The Crocodile and the Stork in Ranganathittu.

Lush Green homes

On a short visit to Mysore to celebrate the 50th wedding anniversary of my parents, I squeezed in a flying visit to the bird sanctuary.
Islands in the sun, birds in the air and crocodiles in the river greeted me. Thick foliage and fresh breeze formed a perfect backdrop for the birdsong.
We were chaperoned by nonchalant Marsh crocodiles on our boat ride. This gave good reason for some women and kids to let out birdlike squeaks.
Painted storks, open billed storks, cattle egret (in their beautiful orange breeding plumage), cormorants, night herons, fruit bats and wagtails went about their business unmindful of the fifteen pairs of ogling eyes.
Twiggy nests held long legged chicks while their parents fetched leaves to quilt the home. I think there's no better image of freedom than a huge bird winging over a shimmering river, a branch in its beak against the backdrop of a cool blue sky. Of course, the million shades of green in the wild foliage and the cool breeze urged me to believe that there existed many more such oases where these beautiful feathered species were safe.
The Mugger has a stealthy silent air about him. Barely seen above the surface he eyes the birds perched on little rocks. I watched one gobble up a Open Bill Stork. The other storks watched their friend's legs disappear into a huge serrated opening in the river and I quelled my unease with the thought that Nature's balance was at work.
The boatman told me that of the forty odd shrieking hatchlings of a Mugger, only a few survived. The rest were eaten by the storks. So there, the balance was at work already.
I'll be back again for the longer early morning boat ride. Till then... I have these memories for company.

Breakfast done.

Stork Colony

Look at my wedding finery

You know why I'm Open-billed...

Long legged chicks in twiggy homes

Another short story is out there.

What does dependence breed? Gratitude?
More likely a contempt for those you depend upon. Read on to find out how.

My short story in in Issue 16 of Open Road Review.

http://openroadreview.com/a-dogs-wife-by-jyothi-vinod/

What's your problem?

I was shopping at a little organic vegetable store near my house this morning. At the billing counter the young, plump and healthy looking woman customer chatted with the shop assistants. She must have said it at least six times: “…I can’t eat…because I have a heart problem.” It didn’t elicit more than raised eyebrows.

My curiosity piqued, I was planning to ask her, “What sort of trouble?” when she left. I was confused as she had said it pointing to the packet of grapes she was having billed. If she had said she couldn’t eat them because she was diabetic, it would have been reasonable. All I discovered was that people(by this I mean the six shop assistants) had lower levels of curiosity than I did.

“I can’t see without my glasses,” scores over, “I forgot my hearing-aid.” “I have Diabetes, blood pressure and heart problems,” are said louder than “I have a gynecological complaint.” Strokes, Dementia, Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s are spoken of with much hedging compared to the discourses on arthritis, joint or back pains, and allergies.

I’m no doctor, but I’m sure there are many more diseases, whose names are left unuttered or uttered with contempt (by others). However nothing, nothing evokes a curiosity that a mental illness does. The sufferer sometimes isn’t aware of his/her problem, but people who are will not lose an opportunity to inform you in a voice barely above a whisper. You cannot miss the undercurrent of malice and laughter in their restrained eagerness. 

“Ayyo, Amma…ayyo, amma…” a woman’s voice cried out. I raced through the walking path to investigate. My daughter thought somebody would need CPR.

It was just the old woman who walked with her helper every evening. After they passed by and the helper assured us that there wasn’t any problem, the park gossip, an old grey-haired woman enlightened me.

“Her head isn’t okay,” she said, her old eyes alight with wicked amusement. “She lives opposite my house. She poured boiling water over her husband’s hand. She’s been to the hospital many times. No use. Giving her medicine is a huge task. They have to mix it with her food.” She held a forefinger to her head triumphantly and turned it—the classic mime to show ‘a screw loose.’

My daughter, a medical student who was with me said, “Yes, I’ve seen patients at the hospital whose family members have tried to beat ‘sense’ into the patient. There’s no understanding or sympathy for mental illnesses. How can we expect anything from ignorant public?”

Sad but very true.

Bakery Dogs.

Crushed glucose biscuits--a meal?

