I made it a habit of talking to plants first thing in the morning. The were lush green, flowering and gave joy to the heart.
Is it the summer? Is it the end of their lifetimes? Is it some negligence on my part?
My rose that bloomed non stop for three months is now leafless and its stem is becoming brown.
My tulsi dried, the next one never took off and the third is on probation.
One strain of money-plant is drying up.
My crotons have dried up. One set of plants I got from my brother died in a day, but the seeds are buried there, and I dread to do anything in a hurry lest I don't give it the chance that it deserves.
Yes, there are some healthy, flourishing plants too in the balcony. But somehow, I hesitate to go to them, to talk to them, feeling overwhelmed and guilty. Do I give them hope of fresh life as the season changes, or do I have to root them out and look for fresh plants?
Is this decision easy? It brings with it the weight of responsibility of caring for another life, of taking a decision on whether it is truly dead or if life is dormant, needing just the right circumstances to spring back to life. It seems easier to step back and wait, not go one way or the other.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Holding My Little Finger
He would return from work and fill every bucket, every mug with water before it stopped after freshening up and before having his evening tea.
And then he would settle down with the newspaper, immersed in the crossword.
Once in a while, I would need some drawing done and he would help me out with that - drawing the entire thing as I went about my other activities, like playing, play acting, watching TV.
He would tell me bedtime stories - he would be reclining and I would be up vertical and I would have to shake him awake to continue with the story.
He would ask me to sing - his only expectation of me - and I would howl in reply, singing through tears.
And then, we shifted cities, shifted homes. I grew up from a child to an adolescent.
I was shaken from my comfort zone - having known only one home for 10 years, suddenly I was taken to a city my family was familiar with but I wasn't. I left behind my school, my colony and my friends. From wide streets, I was looking at rooftops from my 8th floor balcony and unable to make out any trace of even lanes between the congested houses. I felt friendless and alone.
My first entrance exam in one school came to naught and I panicked, fearing his disapproval. He just smiled. "There are other schools, don't worry."
I made it in the next (and ironically, I would go back to the first school to complete my senior school). I struggled with the new school, passing only provisionally to the next class. Strangely, no fire and brimstone rained on me. Life seemed placid with just gentle cautioning. But despite having two brothers in IIT (one, in fact, doing his IIM by then), my poor performance in 9th went almost without remark.
And I discovered other sides to the man I called father. His broad mindedness, his easy going nature, and his Taurean temper that flared up once in a while, but never at me.
As I grew, he became less of my father and more a friend - a person I could tell my deepest secrets to without being judged.
And, even living away from home several times and now for several years, that bond remains - father remains friend, with whom I share my secrets, my joys and troubles. He is the listener every woman dreams of (he is not that with my mom, I know...), who shares my interests, and encourages me with his childlike wonder at what he considers my achievements.
I can be me with him.
Love you dad, though I often don't say it.
And then he would settle down with the newspaper, immersed in the crossword.
Once in a while, I would need some drawing done and he would help me out with that - drawing the entire thing as I went about my other activities, like playing, play acting, watching TV.
He would tell me bedtime stories - he would be reclining and I would be up vertical and I would have to shake him awake to continue with the story.
He would ask me to sing - his only expectation of me - and I would howl in reply, singing through tears.
And then, we shifted cities, shifted homes. I grew up from a child to an adolescent.
I was shaken from my comfort zone - having known only one home for 10 years, suddenly I was taken to a city my family was familiar with but I wasn't. I left behind my school, my colony and my friends. From wide streets, I was looking at rooftops from my 8th floor balcony and unable to make out any trace of even lanes between the congested houses. I felt friendless and alone.
My first entrance exam in one school came to naught and I panicked, fearing his disapproval. He just smiled. "There are other schools, don't worry."
I made it in the next (and ironically, I would go back to the first school to complete my senior school). I struggled with the new school, passing only provisionally to the next class. Strangely, no fire and brimstone rained on me. Life seemed placid with just gentle cautioning. But despite having two brothers in IIT (one, in fact, doing his IIM by then), my poor performance in 9th went almost without remark.
And I discovered other sides to the man I called father. His broad mindedness, his easy going nature, and his Taurean temper that flared up once in a while, but never at me.
As I grew, he became less of my father and more a friend - a person I could tell my deepest secrets to without being judged.
And, even living away from home several times and now for several years, that bond remains - father remains friend, with whom I share my secrets, my joys and troubles. He is the listener every woman dreams of (he is not that with my mom, I know...), who shares my interests, and encourages me with his childlike wonder at what he considers my achievements.
I can be me with him.
Love you dad, though I often don't say it.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Removing Poison
Just as I stood poised to take the bow, be showered with words of praise, for the applause to come, few random, unexpected words lodged themselves in my head, making all accolades bitter. The casual remark, not even meant for my ears directly, had pierced through several tongues to reach me. And like Rama's arrow that found its mark on Vali's chest piercing through seven large trees.
