Yellow-wattled Lapwing is not into demonstrations !

I am sure most readers of this blog are aware of Red-wattled Lapwing, a common bird that many might have even spotted, but Yellow-wattled though common in the peninsula is a difficult sighting partly due to the fact that it is much silent as also found in dry open country unlike Red-wattled -that is loquacious to an irritating level as also a demonstrative bird often sighted near water bodies. Smaller than Red-wattle Yellow-wattled Lapwings has obvious distinction of yellow colored wattle –a fleshy extension in front of eyes that meet above the beak. An interesting fact about this bird is their eggs are pyriform, that is, broad and obtuse at one end and sharp pointed at the other. So while hatching the pointed side is towards the ground thus taking minimum brooding space. 

Gerard Manley Hopkins: the words are wild! 

Nothing is so beautiful as spring-

When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;

Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush

Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring

The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;

The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush

The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush

With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889) was a Jesuit priest who wrote poems, you would expect his poems to be on clichéd line, you know about religion-morality and so on, even this blogger did and was almost dismissive in the beginning until I got myself into his world. The quaintness of divinity reflected in all can be charming (reminds me of bhakti poems). Rarely have i read someone so experimental and innovative, he even created his own words, his own language, his “inscape”. Hopkin writes “...all therefore that I think of doing is to keep my verses together in one place- at present I have not even correct copies-, that, if anyone should like, they might be published after my death. And that again is unlikely, as well as remote... No doubt my poetry errs on the side of oddness. I hope in time to have a more balanced and Miltonic style. But as air, melody, is what strikes me most of all in music and design in painting, so design, pattern, or what I am in the habit of calling inscape is what I above all aim at in poetry. Now it is the virtue of design, pattern, or inscape to be distinctive and it is the vice of distinctiveness to become queer. This vice I cannot have escaped.” He writes somewhere else “....but take breath and read it with the ears, as I always wish to be read, and my verse becomes all right.”

It need be noted here that he achieved acclaim posthumously since he held the view that publishing the poems would violate the humility required from him as a priest. What enchantingly uninhibited poems these.... 

Spring and Fall

(to a young child)

Margret, are you grieving

Over Goldengrove unleaving?

Leaves, like the things of man, you

With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?

Áh! as the heart grows older

It will come to such sights colder

By and by, nor spare a sigh

Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;

And yet you will weep and know why.

Now no matter, child, the name:

Sorrow’s springs are the same.

Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed

What heart heard of, ghost guessed:

It is the blight man was born for,

It is Margaret you mourn for.

To Christ our Lord

I Caught this morning morning's minion, kingdom

of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding

Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding

High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing

In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,

As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend:

the hurl and gliding

Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding

Stirred for a bird, -the achieve of, the mastery of the

thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here

Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a

billion

Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down

sillion

Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,

Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things-

For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;

For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim:

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;

Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and

plough;

And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;

Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

Praise him.

Caged Skylark

As a dare-gale skylark scanted in a dull cage

Man's mounting spirit in his bone-house, mean house,

dwells-

That bird beyond the remembering his free fells;

This in drudgery, day-labouring-out life's age.

Though aloft on turf or perch or poor low stage,

Both sing sometimes the sweetest, sweetest spells,

Yet both droop deadly sometimes in their cells

Or wring their barriers in bursts of fear or rage.

Not that the sweet-fowl, song-fowl, needs no rest—

Why, hear him, hear him babble and drop down to his nest,

But his own nest, wild nest, no prison.

Man's spirit will be flesh-bound when found at best,

But uncumbered: meadow-down is not distressed

For a rainbow footing it nor he for his bones risen.

Another scribble from my writing pad...

Wild flowers

Who knows, what will become of us

perhaps it will be the seed dropped from the bird

that sprout into wild flowers

all senses capsulated

in a sway in the breeze

The Blackbirds of Nilgiris

If you been to Nilgiri mountains and surrounding chances are that you will encounter this bird so often that you will start to mistake it for myna. The Blackbirds of Nilgiris are lighter in colour than one found in Europe, they are ashy brown with a distinctive reddish-orange bills. They could be seen hopping on the ground I found this one while on a morning walk it was quite actively searching the place, just about the time it was getting suspicious of me i got clicking. Must say quite a strong flier this bird. 

Nicolas Guillen: Voice of Cuba

Yoruba i am, i weep in Yoruba

Lucumi.

