Murthi - Quick bites for spare moments: musings

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Copyright: Author

ISBN 978-93-813847-6-3

Edition: April 2011

The Copyright of this book, as well as all matter contained herein (including illustrations) rests with the Publishers. No person shall copy the name of the book, its title design, matter and illustrations in any form and in any language, totally or partially or in any distorted form. Anybody doing so shall face legal action and will be responsible for damages.

O nce upon a time, the middle had a pride of place in almost every major newspaper. It was right at the centre of the edit page. Other sombre or thought-provoking or scholarly articles acted, in a way, as maids in waiting to the middle.

The middle was looked upon as the midriff, the backbone of the edit page.

I started writing middles in that golden age when the middle was duly accorded the place consistent with its title.

Good times, it is said, never lasts. The middle enjoys hardly any privileged slot now. Many newspapers have cut down on the frequency of the middle from six days a week to two or three. Even when it appears, it has been demoted to the bottom right corner or the bottom left corner. Thus has the middle been cornered, pushed to the edge. Now, it wont need much of a strong push to throw the middle out. So I, for one, wont be surprised if the middle joins the dodo in the none-too distant future. I draw solace from the philosophy, Life is transient, so why should a genre of creative writing like the middle not find itself put away as not suited to the new age?

Not that this augurs well for the future. Man doesnt live by bread alone. He needs butter and honey and biscuits and choice drinks too. The middle, along with the short story and the poems, provides just the diversion the reader needed. Having mopped up the terrible tales of tragedies and disheartening reports of the ugly deals of politicians and the mess, the world leaders have made of our earth, he virtually seeks a pill to dispel the pain within. Literary genre of writing, now slowly fading out, play the role of the pill.

I hope this truth dawns on the readers, sooner or later. The middle, I still, believe will survive. For the middle has neither a beginning nor an end. It may take new incarnations, assume new formats, but it will be around, hopefully, till Armageddon.

I started writing middles around 1960. The middles in this collection, (the fourth such collections), have been extracted from leading English language publications including The Times of India, The Hindustan Times, The Tribune, The Indian Express, The Deccan Herald, The Evening News, The Statesman, The Pioneer, The Patriot, Femina and Eves Weekly. In these middles, I have spared none. I have been as much the target of my witty digs as others.

It is my fervent hope that this collection will be as well received as the previous ones.

M y wife is stirring the mash ed ingredients, submerged in water and held in a pot that gets the heat from the bottom, with a spoon. I get a whiff of the exotic smell and ask her, Whats the pot boiler of the day? There goes the writer in you, says my better half. I am not going anywhere till I know what is cooking? I dig in my heels. Go and produce a potboiler, try to hit the jackpot. Take a potshot at potluck. This is the best of time for Indian writers. Heard of Manil Suri or Jumpa Lahiri or ! They hit the jackpot with their potboilers, the lady fresh at me a virtual who-is-who of terms that are rooted in the word POT. So my skill at playing with words has rubbed on to you, I mildly reprove her for trying to steal my thunder. Words are not your monopoly, she gives an extra churning to the mix of tomatoes and green chilly and tamarind pulp and salt and the intoxicating smell of rasam hits my olfactory organ. So I cant even file a case against you before the Monopoly Commission, I joke. You are barking at the wrong pot, my wife parodies an idiom that talks about barking at the wrong tree. Go and fire your creativity. Set its bottom, wherever it be, on fire. Why do you want the bottom to be set on fire? I ask.

Elementary, my dear! The pot boils only when its bottom is set on fire. The rocket takes to fight only when its bottom is on fire. Your imagination will fly high only when it is forced to drag its seat away from the scalding heat, my wife shares her understanding of where the heat needs to be selectively applied. It is not as easy as all that, dear. The path of creativity is often littered with potholes, I find the right POT word. Is not a POT a hole? A hole with no hole at the bottom, so it becomes a one-way street to whatever one wants to boil in the pot? she jokes. My God! Potholes are what litter a bad road, I clarify. As if I dont know! she ticks me off before continuing, Have you heard of pot wrestlers? Do wrestlers fight for pots? I make light of her statement. They do. One who wins the pot gets the dish the pot contains, when it is fresh and hot and truly delicious. He has his first fill. Others wait for their turns. Strange that he is usually the one who doesnt have a potbelly. Others display varying patterns of bulging tummies and resultant slowness when it comes to wrestling it out for the pot. Are there a few more pot shots in your armoury? I have half a mind to use a term that shows the targets intelligence in poor light, she laughs, leaving it to me to guess the word, CRACKPOT. Suddenly, it dawns on me. I have enough material for a skit. So I hurry out, ready to churn out a potboiler with words.