And yet, what was it? Though it pins me down to despair, can I pin the speaker to those words? For nebulous and ambiguous, the syllables change, the words change, the very meaning changes as different people hold the words in their tongues before pouring it into another ear, adding their own thoughts, words and syllables to it.
Am I that? That which someone implied? Or that, which others suggested? Or that, which I think I am?
When my very character is not the same, cannot be comprehended wholly, can those fluid words have more weight, more character, be understood better?
How then do I dislodge it? How do I let the bullet not poison my blood, my mind, my very soul? How do I swim above the overwhelming waves of grief and disappointment, smile truly, not just bravely, hold the eye, not shy away, nor accuse nor pity?
I remain I knowing I am this, and that, and sometimes even that other.
I remain I knowing through all this I am one - true to myself, and not untrue to others.
I remain I, letting my breath fan the fire of my soul and burn the garbage.
And it is then that the bullet is burnt, dissolved, dislodged and yet the poison touches me not.
And yet, what was it? Though it pins me down to despair, can I pin the speaker to those words? For nebulous and ambiguous, the syllables change, the words change, the very meaning changes as different people hold the words in their tongues before pouring it into another ear, adding their own thoughts, words and syllables to it.
Am I that? That which someone implied? Or that, which others suggested? Or that, which I think I am?
When my very character is not the same, cannot be comprehended wholly, can those fluid words have more weight, more character, be understood better?
How then do I dislodge it? How do I let the bullet not poison my blood, my mind, my very soul? How do I swim above the overwhelming waves of grief and disappointment, smile truly, not just bravely, hold the eye, not shy away, nor accuse nor pity?
I remain I knowing I am this, and that, and sometimes even that other.
I remain I knowing through all this I am one - true to myself, and not untrue to others.
I remain I, letting my breath fan the fire of my soul and burn the garbage.
And it is then that the bullet is burnt, dissolved, dislodged and yet the poison touches me not.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
In Search of Perfection
'Murder in the Cathedral' by TS Eliot has several beautiful lines on different aspects of sainthood and destiny. I summarise one of them on saints from memory since I studied this 20 years ago as part of curriculum and am unable to get hold of the book to quote verbatim.
Saints are men who are condemned during their lifetimes; worshiped after their death; criticised after a few decades; and then completely forgotten.
During that time, for the first time (as I entered the wide world from the smaller one of school), I heard Mahatma Gandhi being criticised (by another lecturer) and these lines struck me as very apt. And I wondered about our deep desire to find perfection in human beings even when we know we are made of malleable clay, changing our shape and colour with the times. But somehow, rules seem to change when we examine others' actions and thoughts.
In recent times, there has been similar mud slinging on Mother Teresa and again the question arises - why?
The question to be asked is, why do we raise people on pedestals in the first place? Why do we need gods and saints, only to tear them to bits and throw them in the dustbin later?
Do we forget who we are, what we are capable of and how limited we are? Do we forget how under stress our own behaviour can change; with maturity, our thoughts ripen; with circumstances, our emotions transform?
We seek heroes, and then we seek heroes who will be relevant at all times; if the contexts change, their greatness should somehow still be appropriate; but god forbid if they say or do something relevant to context but making them seem like turncoats!
A tall order indeed, but we go through this cycle again and again.
Though not a cricket fan, with so much being thrust on our faces thanks to the IPL scam - to me IPL itself seemed a scam - I see heroes (not saints by any stretch of imagination) again taking a beating - for not speaking, for not saying enough, for not saying the right things...
Why do we forget what and who made them heroes first?
This post is not in defense of those players. But I think, if we pause, we will know that the images of greatness are built in our mind - encouraged by the 'great' people themselves because they were at the right place at the right time saying and doing the right things. Let's leave them there, give them credit for what they did right, and be aware that they can be wrong.
The stress, in my humble opinion, should be on developing our own ability to judge and be detached so that their fall does not bring us tumbling down too. Inspiration and guidance can come from anywhere. Let's be grateful for that and take only the good.
And let's always remember, they are humans too.
Saints are men who are condemned during their lifetimes; worshiped after their death; criticised after a few decades; and then completely forgotten.
During that time, for the first time (as I entered the wide world from the smaller one of school), I heard Mahatma Gandhi being criticised (by another lecturer) and these lines struck me as very apt. And I wondered about our deep desire to find perfection in human beings even when we know we are made of malleable clay, changing our shape and colour with the times. But somehow, rules seem to change when we examine others' actions and thoughts.
In recent times, there has been similar mud slinging on Mother Teresa and again the question arises - why?
The question to be asked is, why do we raise people on pedestals in the first place? Why do we need gods and saints, only to tear them to bits and throw them in the dustbin later?
Do we forget who we are, what we are capable of and how limited we are? Do we forget how under stress our own behaviour can change; with maturity, our thoughts ripen; with circumstances, our emotions transform?
We seek heroes, and then we seek heroes who will be relevant at all times; if the contexts change, their greatness should somehow still be appropriate; but god forbid if they say or do something relevant to context but making them seem like turncoats!