Since i am a Yoruba from Cuba,

I want to move up to Cuba my lament in Yoruba,

move up my happy lament in Yoruba

that goes out from me

Nicolas Guillen (1902-1989) a Cuban poet is considered as one of the outstanding poets of twentieth century, he is acclaimed in Cuba as National poet. His poems are innovative and rich in musicality (which i guess must have been lost in translation), he adopted a popular Cuban musical form: the son (that combines African and Spanish elements). Guillen’s father was a senator and editor of newspaper who was killed by soldiers (for protesting against Garcia Menocal who continued to occupy the presidency despite losing election). Unfortunately for him as Castro’s troop advanced towards liberating Cuba from repressive Batista he was arrested in Brazil for his political activities, and had to be in exile for six years until the revolution in 1959.

Fidel,

wears the name of Cuba

forever on his faithful chest

Fidel,

was the one who exalted soil

to the height of myrtle and laurel

Fidel,

the one who raised up a new homeland

without hatred, murderous crime or bitterness

Fidel.

Once back in Cuba Guillen had taken a full circle: it was soldiers who had killed his father and after two decades he dedicates to them. His tribute also includes poems on Che Guevara, Martin Luther King, Angela Davis, Nancy Morejon, Felix Varela and other Cuban Heroes. Guillen’s poems reflect the essential character of Cuban people, the developments that have impact on Cuban people framed his concerns.

I Don’t Know Why It Seems To You

I don’t know why it seems to you,

soldier, that i hate you,

since we are the same thing,

I,

you.

You are poor, so am i;

I am kept down, so are you;

how has it occurred to you,

soldier, that i hate you?

It hurts me that sometimes you

forget who i am;

caramba since i am you,

the same as you are me.

.......

.......

Wisp, Little Shoot...

Wisp, little green

shoot, in the dark earth:

of which miniscule forest

are you baobab, how many

bird-fleas nest

in your strong branches?

Wisp, little green

shoot, in the dark earth,

I, sleeping in your shade,

to dream, cast off

beneath the moon.

Calm Breeze That Hardly Moves...

Clamed breeze that hardly moves

the flower,

fine breath of the garden

that softly pass,

come and push my boat,

trapped in the motionless sea.

Carry me, powerful,

in your minimal wings,

oh, breeze, fine breath,

clamed breath that hardly moves

the flowers.

Sugarcane

The black man

next to the cane field.

The Yankee

over the cane field.

The land

under the cane field

Blood

that goes out from us!

Problems Of Underdevelopment

Monsieur Dupont calls you uneducated

because you don’t know which was

the favourite grandchild of Victor Hugo.

Herr Muller has started shouting

because you don’t know the day

(the exact one) when Bismarck died.

Your friend Smith,

English or Yankee, i don’t know,

becomes incensed when you write shell.

(it seems that you hold back an ‘L’

and that besides you pronounce it chel)

O.K. So what?

When it’s your turn,

have them say cacarajicara,

and where is the Aconcagua

and who was Sucre,

and where on this planet

did Marti die.

And please:

make them always talk to you in Spanish.

Guadeloupe W I

The blacks, working

next to the ship. The Arabs, selling,

the French, strolling and resting,

and the sun, blazing.

The sea goes to bed

in the port. The air toasts

the palm tree... I shout: Guadeloupe!, but no one answers.

The ship leaves, ploughing the impassive waters with foamy noise.

There, the blacks keep on working,

the Arabs selling,

the French strolling and resting,

and the sun blazing.

Before i move out of this blog i recall buying a book Blackbird Bye Bye (April Bernard), probably the earliest of books i have bought most likely from Chennai. What events led me to buy this book i don’t recall. It couldn’t be with someone since i don’t prefer company while buying books. Intriguing since i wasn’t really much into English poetry those days...bit of Tagore and some Malayalam from some magazines while travelling were my indulgences, i was in my early 20s roaming around for job- quite far from nuanced world of poetry!!. Whatever may be the case this book has been with me for a long time now. And i am not complaining, it has some beautiful poems. The collection also has won Walt Whitman Award...i particularly like this poem

Satan Moves Mysteriously

We seek a slogan, and find only the old ones.

We need revolution, but settle

for bad manners. Who will be the one

to strip the uniform of its stars,

splash mud on the trousers of El Exigente,

while the state borders are ringed

by lethal picket fence posts?

A few men have been towering over us,

blocking the light in the city streets.

Meanwhile, hands are blown off, crops die,

Buildings implode, perishing, want, and sorrow follow.

Not enough left in my mouth to spit.

