Elvis has left the building

I wouldn’t have let Elvis go, were it not for the ominous sounds he was emitting every time the key reached for ignition. 

Sounds to scare the gargoyles set in stone and groans to declare protest against attempts to change it’s sedentary state every time, didn’t do much to instill confidence in my partner of his reliability to be my chariot anymore. 

I wouldn’t have let Elvis go, were the world to not have shunned the strings of love for the contemporary and much loved “green” laws of emissions. 

I wouldn’t have let Elvis go, were the rules of the world not putting him in a scrap yard in two years. 

Were Co2 not have been a thing that fills chatter into the bubbles left by champagne of the polite society, I would still be sitting pretty, whenever time allowed between diapers for mad capers with my hair fluttering in the breeze in Elvis, till he spluttered to a halt.(love blinds my judgment here clearly) 

I wouldn’t have let Elvis go, him and his shining midnight blue colours that faithfully lit up in the blinkers when I roamed lost in parking lots. His chirruping honk, my guiding light. Homing back into the cocoon that smelt of my different perfumes over the last 13 Years. 

I wouldn’t have let Elvis go, were my partner to have shared this blind faith that Elvis wouldn’t defy all odds and not splutter to a halt on me when I have him powered up. 

I wouldn’t have let Elvis go were I not have a little human being trialing car seats like she was Goldilocks. Making the words of the husband echo in mine along with nostalgic flashes. 

” he needs to go” were the words he had said. ” he needs to go” now mimicked in mine. 

I wouldn’t have let Elvis go, were the guy taking him from us not been a doctor of cars. 

I wouldn’t have let Elvis go, were this lovely guy not have had three children to jump in Elvis’s back seat. 

I wouldn’t have let Elvis go, without extracting promises in blood that, Elvis would always shine. 

(ignoring the two years' time line) 

And as all lovers bore with poetry at the end of their love stories, or sit spouting words of wisdom waving their bottled tipple into ears that have fleeting interest, my minds thinking verses too. (minus the tipple but then maybe let me addle the mind a bit too.) 

‘Que Sera Sera ,what will be will be’ sang my mom when I was little, and I sing that to my daughter today.  

Tides change the maps in sand, sand shifts in time without the tides, and the times have tided over into a phase of my life that needs firmer grounds to tread on. 

Hence honking away in another's arms, Elvis has Left the building. 

Pigeon Pot

Wiry,springy,curvy,independent strands that defy gravity, stand up defiantly. One would think years of being straight has got them into rebellion on their death bed. The reference in the lines above are of my hair gone wild on the assumption that having grayed has made them dead because their entire life’s leanings were tending to be straight. 

The fields above had started their color mixing in college owing to genes from a family of greys.So without bothering much I've been tossing them about for a couple of decades, carefree in the breeze with days gone without seeing a brush. 

These days of indulgences seeing their final when a friend of mine called me out. 

Wiry!!!!..that is the word that sprang the hair brush from retirement. 

I have images of a shiny mane as the routine incorporates hundred vigorous strokes a day.But wiry remains wiry.....once a wiry always a wiry!!!! 

The styling of my hair has also been conditioned by the presence of another tiny human in my life. 

Mostly lack of in this case. 

Days in forgiving PJ’s, lounging about with a cup of tea that sees an excellent dipping routine of the digestives. Deft dips aiming to not sacrifice even a single crumb off the biscuit into the depths of tea that’s cooling off in moments spent chasing a crawling human. Excellence in small moments says the lady in white on You tube.....I'm perfecting the art. In ‘the boy’s’ words the art of turning old. 

Bringing me back to wiry and wavy. 

On the day, with all the participants being in place, the tea, the tiny human, the sunshine, the digestives, the scuttling husband on his morning office routine, and the pigeons.... 

Enterrrrrzzzzz pigeons. 

The fluttering machines that lay eggs and defecate in small bits all over my balcony. 

They sit and claw their ways through the Air conditioner’s wires, they hop and lay their tiny defecation bits on the parapet, where I rest my arms and that hot cup of tea.The little succulents , that find not the time in their life to stand hardy and green against the grey elements of the city, die quite instantly under their sharp beaks, getting hauled over into my balcony's corner by these winged creatures in their tireless mission for a nest. 

I love my garden,I love my Tea,I love the tiny human,I hate pigeons. 

Mostly I am very ardent in my following of names that we have tagged to birds, my enthusiasm has also run into buying a binocular, where it hangs around nicely sharing the task of plane spotting in the balcony. 

But specifically, In this case I'm at war with the pigeons. 

Not the little, she follows them with her shiny curious eyes, looking to look into their beady red ones. While they just ignore her, puff up and beak kiss all day, running circles around the other, chasing, flying off in their crescendo to climax within a second. (beats my human brain) 

Early lessons in Johny Bravo style wooing for the little human; for me tons of sighing, shooing and then finally cooing ‘Pigeon’...see ‘Pigeon’ and making peace with all that is around. 

Peace!.....also good for the wiry I believe. 

AGE OF HUMAN TRANSISTORS

Peacocks preen,dogs sniff tails,monkeys may do excessive grooming in the dance to mate.

And Indian Men -Sing.

World wide men may resort to walking across bars,and women may elicit those encounters with shy fluttering of eyes or maybe even bolder come hither looks.

It’s a dance that each species perfects in its bid to perpetuate itself and evolve along with the best specimen that they can win over.

