Akshayvat, Majhi, Lucknow/ Giant Banyan Tree of Lucknow

Just as I was preparing to pen down another beautiful memory, I was suddenly reminded of the Giant Banyan Tree at Majhi Village (Lucknow). At the onset of last summer, I managed to cajole my best friend for a short early morning visit to one of the largest banyan canopy in the country, which happened to be located on the outskirts of Lucknow. During a random internet search, I had read about it here and here. While the scientific aspects are elaborated in the shared links, I could only gaze at it in awe.

 

                                                               

While the tree isn't particularly renowned like the Giant Banyan of Calcutta, anonymity helps in that this single-tree-forest has survived unscathed amongst the expansive mango orchards all around. In line with the reverence bestowed upon all things natural by the religious minded, there's an ashram nestled beneath this huge umbrella. While millions flock to a nearby (unimpressive) Parijaat Tree, this natural wonder is largely unknown to even the devotees of nearby Temple.

While I hope and pray that this shaded canopy remains untouched by the 'development' all around, I shall treasure the serenity of the location at the time of my visit. I shall always remember this tree as the banyan that stands around the corner in most neighbourhoods of this country, where children play, women worship and adults sit down for their daily gossip. I hope in an effort to 'showcase' it, it doesn't end up being damaged like the fabled Parijaat. 

Stand tall dear one. I look up to the likes of you. 

Your tenacity and strength reminds me of the root bridges in another part of this country.

I will remember my Happiness beneath your shade.

https://outreachecology.com/landmark/resources/the-largest-trees-in-the-world/
https://www.greenogreindia.org/manjhi-akshayavat-lucknows-immortal-banyan-tree/

Letter to a Banyan tree

Dear Banyan

What does it take to be like you? I see you umpteen times a day standing tall and strong and feel dwarfed by your grandeur. The strongest of winds barely manage to ruffle your feathers. It takes repeated attempts at trying to contain your spread with walls and trenches and yet you do not stop growing. No matter how hard they try, the wind is your messenger and carries your seed far and wide. You never stop being a shelter to any bird that perches on your branches. You provide the coolest shade even under the strongest sun. You exude beauty even without the sweet smelling blossoms. You are a silent witness to history but never the one to participate because you remember your purpose of existence. Who else deserves to be worshipped like you. 

I do not wish to be revered. But I do pray you to give me the strength to grow roots wherever I am planted, no matter how many times I am uprooted. Give me the tenacity to stand tall in face of the harshest winds and the blazing sun. Let me continue to survive knowing the sweetness of water even if the ground beneath my feet is parched. Please do teach me to always remember who I am than being pulled into the changing world around me.

I know a number of hearts would break if someday you weren't around. That would be a life lived well. That would be your answer to years of history lying forgotten in books. And you will continue to live in stories passed on to generations. 

I sincerely hope you will continue to pull me back to yourself no matter how far I might drift. And I know you will always be there..

Conversations in the Dark-2

A typical conversation in India would never be complete without sharing notes on food. So typical-proud-Indians that we are, from three different parts of the country, leading different lives, a large part of our conversation also has an element of food and feast to it. Often, we chat away recalling the Wednesday Biryani menu and Friday Egg-Curry in Godavari Mess. And not to mention the chai-paratha from the adjoining Godavari Dhaba. Or the Rasam Tina made and Bindu's inimitable Kheer cooked in our hostel rooms. We even remember the whacky menus like Bhindi-Chhole we had to cope with on days. And still we were never under-nourished. Not to mention the nourishment our memories and conversations provide.

Me and Bindu- Tina, what did you prepare for dinner today?

Tina- How do I explain to you guys.. Let's say eggplant and drumstick gravy.

Me and Bindu- Phew! Who eats that? What a terrible combination. We can only have eggplant fry and bharta. 

Bindu (adds)- I only have drumstick when I am sick.

Tina- What did you guys have?

Me (grumbled incoherently)

Bindu (visibly drooling)- Chicken fry

Me and Tina- Wow! Where do you get chicken in these times? How lucky..

Bindu (at her wisest)- Had it to get it for feeding the dogs. My mother just sneaked a portion of the same and served specially for me

Me and Tina- Laughing

Bindu- I mean not the same thing that was served to dogs.. a bit of it was kept and cooked specially for me by mom..

All of us- That's what life in Corona has come to be- surviving on dog food if need be. Or any food that tastes like dog food!

Conversations in the Dark-1

So the story goes back to year 2004.. JNU.. Three of us stayed in the same corridor of Godavari Hostel.. Me doing Economics.. Bindu and Tina in Political Science. Bindu from Presidency, Calcutta and Tina from Presidency, Madras. Over polite introductions, we decided to go the hostel roof. And once there, we cried our hearts out over missing home. A decade later, of all the things we shared in days to come, this memory remains our dearest.