It's easy to observe them. They're restful and sedentary. Their life revolves around two bowls: one for glucose biscuits and one for water. You will never find them chasing cats or even crossing the road.
Let's say you have a balloon. You blow it hard and voila! It looks like a dog. The narrowest parts being the muzzle and tail. That's the best description of a dog that falls into this special category my daughter calls, 'Bakery Dogs.'
Overfed, listless and always sleepy, these dogs have 'kind' people emptying packets of these sweet, cheap, biscuits into the bowl, outside a bakery near my house.
The dogs cannot refuse the biscuits. They probably enjoy the tasty treat. They don't know sugar is bad for them. But ask anyone who owns a dog, they'll tell you.
The same story repeats in Lalbagh. But here the biscuits are a treat, not a meal, and the dogs seem healthy and alert.
I've seen 'kind' people like this. They'll force food--ghee, sweets, nuts etc., on their hapless 'dear' ones.
One lady was affronted when I asked her why she gives a regular supply of homemade ghee to her close relative. Wasn't that encouraging the already overweight elderly woman towards heart problems?
Her defiant reply: "If I don't give it to her, she'll buy ghee and use it. So it's better she uses the homemade one."
Now this 'kind' lady keeps a strict watch on what she herself eats, and follows a fitness regimen. Yet, she walks around with this false sense of altruism that she's doing the right thing by supplying her relative with ghee.
If you tell the people near the bakery to stop feeding the dogs, they'll look at you like you're asking them to whip the dog.
"Poor dogs, if we don't give them, who will? They aren't complaining. They enjoy it, see. And they're alive aren't they?"
Is that what we want to do, with homo sapiens or canines, just keep them alive because they aren't capable of deciding for themselves?
"Health be damned, stay alive," command these misguided 'kindhearted' souls.

A short listed story.

"This story is written as part of A Winter in Storyland Contest on the Tell-a-Tale blog"


The next stage the organizers tell me is the number of likes and shares my story gets.

https://www.tell-a-tale.com/four-blankets-and-a-fog/

Lanterns In The Sky

                                         

It has happened before, the sudden vision of lanterns in the air.

A rushed morning, the taste of breakfast still in my mouth, the stress of an impending day as I drove to work would weigh me down. When all at once a dozen plum headed parakeets would rush out from nowhere—green-red-blue lanterns swaying to a magical breeze. All the knotted skeins of thought would unravel as a wingless me reveled in their flight.

More recently, I sat with my younger daughter on a park bench. The grey haze that filtered the setting sun was the unromantic smog, not mist from the mountains. We saw the revolving lights of a temple dome against the blushing pink of the evening sky. Skeletons of unfinished construction projects stole the colors of the sunset to cover up their bleak grays and blacks. Noisy green lanterns raced over our head. On and on the parrots raced, spilling out in a pandemonium of dozens or more, from dusty thickets that had guarded these green lights.

It’s hard to be untouched by the power of their freedom and flight.

Infant 2016 was only a few minutes old. A few relatives struggled to get their paper lanterns in the air. Either the paper caught fire or the camphor bits fell apart. Not a single stubborn lantern took flight. I was secretly glad. Who wanted spent lanterns drifting into trees or landing on sleeping birds or hanging in sad shreds on terraces?

The cold morning breeze reminded us of warm beds we’d reach in a few minutes. The sound of fireworks and music fell behind as I looked up. The clearest grey velvet was punctured by stars and a flock of white cranes winged home. Their silence and fluorescence lit the sky. When I pointed them out to the others, their upturned faces mirrored the inexplicable magic of that breathtaking moment.

There is a futility in the launching of man-made lanterns in the air. I’ve always known that.

Day 2: Bangalore Literature Festival 2015

This post is more than a week overdue. I was to write about the second day of the BLF’15 but got caught up with other writing deadlines.

Today I downloaded my Certificate of Completion for the How writers Write Fiction 2015 conducted by the University of Iowa’s International Writing Program. Seven weeks of rigorous work has paid off. This is the first writing course I’ve taken. I had enrolled for IGNOU’s creative writing program a few years ago but never saw it through.

Now to a recap of the second day of the BLF’15. The first talk of the day was by Anuj Dhar who is an expert on Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose. He claims (evidence in terms of files that need to be declassified) to have strong reasons to believe that Netaji died in Russia. He wielded the questions with great authority. Wonder what the truth really is.

Tipu Sultan was the hot topic of the next debate. It was well moderated by Maya Mirchandani of NDTV fame. Vikram Sampath, Prof. Hanuru--a historian, and a politician each from BJP and Congress provided both information and entertainment. I felt history is better left to historians; our politicians and their viewpoints definitely sway according to the vote bank.

The next talk (after I ate a pricey Masala dosa) was on short stories. I went to listen because Kulpreet Yadav, the editor of ‘Open Road Review’ was on the panel. ORR is a good blog with excellent content. He came into writing from a defence background.

I listened to a few authors talk about their work (with the moderator talking much more than the panelists). Poile Sengupta was kind enough to caution the audience about Macular Degeneration which she suffers from. How terrible for a reader or writer to have problems with eyesight.

Then I spent three hours listening to the shortlisted candidates who pitched their ideas at the LITMart to publishers. ( I too had been longlisted but didn’t make it to the shortlist.)

Every literary festival I attend, puts me a few steps onward in my writing journey. Loads of resolutions for the NEW YEAR.