A tall order indeed, but we go through this cycle again and again.
Though not a cricket fan, with so much being thrust on our faces thanks to the IPL scam - to me IPL itself seemed a scam - I see heroes (not saints by any stretch of imagination) again taking a beating - for not speaking, for not saying enough, for not saying the right things...
Why do we forget what and who made them heroes first?
This post is not in defense of those players. But I think, if we pause, we will know that the images of greatness are built in our mind - encouraged by the 'great' people themselves because they were at the right place at the right time saying and doing the right things. Let's leave them there, give them credit for what they did right, and be aware that they can be wrong.
The stress, in my humble opinion, should be on developing our own ability to judge and be detached so that their fall does not bring us tumbling down too. Inspiration and guidance can come from anywhere. Let's be grateful for that and take only the good.
And let's always remember, they are humans too.
Sunday, May 26, 2013
Encounter with Elephants
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| Good from far, far from good |
Just as we realised there was a calf in the herd which seemed very restless, the elephant turned
towards the jeep ahead of us, its ears flaring and the trunk straight stiff, trumpeting a warning at us.
The jeep driver slowly reversed and we escaped before the herd turned on us belligerently.
We drove a distance, again scanning the forest for other wild animals when this time we saw a lone male elephant. From fire into frying pan, we realised and escaped before the elephant noticed us or decided to explore the intrusion.
Our cottages faced the Kabini river and on returning from the safari, now a bit more reassured that we were safer, we headed to the river and one of the adults swam with his son also taking a dip.
When we returned a while later, we noticed a board at foot level. "You can swim if you want to, and you may find company" - and images of crocodiles were drawn next to it.
Well, we are living still to tell the tale.
But if we enter their territory, we had better be prepared to play by their rules.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
A Lovesong
She curled her gnarled fingers,
In impotent rage
Have you forgotten me
In my old age?
My once lusty body
And lush green mane,
How you sought me
Night and day!
Caressing me gently
With your breeze and drizzle
And in uncontrolled passion
Swaying me with stormy winds.
Sucking from me
All that you could
You leave me now
Alone in the wood.
Your heat sets me aflame still
My aged body helplessly trills
You blaze in glory and leave me no shade
Where are the cooling winds and the rain?
Let me rest in peace now
Cover me with a wafer of cloud
Be loving, be gentle
Show me that you care still.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
The Single Mom
Four to handle, and she was all alone.
Several preying eyes ready to make away with the little ones, though she was the queen of her kingdom.
And the four were handful too, venturing out before their time.
The expression of the tigress as she picked up a vagrant cub just a few days old and watched another rolling off the rocks to the floor was classic. I was watching a documentary on how tigers live and this moment remains etched in my mind. Some males in the animal world help their mates in rearing their children. But the tigress, the leopardess, the bear - they seem to do it alone. Even a leopard will kill a tiger cub, apparently. So when she goes hunting, the tigress has to make sure they are safely hidden from evil eyes as well as get enough for the demanding mouths.
I was wondering, how easy it would be for her to let out a small growl, enough to scare the cubs and tell them their limits. Just one snap of the jaws and the tiger cub would be reduced to nothing. And yet, she patiently went up and down, picking them up gently and placing them up somewhere safe.
As a parent who draws lines very quickly around her children, that patience was remarkable to watch. Let alone intimidating her children, she didn't even stamp her paw in frustration! Not even when she went hunting after they were slightly older, and the little one mewled (for that's what that roar came out as) to show who was the boss, scaring the prey away.
Motherhood indeed seems worth celebrating when you encounter it in this form.
PS: Snake mothers incubate and then scurry away before the snake babies hatch since they eat their own little ones apparently.
Several preying eyes ready to make away with the little ones, though she was the queen of her kingdom.
And the four were handful too, venturing out before their time.
The expression of the tigress as she picked up a vagrant cub just a few days old and watched another rolling off the rocks to the floor was classic. I was watching a documentary on how tigers live and this moment remains etched in my mind. Some males in the animal world help their mates in rearing their children. But the tigress, the leopardess, the bear - they seem to do it alone. Even a leopard will kill a tiger cub, apparently. So when she goes hunting, the tigress has to make sure they are safely hidden from evil eyes as well as get enough for the demanding mouths.
I was wondering, how easy it would be for her to let out a small growl, enough to scare the cubs and tell them their limits. Just one snap of the jaws and the tiger cub would be reduced to nothing. And yet, she patiently went up and down, picking them up gently and placing them up somewhere safe.
As a parent who draws lines very quickly around her children, that patience was remarkable to watch. Let alone intimidating her children, she didn't even stamp her paw in frustration! Not even when she went hunting after they were slightly older, and the little one mewled (for that's what that roar came out as) to show who was the boss, scaring the prey away.
Motherhood indeed seems worth celebrating when you encounter it in this form.
PS: Snake mothers incubate and then scurry away before the snake babies hatch since they eat their own little ones apparently.
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