श्रावण मासी..... Ode to the Mumbai Roads (with apologies to Balkavi)

There is a very well known Marathi poem , related to the magic of the monsoon, which is at its peak , in the Indian calendar month of Shravan. (roughly around August). The poet is the late Tryambak Bapuji Thomre Aka Balkavi , and almost all of us learned this poem in school.

Regrettably, the Monsoon (or the month of Shravan) brings some other things to mind, in Mumbai. The newspapers have been full of it, I've blogged about it, people have got injured travelling on it: Yes, the potholes on Mumbai's roads.


This is a parody of the late Balkavi's poem, with apologies to the memory of the great poet.

An English translation might work, but the beauty of the cadence, rhythm, and color of the original Marathi poetry will be lost. Hence , not attempted.

श्रावण मासी , दुक्ख मानसी , खड्डे खड्डे चोहिकडे ,
क्षणात येई भुरभुर माती , क्षणात गाडी उलटी पड़े
वरती बघता गोफ धूराचा बस च्या मागून विणलासे,
चिक्क्हल तोरण काय बांधले सभोवताली कुणी भासे,
झालीच टक्कर म्हाशीशी , जबड़ा -अहाहा तो उघडे
घाणीत घसरुनी पाय मोडला , काय करू हां प्रश्न पडे
उठता वरती गर्दी जमली ,अनंत रिकामे बघे पहा
गमबूट घालून पोलीस आले , शिट्टी वाजवत , अहा !
नाव काय , पत्ता , लायसंस दाखवा, व ते पट्टा सावरती
आपण आता घरी कस जावे , हे विचार मनात बागडती
रिकक्षा ही चलते भुवनी , तो चालक गाणी गात फिरे
"बसा " म्हणोनी , मीटर पाडत, रेडिओ वाजे एकसुरे...
सर्वत्र डाम्बर चिकट पडोनी , वास एव्ह्डा दरवळला
गाडी उचालणारी गाडी बघुनी रोष मनीचा मावळला...
सुंदर पावतिपुस्तक घेऊनि हाती, पुलीस हात धरे पुढती ,
सुन्दर अक्षर , सुन्दर अकडा , चुपचाप पुस्तकी ते खुडती
घर दर्शना निघती लोक , काळजी मावे ना हृदयात
वदनी त्यांच्या वाचून घ्यावे श्रावण महिन्याचे गीत......

स्वतंत्र भारताचे एक स्वप्न. खड्डामुक्त रस्ते....The Dream of Independent India : Smooth roads .

Year after potholed year, we in Mumbai, particularly in the suburbs, tolerate endless roadworks, traffic blocks, pollution, and delays, like a movie extra standing in line for makeup, while the heroine, South Mumbai (where the government and its minions reside ), gets immediate preferential closeup treatment for minor cracks and pimples on the roads.

Year after year, someone gets paid for shoddy repairs, and year after year some folks continue to come up in life, to unimaginable levels.

Makes you think. It isn't of any use, except maybe for writing verse ? The poem was triggered in Marathi by a comment on FB made by a blogger friend Harekrishnaji, whose new car is probably in tears by now.....the English thinking follows !


(photo courtesy Google, inset : the Moon's surface !)

आयुष्य जरा सुरळीत झालं
आणि
माणूस हुरळून जाउन
त्याचे मन
फार उंच उंच झेपाउ लागलं,
कि
त्याला खाडकन जमीनेवर आणण्याचे
काम
आपले सरकार करते ......
रस्त्यावरचे खड्डे ,
विश्वासाबद्दल खड्डे ,
आश्वासनांचे खड्डे ,
करदात्यांच्या खिशाला खड्डे ,
आणि एकीकडे
कुणा एकाचा खिसा
गरम होउन,
गच्च भरून,
ओतू जात असतो,
आणि त्याच्या निर्लज्जपणाचा
खड्डा वाढतच जातो,
वाढतच जातो......



Life ,
smooth and comfortable,
and the
Mumbaikar
dares to dream
higher,taller,
and skyward....

But the hole-obsessed
powers-that-be
with great relish,
drag him back
to earth
with a thump....

Holes in the roads,
Holes in the trust,
Holes in the promises,
Holes
in the taxpayers' pockets,

While
somewhere else
some one's
pockets
hot in anticipation,
and remorseless,
fill up and overflow.

And
the pothole of shame
in some one's
avaricious life
continues to
grow
out of control....

A Day in the life of ........

Those potholed roads lie flat in apathy,
As she lumbers across carrying the load,
Of humanity,
Revving up with a sneeze,
A delighted exhaust blast,
She siddles up to a busstop.



Tired faces at windows,
Nose on the bar,
watching the battle to enter,
The right to a Square Foot of Steel,
As other feet fight ,
umbrellas as weapons,
Dripping the pollution of the skies.


Some polite moves,
Some leching eyes,
Body contracting to one side,
She clutches her purse,
and the child holding on to schoolbooks,
Wet behind the ears,
Shoes stepping on her sandaled feet,
The toe ring hurts.

And the brown uniform,
taps his punch on the seat rod,
Calls out , and beckons....
"Sir, cant you see,
This is a ladies seat,
Ma'am, come forward..."
And she puts the child ahead,
squeezes against briefcases,
and limbs
Clutching her purse
Getting ahead.

A sudden pothole,
A surprise jerk,
They fall backwards,
They've lost their place,
but fall unhurt,
tumbling over a base,
Cushioned by the humanity of Mumbai,
Packing the monsoon buses.

They dust themselves,
tucking in dishevelled thoughts,
Collect their bags
and Thoughts,
Clutching the rods once again
Ruffling the hair of a child,
Who stands again with his mother,
Facing another schoolday,
Another bus,
Another crowd,
Another rain....
The same life...........