Peace vela, a non-report (of a non-day)

Sometimes one wonders why certain things happen. I had confirmed my attendance at the Peace Mela many days ahead and thought that I was looking forward to hear Javed Aktar, Peter Griffin and Rohinton Daruwala render their poetic thought. This wasn’t going to be that easy.
The day began with fever and tiredness and exhaustion of the previous day's house cleaning and clutter removal drive. I missed the whole morning of 2nd October and woke up at noon. Doing an ‘eena meena mina more’ I still decide to go.
“Horiman circle”, I told the cabbie. He took me to Bombay Gymkhana saying “here’s where all people gather”. A kindly gentleman corrected the error in my path by ushering me with further directions.

I sit on the steps of the Asiatic Library waiting for the show to begin, sipping my diet coke. Soon enough I realize I am in the wrong place. I had to be at Horiman garden at this time. The poetic renditions, for which I had tossed the gold coin, was over by then.
And by the time I check out the Peace Tree I lose my place on the library steps.

I am awarded with one perspective though (presented below) and the occasional male gaze. So all is not lost.

The placards dangling from the Peace Tree are clichéd and beaten path. Even David Israel’s poem doesn’t cut grass. Most writings were force-fitted, forced-rhymed and similar in the imagery of non-violence, Gandhi’s philosophy, blood, war, war weapons, war cries, war widows, orphan wails and word play of ‘peace’ and ‘piece'. But there were some exceptions, like:
1. the story about two soldiers who would have been friends had they met at another place, another time: a railway station, probably.
2. the peace a girl gets after tasting her mother’s sweet meats made from pure ghee.
3. (not interesting but certainly different account) of a childhood recollection of learning of Gandhi’s assassination on the way to her town’s customary prayer meeting.
4. Jerry Pinto’s poem is inward-looking and self-involved but cuts through the white noise on the Peace tree. I had a grouse that it cut the reader out and made her feel like an outsider but a strong poem it was.
Two bats silently dangled from the inner branches of the Peace Tree. If they were trying to convey some philosophical message by mimicking the placards, I clearly missed it. But then I missed the musical too.
I was in the right place at the wrong time.

In the night, I dreamt of Jugal. I and an unknown friend were telling him things I had discovered about Caferati. It was a long conversation or rather a passionate confession and I could see Chinese bamboos quivering in the background. That’s all I remember and then another tangential dream where there were scores of flies or insects covering something. I wanted to know what they were hiding but my dream mileage had run out. I was awake into a new morning, looking through sore (conjunctivitis) and sleepy eyes at a ‘come alive’ painting. Someone had created morning calm and set it rippling across the Powai lake. There were three boats pegged onto this translucent surface. Here now peace had arrived, a whole day late.

© Rochelle Potkar
Renaissance Hotel