Round round eyes of Oriental White-eye

It was while i was walking along the hill garden on the outskirt of Mysuru (Mysore) that i heard insistent sharp calls as this busy little bird went about with its business of catching insects in the foliages, i was able to get quite close just when the bird spotted me “Oho a homo sapien” and flew away still chirping and landed on the nearest tree and went about with what it was doing as if nothing has happened. Geez that surely makes me feel important!! Oriental White-eye is a small bright yellow colored bird with some greyish white, purely arboreal these birds are easily identified by the white ring around the eyes. I also found these two birds hiding in a bush! 

Jibanananda Das: You can all go where you wish; I by Bengal’s expanse/Will stay

I shall return to this Bengal, to the Dhansiri’s bank

Perhaps not as a man, but myna or fishing kite;

Or dawn crow, floating on the mist’s bosom to alight

In the shade of jackfruit tree, in this autumn harvest land.

Or maybe a duck-a young girl’s-bells on my red feet,

Drifting on the kalmi scented water all day

For love of Bengal’s rivers, fields, crops, I’ll come this way

To this sad green shore of Bengal, drenched by the Jalangi’s waves

Perhaps you’ll see a glass fly ride the evening breeze,

On her a barn owl call from the silk cotton tree;

A little child toss rice grains on the courtyard grass,

Or a boy on the Rupsa’s turgid stream steer a dinghy

With torn white soil –white egrets swimming through red clouds

To their home in the dark. You will find me among their crowd.

What a song that one, i can almost hear it in Bengali, it lingers and lingers... it was only the other day that i was going through my trunk that came across Jibanananda’s collection, i am not able to place where i bought the book from, but must say going through Jibanananda is like going on a spiritual journey to beautiful countryside, you can feel the clayey sand on the feet. Whenever i am in Kolkata (Calcutta) and happen to see tram cars i am reminded of Jibanananda-he died after being hit by a tram on the night of 22nd October 1954. It was tragic end to a great poet considered next only to Tagore. Jibanananda (1899-1954) was a quiet withdrawn man, intensely introspective he was an opposite to his contemporary Nazrul Islam. He maintained a distance from gatherings and political movements, avoiding any ideological debates that filled up Bengal. His nuanced Bengali becomes quite difficult to translate, as the translator mentions “the principles of translation had to be defined afresh to suit the nature of Jibanananda poetry”. The serene natural beauty of his village (Barisal, now in Bangladesh) had deep influence on his life and literature; nature remained a significant force in his poetic subconscious throughout his life.

We who have seen the wild duck, escaping the hunter’s shot

Take wing into the horizon’s mild blue moonlit glow,

We who have rested our hands in love on the paddy sheaf

And come home like evening crows, expectantly; have found

Children’s breath scent, grass, sun, kingfishers, stars, sky-

Traces of these, again and again, the whole year round;

We have seen the green leaf yellowing in the autumn dark;

Light and bulbuls play in the windows of hijal branches;

The mouse on winter nights coat its silk fur with bits of grain;

Morning and evening, to the eyes of lonely fish, the ripples

Fall fair in smoky rice smell; at the pond’s edge the duck at dusk

Smells sleep and is borne away by a soft female hand.

Clouds like minarets call golden kites to their windows;

Under the cane creepers, the sparrows’ eggs are hard;

The river coats the bank with the soft water’s smell;

In the dense night the roof thatch shadow falls on the moonlit yard

Smell of crickets in the air-green air of summer fields,

In deep desire thick juice descends to the blue annona’s core.

Writes Prof. Sisir Kumar Das “Jibanananda rejected the mode of public poetry and political poetry, but the trauma and anxiety of political situation contributed to the growth of his poetic personality. He wrote with strong sense of individuality but did not fail to locate the individual in the larger space of history. His engagements with existential problems are not confined to any narrow subjectivity but involve a cosmic view of life”

Vultures

From field to field- all afternoon over Asia’s sky

Vultures graze. Men see markets, camps, slums; the silent plain

Are for vultures- where the field’s firm silence stands by the sky

Like another sky- there vultures now descend in rows

From the hard clouds, like smoky weary sky-propping elephants fallen

From distant lights- fallen to earth on Asia’s fields and plains,

For just a few moments, these outcast birds; then they mount again,

Great dark wings on the palm trees-on mountain peaks

Now, gazing at earth’s beauty- how from the Arabian sea

Ships flock to the dark port; or to tender Malabar now

They fly- around a tower’s sad cornice, many vultures

Seems as though passed beyond some death, earth’s bird forgotten;

As if some river of death or some sad lagoon of life’s partings

Break out weeping; they see those Huns merged in deep blue.

