A Bucolic Existence

I now live in a village.

So every Sidhappa and Jayamma who saunter by hold forth on how I should oil my hair and coil it into a sinister snake to rest in the nape of my neck.

Are you married, they ask, peering closely at my unadorned neck. Their unhurried gaze rests on my barren forehead and narrows in collective doubt.

Where is your husband, they ask, peering over my shoulder into the recesses of my house.

Tour, I say. He has gone to foreign lands.
Does he have house and zameen there, they ask.

Now, that is a thought.

Then there is Irfan who comes to my doorstep and repairs my cooker under the cherry tree. As also my mixer-grinder. Are you Muslim, he asks. Again my neck and forehead!

Last week Imlabai who temps as domestic help took me aside.

You are losing a lot of hair Akka, she said. I agreed sadly.

Read the Bible, she said, it will stop falling. Only Jesus can save your hair, she said and gave me a copy of the Bible in Kannada.

And the Village Drunk comes by once again. He wants me to buy the stones he took from me last month. Only four rupees per stone, he says, just for you.

I see a baby cobra slide by the compound wall and the Drunk cannily slithers away.

Like I said, I now live in a village

Marlee's Mind

Guest blogging by Ms. Marlee Cooper, weaver and social anthropologist. 

There are women. And there are men. And among the women, there are again women and then there are women.

The former are dull boring creatures who have nothing much to say about themselves, point-to-point.They lead lives. We don't know much about these lives 'cause they don't blog about it and sashay down Facebook Ramp with their lives on their...shall we say.. sleeves, and then a little more. They post about some dull dreary happening in some dull remote town in some dull boring country and expect us to get drenched in emotion. They write about their work seriously and get angry when things are not right in the world.They campaign for animal rights, maybe some travel thingy, or some dry-as-dust issue they feel deeply about or they write about their dogs and cats and pet donkeys.Well really!

Then there are the latter. Women. Ah, what women! They have no qualms.They love and they hate on Blogger and Facebook. Their lives are open manholes, for all to see.They sing and dance and change their clothes in the spotlight of Social Media. They burn the toast, we see their take on it. When they love, we are told about it. Their angst becomes ours, their takes on the poastman's promiscous ways, the neighbours' sofas, their fresh perspectives on yoghurt.

And what we love the most - their dissertations in detail on their own beauty. Their eyes, their lips, their skin,their nose, their bust, their legs, their favourite colours and their best-loved brand of hot  wax , the clothes they wear or don't, their libido, their tights.What the Roadside Romeo said while whistling long and low at their..

They gently whisper how close they are to saving the world from everything including locusts..And how it is very important to be good  -  like them.

They take you into their homes, their lives, their closets, their loos and  into their bedrooms . We love them, these women who are single-mindedly devoted to themselves. Mind you, they come out with advice and socially relevant messages very often, telling us lesser mortals what we must, what we musn't, what we can and what we can't. Amen and Hallelujah too. I shudder to think of a world without  these bright butterflying women.

And the men. Well there are men and there are men. And they are all lusting after the latter women.

Inadvertently. I can get away with so much using this word!

A waxing moon.And Raag Jogkauns.

The many emotions that haunt the mind all fade and blend into a single mystical mood.

The night stops awhile. 

And so does life.

Mukul Shivaputra Live Raag Jogkauns Part 1