Now a decade and half later, (having weathered much in our lives,) thanks to Corona and the time at our hands, we decided to form a group and bond again. Only this time, we hope never to stay out of touch for long again. Sometimes it seems we were never apart and we didn't grow a bit in the intervening years. And our conversations in the dark are as interesting as ever.

Bindu- The only time I go out these days is to feed the stray dogs near my home. Though I am a dog lover, but one particular dog howls a lot at me. Turns out he is the only male and my mom attributes my man-hater instincts to be understood by dog.

Tina- Let it bark.

Me- (in all my feminist glory)- Tell the dog to behave properly and eat whatever is given without howling.

Bindu (admitting guiltily)- Since all other dogs are females, I think my misandry comes to the fore subconsciously and I give less to the male dog compared to others.

Me- So what.. at least you are feeding him each day

Bindu- (laughing out loud)- Imagine me with all the education we had, I am trying my feminism in feeding dogs..

Me(laughing louder)- And me, with all the years in governance and policy, telling you to tell the dog to shut up!! (How dare a male (of any species) try to intimidate us..)

The Invasion of my Inbox

I have been lamenting silently on multiple counts since Lockdown was announced in this part of the world. It was a routine weekend visit to A and now after three weeks, we are staying put for another three. Till recently my lamentations could have been ignored by my own 'greater' self on account of their trivial nature. But now that this space has been devoted to airing of grievances, I better lighten myself by recounting them.

• Of all the things, I missed being unable to go out anymore- for the runs, the walks and general contemplations.
• In the absence of an oven, baking (one of my greatest loves) was ruled out too. Not that one would have obtained the ingredients. And yes, I missed the regular cheese sandwich due to unavailability of good bread. 
• The fact that I am stuck in a place other than my own home, meant my urban jungle of an apartment would be withering due to lack of water and sunshine.
• And since the place where I am has only the nature's bounty to placate you, I miss being unable to capture the russet sunsets and pink supermoons on my DSLR; Or paint the myriad hues of spring in watercolors.
• Further, selfish as it may all sound, I lamented wearing the same set of clothes every few days too. 
• To make things more difficult, A was constantly away with his work responsibilities.
• And lastly, the fact that for the first time since I became a mom of two, I have been stuck with both 24*7 without any family member to offer reprieve. 

And yet there were a million blessings to be thankful each day for. The fact that four of us were together, that all of us were healthy and safe, that our plates were full, that I have rarely had this kind of time with kids at home, that the kids still had a place to play outdoors, that there was time and access to any book on my Kindle and that it was a  beautiful place to be locked in (just as spring was receding) meant we were managing pretty well in the beginning.

Till of course the school announced the beginning of online classes. At first, we thought at least the elder one will be gainfully engaged in the pre-lunch hours and I might actually get some breathing space to do the little ones chores. It was not to be. The Little One (all of 4) too had to join a half an hour class at 9. So far, we are operating on the assumption that all daily chores (including feeding and bathing the kids) would be over by nine and there would be at least two electronic devices on which both kids could attend separately. (Let's not even think of the explicitly stated requirement of separate space for both kids without any household disturbance.)

Still, I (leave out A because he has to attend a 24*7 emergency job) decided to play cooperative-modern-voiceless-computer educated-devices possessing mother of two. I thought I could connect (older) N on my tablet and the little (S) on my phone. Worth mentioning that after six months of persuasion since A took over this place, he finally managed to retrieve and share the wi-fi password for seamless connectivity. As instructed in the mail, I promptly downloaded ZOOM and installed on my devices. Yet it occurred to me that since teachers too were operating from home, each subject teacher would have a distinct username and password. On reading the fine print of school mail and repeatedly pestering the (virtual) class teacher, I was enlightened about student email and received the login and password for the same (please do not confuse this with the subject teachers' zoom id and passwords) only hours before the first class. Its important to clarify that all correspondence was mailed on student id, and only as and when the teachers deemed fit on one or both of the parents email. And since all assignments were to be viewed and submitted through Google classrooms and Google Drive, I had no option but to bite my lip and curse the heavens, while deleting my account and configuring the tablet with N's email id and specifications. Lastly, it was also not as if all teachers could get Zoom going on their ends the very first day and at least one had sent the link of google hangouts, which again had to be downloaded and installed.

Complicated as it may sound, so far each and every word of this post is true. Now on the D-day, we managed to stuff breakfasts into the little mouths and the first class for both could be connected somehow. I had failed to take the credit for bringing up my kids without any exposure to screens of any sort- TV, mobile, tablet etc. Only now I may not be given any, since N constantly fumbles with the mute-unmute feature and I have to rush to her aid, every time teacher announces her name. Also, to our horror, after each class, we had to help her key in the username and password after copying from the mail. And till date, sometimes we are just unable to connect at all.