Orange

When once i have gone out of this body

Shall i not come back to this earth?

May i come back again

On some winter night

With the pitiful flesh of an iced orange

To the bedside of some dying man i know.

The moment

Moonlight in the sky-

On the forest trail the body scent of the leopard

My heart is like a deer

Which way am I going in the silence of this night?

The shadow of silvery leaves upon my body;

No more deer anywhere.

As far as I go, I see the moon, bent like a sickle,

Cutting the last golden deer grain;

Then sinking slowly

Into the darkness of the sleep in the eyes of hundreds of does.

A strange darkness

A strange darkness has come to the earth today

Those who are blind see most with their eyes;

Those whose hearts are stirred by no love, fondness, compassion-

The world cannot move without their advice

Those who still harbour a deep faith in man,

Those for whom it is still natural to avow

Some noble truth or percept, art or ceaseless striving-

Jackals and vultures feed on their hearts now.

Where have they gone

Where they have gone today,

All those birds and all those horses,

Those women in white houses?

Those birds aloft in the colours of the golden sunlight

In the scent of babla flowers, and those horses,

They have all departed from our earth

Say where, my heart – where have they gone today!

Darkness: silent, like the lifeless pear

From my scribble pad...

Destitution

You may think

that i snuggle with the stricken

and their insecurities.

It is in the profligate, their vacant indulgences,

missing conscience coordinates,

in their leisurely remorse and certainties

that I thrive.

Blue headed Rock Thrush

Another of the migratory bird that i happen to click just about the time it was leaving. Blue headed Rock Thrush is a winter migrant from Himalayas, not really a lifer (meaning first spotting ever. Picked up these words from some professional recently) for me but i did take some time to place this one. A bird with striking looks- blue head and a black band along the eyes -Blue headed Rock Thrush is difficult to spot but once located these birds don’t seem to be intimidated by human proximity, indeed i was just few meters away from this pretty looking bird. Some spotting makes your day, this one did. Not to forget some awesome pictures.

Gertrude Stein: "A writer should write with his eyes and a painter paint with his ears"

Gertrude Stein (1874-1946) was Jewish American writer and Poet. She was also known for her enviable art collection (Stein Art Collection) in Paris that attracted many artists. Stein helped to launch the careers of Henri Matisse and Pablo Picasso, among others, and she attempted to translate their experiments in art into writing. Much of her poems are difficult to understand as she rejected the traditional linear form to more fractured form. She lacked widespread popularity and for a long time was not well known across her immediate circle  until when she published her very popular memoir, The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas. Stein is highly regarded as modernist writer/poet, testimony to the fact that even six decades after her death her books are reprinted and always in demand. The painting herein of Gertrude Stein is by Picasso. And this poem by Stein is on Picasso (it is a long, and must say complicated one, i am taking the first stanza...readers can visit the website)

If I Told Him

(A Completed Portrait of Picasso)

If I told him would he like it. Would he like it if I told him.

Would he like it would Napoleon would Napoleon would would he like it.

If Napoleon if I told him if I told him if Napoleon. Would he like it if I told him if I told him if Napoleon. Would he like it if Napoleon if

Napoleon if I told him. If I told him if Napoleon if Napoleon if I told him. If I told him would he like it would he like it if I told him.

Now.

Not now.

And now.

Now.

Exactly as as kings.

Feeling full for it.

Exactitude as kings.

..........

America

Once in English they said America. Was it English to them.

Once they said Belgian.

We like a fog.

Do you for weather.

Are we brave.

Are we true.

Have we the national colour.

Can we stand ditches.

Can we mean well.

Do we talk together.

Have we red cross.

A great many people speak of feet.

And socks.

Daughter

Why is the world at peace. This may astonish you a little but when you realise how easily Mrs. Charles Bianco sells the work of American painters to American millionaires you will recognize that authorities are constrained to be relieved. Let me tell you a story. A painter loved a woman. A musician did not sing. A South African loved books. An American was a woman and needed help. Are Americans the same as incubators. But this is the rest of the story. He became an authority.

A Long Dress

What is the current that makes machinery, that makes it crackle, what is the current that presents a long line and a necessary waist. What is this current. What is the wind, what is it.

