Than be the king of men elsewhere,
And most sovereign slave of care;
To have one moment of thy dawn,
Than share the city's year forlorn.

I was made erect and lone
I was made erect and lone,
And within me is the bone;
Still my vision will be clear,
Still my life will not be drear,
To the center all is near.
Where I sit there is my throne.
If age choose to sit apart,
If age choose, give me the start,
Take the sap and leave the heart.   

Light-winged Smoke, Icarian bird,
Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight,
Lark without song, and messenger of dawn
Circling above the hamlets as they nest;
Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form
Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;
By night star-veiling, and by day
Darkening the light and blotting out the sun;
Go thou my incense upward from this hearth,
And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.      

From my scribble pad…

Fairies and underwater demons

I clutch the pen that moves and aches
The words locks in its own twisted fate
While the drizzle curl to deluge outside
Splatters the windows and the leaky roof
The inconsolable howls of the night
Emanate from the matter itself
That takes shape in an uncertain way
 As the wind carries and knocks it all about
Is this the fairy that roams about
Checking who sleeps who doesn’t?
And the pen tumbles down into the depth
In the fierce laws that governs the heaven
Under water there are demons
That snatch the spirit and toss the body out
Bloated chaffed drained out of tears
And the soul remains hereabouts
Waiting to be identified packed and sent home
And tucked to sleep in its familiar place
Among familiar people       

The way things are
The older they get
Sillier still the propositions 
The task isn’t arduous 
It’s a stultifying trail
That goes narrow and narrower
Where even the trance leads to dead ends
The occupants don’t wake from slumber
Empty swing rocks in free wind
Dry leaves rustle and russel’s viper hiss
Move forth in a dyslexic split
That muddles thoughts and the centre
No longer holds the menace     

Monday, June 23, 2014

The Eurasian Teal, a Siberian migrant

The Eurasian Teal or Common Teals (Anas crecca) are the most abundant winter migrants, they are gregarious lot and create ruckus in the water bodies they inhabit. Swift fliers they flap quite rapidly, giving the impression of being in a hurry. Common teal feed on plants, young crops and small crustaceans, molluscs, worms, grubs, and snails. 

Tennyson: We feel that we are greater than we know

For now the Heavenly Power
Makes all things new,
And thaws the cold, and fills
The flower with dew;
The blackbirds have their wills,
The poets too

It is not that I am unaware of Tennyson, and I find his poems quite charming, just that I find long poems too much for attention and becomes difficult to comprehend, sometimes the language is too ‘Victorian’. 
It so happened that on an afternoon walk in the streets of Mysore while the setting sun rhymed poetry in the west, I stumbled upon a thin collection A Treasure of Poems (Book 1) with the second hand books vendor. He said it will cost 5R!! I gave him 10R. When was the last time anyone of you bought a book for 10R?! I flipped through the book as I sipped Sarasparila drink at a local shop (Indian Sarasparila is different from American that is the source for much popular drink, the root beer). Soon I was reading what I read in school many decades back “The little bird” 

What does little birdie say
In her nest at peep of day?
Let me fly, says little birdie,
Mother, let me fly away.
Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till the little wings are stronger,
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.

Charming, however this blogger prefers that children be taught in their mother tongue as far as possible, English can be compulsory language (visit me at on this). So there it was time to revisit Tennyson. Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892) was one those very few poets who attained peak of his popularity while still alive, but not before he went through bleakest of situations in life. Any other person in his place would have easily broken down, his tenacity towards vagaries of life is what really rivets me to him.

The Eagle
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

All Things Will Die

Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing
Under my eye;
Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing
Over the sky.
One after another the white clouds are fleeting;
Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating
Full merrily;
Yet all things must die.
The stream will cease to flow;
The wind will cease to blow;
The clouds will cease to fleet;
The heart will cease to beat;
For all things must die.
All things must die.
Spring will come never more.
Oh! vanity!
Death waits at the door.
See! our friends are all forsaking
The wine and the merrymaking.
We are called--we must go.
Laid low, very low,
In the dark we must lie.
The merry glees are still;
The voice of the bird
Shall no more be heard,
Nor the wind on the hill.
Oh! misery!
Hark! death is calling
While I speak to ye,
The jaw is falling,
The red cheek paling,
The strong limbs failing;
Ice with the warm blood mixing;
The eyeballs fixing.
Nine times goes the passing bell:
Ye merry souls, farewell.
The old earth
Had a birth,
As all men know,
Long ago.
And the old earth must die.
So let the warm winds range,
And the blue wave beat the shore;
For even and morn
Ye will never see
Through eternity.
All things were born.
Ye will come never more,
 For all things must die.

I thought of putting this poem that contrast the above… 

Nothing Will Die

When will the stream be aweary of flowing
Under my eye?
When will the wind be aweary of blowing
Over the sky?
When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting?
When will the heart be aweary of beating?
And nature die?
Never, oh! never, nothing will die?
The stream flows,
The wind blows,
The cloud fleets,
The heart beats,
Nothing will die.
Nothing will die;
All things will change
Through eternity.
'Tis the world's winter;
Autumn and summer
Are gone long ago;
Earth is dry to the centre,
But spring, a new comer,
A spring rich and strange,
 Shall make the winds blow
Round and round,
Through and through,
Here and there,
Till the air
And the ground
Shall be filled with life anew.
The world was never made;
It will change, but it will not fade.
So let the wind range;
For even and morn
Ever will be
Through eternity.
Nothing was born;
Nothing will die;
All things will change.

Flower in the crannied wall
Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower -but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.

 Snake Shyam talks: I happen to listen to Snake Shyam (and Gowri Shankar, who works on King Cobra in Agumbe). Most mysorian know enigmatic and quintessential Snake Shyam, he is now a popular elected councilor, indeed he could have easily been an MP. We went with him for snake rescue mission and saw him in action. He has rescued and released about 30,000 snakes, the man is really passionate about snakes. Though quite flamboyant he comes out as an endearing man. I had joined the workshop to remove my reluctance on snakes. His advice to the group was “not to listen to parents!!” while Gowri Shankar mentioned that “things will look better after this generation of elders vanishes”. Clearly our so called family tradition has no value for nature, despite tall claims, it will need a new generation of sensitive individuals to break free from these regressive pits.

From my scribble pad..

The wasp 
The world and its wants,
tribulations and expectations can go by
 Everything else is here 
The sun, moon and stars
and this earth and its wonders
Like this wasp 
that has just alighted on the window sill 
observes in brief stillness 
and beats its wing for a hurried detour