"Narayani, inga va!" (Narayani, come here), called out my grandma when we visited her at Aurangabad. Assuming it was the maid she was addressing, I peered into the kitchen. The said Na-ra-ya-ni had four paws and a mew. Surprise. As she slurped a dishful of milk, a laughing cousin informed me that her daughter was called 'Kalyani'. The names, courtesy our dear granny of course.
Granny wasn't really an animal lover, but somehow she seemed to have taken to Mrs. Narayani and her offspring. Nevertheless, she warned us against getting too close to furs. To add emphasis to her point, she told us the story of a man in the neighbourhood whose cat one day suddenly decided to claw his face and draw blood.
When I was a toddler, I once visited Mysore with my parents. We stayed with my father's aunt, a sprightly woman in her seventies whose ancient widow's costume and shaven head teased my curiosity even as they gave her a formidable appearance. In her backyard was a litter of kittens. She would put out milk for them every morning. Now and then I would steal quick glances at them till one of them mewed at me, sending me scampering into the house. As a child I was scared of cats and terrified of dogs.
Some very weird people like cats. Like T.S. Eliot and Roger Maioli.
Must admit people think up great names for pets when they use their imagination. Tanmay is certain the decentest pet's name would be 'Newton'. Then there is Rog's imaginary future cat called 'Shmul' (never asked him where he got that name from or if he made it up) which will keep him company as he pores over tomes of hard-bound, gold-embossed books and sips steaming coffee.
My granny used to tell me when cats shut their eyes they assume the world disappears. Whoosh!
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
To Marguerite -- Continued
Matthew Arnold
Yes! In the sea of life enisled,
With echoing straits between us thrown,
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,
We mortal millions live alone.The islands feel the enclasping flow,
And then their endless bounds they know.
But when the moon their hollows light,
And they are swept by balms of spring,
And in their glens, on starry nights,
The nightingales divinely sing;
And lovely notes, from shore to shore,
Across the sounds and channels pour—
Oh! Then a longing like despair
Is to their farthest caverns sent;
For surely once, they feel, we were
Parts of a single continent!
Now round us spreads the watery plain—
Oh might our marges meet again!
Who ordered that their longing’s fire
Should be as soon as kindled, cooled?
Who renders vain their deep desire?
A God, a God their severance ruled!
And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumbed salt, estranging sea.
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