Where is the serene length, it is there and a dark place is not a dark place, only a white and red are black, only a yellow and green are blue, a pink is scarlet, a bow is every color. A line distinguishes it. A line just distinguishes it.

A Mounted Umbrella

What was the use of not leaving it there where it would hang what was the use if there was no chance of ever seeing it come there and show that it was handsome and right in the way it showed it. The lesson is to learn that it does show it, that it shows it and that nothing, that there is nothing, that there is no more to do about it and just so much more is there plenty of reason for making an exchange.

Negligible Old Star

Negligible old star.

Pour even.

It was a sad per cent.

Does on sun day.

Watch or water.

So soon a moon or a old heavy press.

Stanzas in Meditation

She may count three little daisies very well

By multiplying to either six nine or fourteen

Or she can be well mentioned as twelve

Which they may like which they can like soon

Or more than ever which they wish as a button

Just as much as they arrange which they wish

Or they can attire where they need as which say

Can they call a hat or a hat a day

Made merry because it is so.

Red Faces

Red flags the reason for pretty flags.

And ribbons.

Ribbons of flags

And wearing material

Reason for wearing material.

Give pleasure.

Can you give me the regions.

The regions and the land.

The regions and wheels.

All wheels are perfect.

Enthusiasm.

From my scribble pad....

At the Talkies

(Watching movie in Allahabad)

The hero and heroine had decided

to do an impromptu

(most likely as a token of acknowledgment on mutual desirability)

at the snap of the finger

appeared accompaniments

bright colours and loud music

immaculate rhythmic steps,

practised to perfection.

The large fan sliced the moist air

of the damp theatre.

A disoriented pigeon appeared briefly in the glare of

the projector and crashed into the whirling fan

a detonation of white feathers

scatter across the hall

and float steadily as if playing to the scene.

It was snowing.

The hero chased the heroine

both wearing black

they stare each other and the camera

through their big black goggles

and did a 60s twist, retro effect.

Some hurry across to the dying pigeon

and drip drops of water from plastic bottle

into the mutilated beak.

All in vain.

I am thinking the pigeon

has come alive and flew straight into

the bright day of the scene

in the movie.

There is a garden with lots of flowers

and birds chirping,

the hero and heroine lay on the bright green

carpet of faultless grass,

in faultless outfit,

almost copulating,

a white pigeon by their side.

Rufous Treepie of Banjaar Tola

Banjaar Tola is a luxury stay ("sophistication in simplicity") adjacent to Kanha wildlife sanctuary run by Taj Safari that this blogger had the good fortune to stay as part of Naturalist training. It was an amazing experience but i had to abandon in between due to various reasons main being emphasis on hospitality the magnitude of which this blogger didn’t foresee, wouldn’t say anticipate, ingratiating mannerism is something i am never been comfortable. It makes my blood boil when somebody mentions terms like Mother Tongue Influence (popularly referred to as MTI in call centre circuit), understanding that it is a requirement of these jobs but the honchos at call centres-who seem to be the real culprit- need to understand that this is nothing short of derogatory, it’s hitting the roots. It is a degrading aspirational construct that this blogger has always stridently protested. My mother tongue can never be my bad influence that i need to shed. Who has the monopoly over good English? Clearly these are decided by commerce combined by other utilitarian concerns. Nevertheless i wonder with more Indians travelling abroad do i see Brits learning Indian accent (or as some regrettable would say MTI), or is it that it is we who always has to do the catching up business. Since these factors seem important in certain kinds of job profile why don’t term it as “Client Accent Acclimatisation” or something on that line. I demand it. 

Coming back to Banjaar Tola- i am not in a position to reveal too much detail due to code, but can say that anyone interested to become Naturalist should definitely go for it. Well arranged and located in sylvan surroundings of Sal forest it couldn’t be better. 