But have you ever wondered about the Indian mating ritual? After the Kamasutra  got world wide recognition from the hidden recesses of a ledge under piles of books in an Indian home,gathering dust,what happened?

As cultures imposed on cultures,different veils fell on women who became more translucent behind the fluttering muslin of life,a screen that pulled the eyes forcibly away from the sway of a woman’s hip,and masked the masculine strut of the average Indian man , the glance of the hooded coded looks fell to the floor after centuries of muslin divide,leading to an opaqueness.

But evolution and survival of the fittest cannot be screened away,its nature that devices ways around it.

 Whereby making men break out into birdsong the minute an eligible specimen walks into sight.This was garnering attention,step one.Hence began the Age of Human Transistors.

Chancing upon peeking assets hidden away for centuries makes an Indian mans blood dance and boil. As the unsuspecting female specimen walks into the sphere of influence, The Indian Male Breaks into a spontaneous song. Could the song be one that last played on radio? or could it be that they channel into the most lewd song they have heard, to transmit the audio waves,creating a reactionary glance out of mere shock?I would never be able to tell.

The purpose is to channelize attention to self and as eyes connect Voila!theres the chance.

This happened well into the eighties, an experiment that was successfully carried out nation wide sung from voice boxes propped on lanky shoulders of ten casually leaning boys,with hands finding business in their pockets very engaging and the other hand loosely draped over the other nine in a standing chain.

When conditioning led to the recipient  becoming tone deaf to whistles or seranaded bollywood songs bounced off unaffected ears.The once easily shocked glances glazed over,busying themselves into their tweeting phones it Announced the turn of the century of ignoring.

 Deprived of glances , Shock being the inducer The male testosterone is now an enraged bull wondering at different shock and awe methods.

Compounding the issue is the fact that the muslin cloth is sliding gradually away from the curve of the shoulder and the whiteness of the Indian woman's untanned  legs are titillating in touchable allure in front of a man that’s standing muted in lack of  response to his practice of almost a century.

Curbed by society,where hands join in veneered salutation yet the glance leers disrespectfully at half mast, sometimes straining against it, a few of these bulls break free and shock with brute force.

Shock a mating into reality that shrieks resistance from the ebony hair that get clutched in a raging fist.

Breeding a mutual distrust bodes danger for the beauty of creation.Leeching the creativity away.

Making the streets of possibilities amongst the smell of marigolds fall silent in terror,a silence broken by Women scrambling past in a tearing hurry to get to safety before the clock strikes twelve.

Where has the romance vanished off the streets? the music and rhythm of life has paved way to scrambling and online dating excursions deemed relatively safer.

If Man were to realize that the glance of chance could fall on him were he to say put the transistor away and  open a door for the lady instead,that door could lead into a conversation that binds for life.

Could the Indian man be taught that even though the muslin has been shredded and slipped into the modernity of time,the beauty that is exposed is standing hesitant  behind.

It is still an object to be won over, not possessed.

Could man be taught that the age of transistors should now enter the age of transformers?

These soft lessons are best whispered , Its all in the teaching hand.And its all a learning Curve taught in a loving mother's lap.

Respect, Gentleness,Trust - A lullaby that cradles our future.

Lizard Lizard on the Wall

I have a good coexistence score,its high on the peaceful side,yet its been tested only against humans.

 Darwin maybe a few centuries old and fragmented memory that keeps hopping on survival.Yet we stand and go about our business as established lords of our spaces.

We rightfully claim space in the universe.As such this space saw me balancing on stools,because the curtains in my Kingdom  needed to see the washing machine,and the stool was witness to quite a servile stance not a typical lord of the universe approach when i have a duster in hand.The stool and another co habitant.

A lesson I just don’t learn is to let things just be,any place in this house could be now infested with lizards,I did mention co habitants.This is my second encounter in two months.Where flying slimy creature have nose dived on me or past me in their haste eaning always seems to be getting me into trouble,I shall have to rethink my existential strategies for floating in cleanliness.To mainly avoid confrontations.

It so happened that a baby lizard again was practicing its sticking tactics around my dirty curtains warps and wefts.

It startled out of its lazy break of just sticking in hung mode( don’t you think lizards are meditative creatures,they have capacities to just stay in a place ,ruminating on the next kill or just staring at passing life,were I not creeped out by their touch I may just have admiration for the sheer laziness in their boneless forms)jealousy at their routine less existence,as such these observations ,borne out of mutual distrust, I make from healthy distances.

Skipping over the dance that ensued ,twirled around to the spontaneous music provided by yours truly.

My mind started out with a non violent approach but when the territory of the cupboard was breached putting my clothes at contamination risk,I quickly swung back into my fumigatory murderous tendencies.

However the agile padded waddler managed to slink behind protective objects,having inside intelligence on the things I hold dear(Theory being that in their suspended state they absorb information bouncing off walls,like oh that lovely dress,fabulous curtains,just maybe.)it missile dived behind precisely those.

Very clever critter.No artillery I used seemed to deter it from its race to destination oblivion.

A lucky day in its life I would like to think,otherwise my artillery of a newspaper grab and throw,handle of the curtain rod, and sonorous voice at cringing decibels is usually enough to scare the toughest of adversaries.I am not laying my weapons down,each territory could be hostile.

I cannot live with the constant knowledge that It could be anywhere.Also according to Darwin were I to let my prey be, a few hundred centuries on maybe Ill be hanging off walls being wadded and batted by evolved lizardry.

All for Mankind.This is war.