Tempting providence is not my idea of displaying team skills, wonder how they conceptualise these daring stunts that is nothing but foolhardy. This blogger is out for intellectual challenge, indeed i have been in the open for last 15 years or so. I don’t put myself in physical risk knowingly, caution is my byword and if there is enough logic and reason i don’t mind body going through the grind. I have travelled to worst of places in worst of conditions in past many years but keeping prudence as fulcrum. The brilliance of jumping from a tall tree or simply jumping around –it comes in various forms and it seems to give thrill to the performer i am told- that defines attempts on alpha male machismo or is it mind over matter by city folks, these imbecile acts least amuses this blogger. I have seen many of these characters dying or maiming themselves around me. And those who have survived haven’t shown any signs of deeper understanding let alone even introspect their habits!! It seems connected to some vague indulgence on confidence...well if your job profile needs then maybe. Like for instance Army, Security guards so on. Otherwise it cannot be denied that this is a senile act bordering sadism; it shows lack of awareness and respect for oneself, pity. Cheap thrills nothing much and it is catching on in big cities. Basic fitness of body is more important and when real crisis in life comes survival instinct should take care. For some it is a luxury to put body at risk, for some it is a way of life their survival depends on it, but not being aware of consequence is referred to as being irresponsible not daring. Dare to deconstruct the mind, the social structure/institutions ...that is where the challenge is. Body is nothing, challenging it is waste of time. These might make a good script for Hollywood action but nor real people (nor animal) go for unnecessary risking their life or damaging their body. For that matter even the Hollywood actors don’t!! They aint stupid dude!! Body is evolved to protect and explore mind, vice versa is primal, even great explorers had motive and purpose for which body was alibi. Darwin did say evolution is a process didn’t he...well you see people dangling down the ladder and you know how right was Darwin! 

For a person like me-who is precariously perched, even a minor mishap can be devastating, a serious setback, since my fallback options are limited i have to be vigilant. I prefer the challenge of Derrida to Bunty’s getting high on bungee or driving fast. Classifying naivety as trusting team potential was the funniest part of the exercise by “Bangalore team”. Further i am not into team, though these seem like basic corporate requirement (the fitting in herd) that is exaggerated as raison de entre for living!! This blogger is comfortable with himself. Full stop. 

Everything said and done it was a good experience, morning walks and sitting silently in the jungle were highlights. Identifying different species and jotting down for further references as also presentations on various animals was something worth cherishing, things i thoroughly enjoyed (Dholes have become my favourite. Tigers can take a break!!). My fascination for spiders has just got emboldened. I was an amateur and glimpsing some professionals at work was revealing experience. This blogger expresses his gratitude and appreciation for the people at Taj Safari for providing me the opportunity. My thanks also go to Ratna, Narayan, Ashish, Payal...it was too short and a scurry to get to know you guys.

There was one bird we got to see on a daily basis and woke with its calls was no doubt Rufous Tree pie. A very common bird around here, others include Orioles, Roller, Drongo and yes the little sparrows are back dear. Rufous Treepie is a rather longish looking bird with sooty head and neck, rufous overalls. An arboreal bird, strictly resident they are found in pairs, they have sweet call as also a harsh one that is used for alarm call. Though found near human habitats-partial to gardens- they are shy of human presence and could be located while they flee from one branch to another. Diet includes fruits, berries, insects, lizards. To the aware Treepies are known to point out the presence of tigers and leopards.

The Gonds of Central India: wai papa lala !!!

Gonds, are the largest tribal group not only in India but all over south Asia, they are spread across the hilly regions of Deccan region (geographically central part of India), spread across UP Gonda district and north Bihar to Andhra Pradesh, and from Maharashtra to Orissa. Gonds established their political power, founded states and exercised influence far and wide. There were as many as four separate Gond kingdoms in the Gondwana region mentioned in medieval accounts, extending across modern day Maharashtra, Madhya Pradesh and Andhra Pradesh. 

Gond is a name used by non tribals, meaning forest dweller that was used by Telegu speakers but Gond 's prefer to call themselves Koya or Koitur. Language used is Gondhi (Kui) that belongs to Dravidian family of languages, but most Gonds are bilingual or trilingual using Hindi, Telegu or Marathi. 

Gonds are divided into four groups (or sagas): Nalven, Siven, Sarven, and Erven) from these hundreds of clans have sprung up like Raj Gond (aristocrats, mostly concentrated in Adilabad district of AP), Naik gond, Bada Maria, Chotta Maria (this group doesn’t consume milk product as milking is a taboo for them), Jhare Gond, Mannewar, Mana (confined to Maharashtra), Bison Horn Maria (because of their headdress, i need add here that technically there are no Bison in India, it is a

Gaur), Naikpod (they consider themselves as descendant of Bhima of pandavas, mostly settled cultivators), Dheria (since women of this group place the end of saree on left shoulder, dheria means left), Sonjhari, Thoti, Dhulia (have lost their mother tongue, Gondi. They now use bundelkhandi), Kandra, Khatola, Sabaria (Telegu gonds), Thatia (cattle herders) and so on ... each of these have numerous clans. The picture herein is that of an elderly Gond lady collecting tendu (tobacco) leaves near kanha (bandriya tola to be specific) Madhya Pradesh. 

Gonds worship a high god named Baradeo (literally big god), who oversees activities of lesser gods, though respected the devotion of Gonds is reserved to their clan deities. Each Gond clan has its Persa Pen, who protects all clan members. The Persa Pen is essentially good but can be dangerous and violent. Many Gonds believe that when a Pardhan (bard) plays his fiddle, the deity's fierce powers can be controlled. Gonds also believe that spirits delve in hills, rivers and trees. Gonds understanding of medicinal values of local plants is legendary. Many aspects of Gond’s festival and rituals are heavily influenced by Hinduism (sanskritisation?) the obvious one being Dushera but they emphasis on singing and dancing.  Animals are sacrificed during rituals and meat consumed, liquor from dried mahua flowers is also quite popular. 

One of the most discussed and talked about practice among Gonds (confined to Muria Gond tribes) is “Ghotul system” (sociologists referred to it as Dormitory system), many take the instance of this practice as not only uniqueness of this tribe but also signs of advancement and egalitarian nature of society (though it need be pointed that gond community is highly stratified). In Ghotul system, the unmarried young boys and girls live together in separately made huts and allowed to intermingle. It is basically meant for teenagers and acts as a sort of recreation centre where they dance and dine together for marital selection and understanding of mates. If everything is fine and both of them are happy, they can get out of the Ghotul and marry. The Ghotul system is mainly practiced among the Muria Gonds and the origin of this system is related with their goddess ‘Lingopan’. It also need be added here that in Gonds marriages the groom has to pay bridal price to the father of the girl, though they are not matrilineal. Divorce and remarriage are common.

Gond houses are simple structure, the roof supported by bamboo, over which thatch or tiles is laid. House is neatly divided into room and courtyard. There is also a provision for guest room as also room meant for child delivery as also for women to stay during menstruation. I was reading that humble Comb plays an important role in wooing in Gond society, there are also certain rules regarding its use and combing!! During my visit to Gond settlement i found that there is lots of impetus on cleanliness, the houses and vicinity are kept clean and tidy.

Gonds have rich tradition of art and craft which includes body tattooing, floor painting, basket making etc. They are found of music and make musical instruments. They are also proficient in wall painting which they do in red and black on a white background. Gonds have rich oral tradition. Here are few lines wherein Gond hero Lingo is doing penance to please Sambhu Mahadeva to get Gond gods released from cave:

The great God Mahadeva

Felt his seat begin to tremble

Felt his golden stool all shaking

From the penance of our lingo

Felt and wondered who on earth

This devotee was that was fasting

Till his golden stool was shaking

The Pardhans (Bards) play an important and necessary part in Gond social system, they have preserved through their songs the memory of gond heroes and heroines, the story of gond race, its wanderings woes and triumphs. Since very few Gonds know these songs it is customary to call Pardhans on select occasions when the whole community gather to hear them sing accompanied by their Kikri (musical instrument) that last till the early hours of the morning. Pardhans provide history and mythology to Gond race, since Gonds have an understanding of Hindu mythology they act as medium between Hinduism and Gond. All Gond clans have their pardhans who is exposed to know Gond myths in general and history of family of their patrons in particular. Unfortunately since Pardhans were into beef eating they slid in the social structure to the lowest, after independence they are now classified as tribes (in the same clans as Gonds) that helped in their upliftment.

The foundation of new Gond settlement is accompanied by many elaborate rituals. On completion of all the houses Phulgam ritual is performed: a teak tree is felled, a square pointed post was carved in a chosen place (mostly under dondera tree) as the seat of the Aki Pen, the ritual conducted by devari (priest) in the presence of Village Headman (patla). A goat is sacrificed and devari says a prayer

Ige momot niwa puja tungantom;

nar wasi kintom;

mak tsokot panta palam aiana;

kai kal tsokot mandana.

Surd bara warsami niwa puja

tungantom

Translation

Now we perform your rite;

We are founding the village;

Give us good crops;

Let us be good health.

See every twelve years we

Shall perform your rite.

After this a sheep is sacrificed for Village Mother (Natna auwal).

The Dandari dancing is one of the high points of Gond celebrations, about the end of diwali is the joyous time of dandari, there is lot of leisure time, food is plenty and its beginning of cooler season. For two or three weeks after dusherra bands of young people journey from village to village with drums and horns, they welcomed as honoured guests wherever they go. These Dandari dancers carry on the custom initiated by legendary heroes Dundria Raur and Sipiserma Raur, lend sanction by epics from Pradhans

Gudmasur paterate Raur mantor

Tinle kami sile

dhan daulat wirta,

pen sita, batai kami sile.

mak nend pen sita, kami sile,

nend marat yet masar penk

marat putuskat

tandropo taman siwir tadur,

ur pite chauda jank babur

soneta weli sanganter ,

nend pahinidta pir pandta

ura paidas ata

ekwis putralir paidas ater,

paranda jank kuralir paidas ater

Gudmaser Paterat ropo

Nahin nagure nande manter Raurk

urk katoral Pen Bupial katoral

Sirivalaval katora,

Raitar ur manta;

Urk Raurk Patari,

Hirasuka Patari mantor

Nend pen sita, batai kami sile

Translation

In Gudmasur lived Raur,

“Food is not wanting” (he said)

“Wealth we have plenty,

The god gave it, nothing is lacking,

To us the god gave it,

Now the dance gods

Feast we will hold”

Brothers five their grandfathers,

From their loins fourteen fathers,

Theirs were countless offspring.

Then throughout the village

The fruits of wombs were born

Twelve grandchildren born.

In Gudmasur Patera there lived

The tribe of Raur;

Their preist was Pen Bupial

Sirivalaval katora

He was the god;

The Raur folk’s Pardhan

Was Hirasuka.

“By the gods’ grace we are free

from want,

Now let us hold a dance feast

For nothing is lacking”.

It is a long song, the last stanza ....

Ata paja

nend narita yetmasar,

narita mandatir aiar?

weilokna aiweke daiar?

Padmalpuri kaka inta,

bon inta?

Nend Manko, nime akara sar tenda

nime Manko tenda,

mune waio diwos aske

weilokna danadari pesiana,

Nalung sagank,

nalung kumkum

weilo mansa

dandari takana

nalung kumkum ropo

takana taki.

Then (said Padmalpuri);

“Tomorrow as today there will be dances,

But shall for ever only men dance?

Thus said Padmalpuri, the grandmother,

To whom did she say it?

“You Manko, you take the drums out,

You start the dancing,

In all times to come

Woman too will dance the Dandari”

Among the four kin-groups,

Among the four tribes,

Women and men

Dance now the Dandari,

In all the four tribes

The dancing goes on.

Song to be sung (gumela song) during Dandari dancers arrival in a village

Deu setun, duara setun

sati nikun tsaura mai,

mutsa nikun malpa

sati golodam deu golodam,

sati nikun tsaura mai,

mutsa nikun malpa

saga devaru mukdira

wai papa lala,

Bhumi devaran mukdira,

wai papa lala,

Pedda deun mukdira,

wai papa lala,

Bhima deun mukdira

wai papa lala.

With the gods we journey round.

By your grace we don dance dress,

Stooping for you we dance,

Jingling, jingling by god’s grace,

By your grace we don dance dress,

Stooping for you we dance,

Gods of the clan we worship,

wai papa lala,

Earth goddess we worship,

wai papa lala,

Bhimana we worship,

wai papa lala.

This song is a version of myth associated with birth of goddess Jangu bai, as sung by Pardhans. A long one, so i am putting only the first few lines, quite interesting the imaginary...

A spirit was born, Prabhu Niranjan Guru was born,

After his birth, water came into being,

Then spread the water, a mighty ocean

It spread and spirits were born.

After the spirits came earth into being,

The Earth mother and Aktak the father,

Hamran, the grandsire, the daughter Earth,

On water’s surface rose Earth.

Nine parts were water, one part was earth.

In the middle was earth, round it was water;

Then fifty six crores of gods came into being

This a small prayer during ceremonial first sowing...

Sura Dhan lachmi

Sura Dharti mata

mak jawa sim,

yes barai sim,

tala tahtsi sura

look cattle goddess

look Earth mother

give us food

give wealth and good luck

lifting up your head look at us.

Sung on the day before reaping...

Surat mak barkat sim,

Sanalir mirat,

Sasi pen ati, mak barkat sim.

Look, give us good fortune,

All you Departed,

Dying you became gods

Give us good fortune.

A scribble from my pad...

Derrida kills me everyday

May 1996, around noon was his first attack

I was defenceless, the gash deep.

Back in routine the festering thought grew all the while.

One clammy monsoon night the world shifted few inches on one side

then the other side

never settling at the centre, the safer side

was all but gone.

Deconstruction had begun

Back in mother’s womb.