While I considered myself deft at technology, how do you excel when the rules of the game (read username and passwords) are changed every day. S refused to sleep soundly for nearly a week and we gave up on his class for the last week. Yet, N had to join and learn and grow. Every night before sleep I prepare a primer of each subject username and password to help her navigate if I am temporarily stuck (inside the bathroom or in the kitchen). But all of this is nothing compared to the deluge of mails we receive in our inbox. (Sometimes, I even smell patriarchy when some teachers decide to write to A alone.) One could have helped writing this post, if there were only assignments to be submitted- there are rules on how they are to be submitted, then there is advice for parents on how students should submit, further there is further advice for sending a notification once the scanned pages of the notebook are uploaded and there is a deadline. In addition, there are videos to be made and uploaded (Trust my internet to (fail to) support anything above 10MB). Still, the teacher gets N's name wrong (say N became some random M) while reviewing her work online- so much for the child's recognition! 

And while I write this, I realize teachers too are moms and/or perhaps have loads of household work to deal with just as well. Also, the school S and N attend was chosen specifically for its no stress curriculum and it has been a beautiful journey so far. Despite the overwhelming goodness, I can not see a single mail from outside school contact in my inbox. Of all the things I hate about Corona, and its multifarious invasions into people's lives, the invasion of my inbox is what hurts me the most. It seems that my identity has been erased by my role as a mother of two school-going children. And while I had indeed erased my identity from my android tablet, the computer science resource sheet tells me N is supposed to be learning Windows!

Of three recipes and Sitapur Days..

"When I'm older I'll understand" said Lucy, " I am older and I don't think I want to understand", replied Edmund” 

― C.S. Lewis, The Chronicles of Narnia

Life can be strange. We put down roots when we least expect and we become uprooted when we least desire. In a profession, where part of the job is to remain detached and move at the moment's notice, and yet, when it is required of you to nurture a place like your own kid, often it is the places which grow upon us. The invisible layers of dust and the grime we accumulate each day become difficult to unravel for the rest of our lives. Sometimes when I sleep, I do not remember which house I am in, and I do not remember what it would be like when I wake up. The houses, the long shadows of the evening, the chirping of the birds, the noise of cicadas become imprinted like childhood memories.

There are places and stories I wish I could write about before they evaporate. Sometimes I shut my eyes tight to keep those pictures alive. For me each of these 'stay' is like stumbling upon Narnia in some forgotten wardrobe- too difficult to conjure living in a box apartment in a city but every bit real because a slice of my lifetime belongs to that place. Sitapur was a Narnia-Wonderland rolled into one. So many lessons. So many memories. But in the end the decision to leave did not even take more than a minute. And once the decision is made, everything that seemed to fit into a pattern, seems like a chore, a burden and lastly, no longer one's own.

Of the innumerable indelible imprints I will carry upon my soul, I will hold the recipes of Khichdi, Pasta and Sooji Kheer most valuable. I have waited a long time to write these recipes down for the interesteds. However, with the passage of time (and more importantly age which is inversely proportional to available time and energy), it seems more important being able to let the memory stay alive first. It has been a year since I left and now I find it hard to even believe all of it existed.

To put it simply, I may never set foot in our Sitapur house again but every time we prepare these three dishes (Sooji Kheer being the breakfast staple of my little one each day), we will remember you Durga and Bishan. We will remember the countless meals we savoured. Of all the things I learnt in Sitapur, these three by far have rendered the greatest happiness and satisfaction. While you may never know, both of you will live in our family recipes for a long time to come.

"You can't just eat good food. You've got to talk about it too. And you've got to talk about it to somebody who understands that kind of food.” 

― Kurt Vonnegut, Jailbird

Rain on the roof

We live in a house that's no less than 150 years old. Yet the roof of the western wing that we occupy was recently done by one of the previous occupants. And while the original part of the house remains well lit and airy, our part was poorly ventilated and dark, till we forcibly modified it to make way for some air and light.

Yesterday was the first time this season we decided to put on the air conditioner for the night (With better air circulation we could have perhaps managed longer. The days are pleasant when the doors and windows are wide ajar, and the evenings outside still have a slight nip in the air.)

I woke up with a start to the sound of water. My worst nightmare was a burst pipe drenching 'precious' somethings somewhere. (And the house has had enough of these to thank my stars amongst others for children saved from a burst geyser pipe not once but twice, a short-circuit that could have well been a full blown fire.) 

A groggy me opened the door of the nearest ante-room to find big drops of rain beating hard against the parched earth. It was the sound of the rain on the roof that woke me up in the first place. 

As I quickly tried to close the window shutters, I couldn't bring it upon myself to do the same. I found myself awash with the fragrance of dry earth soaking its soul to the pelting rain. In that sleepy moment, I realized the meaning of PETRICHOR. In that dazed instant, I  realized why it was the most expensive itr. Something tells me it's the way our souls connect at the end of separations. 

And then the clock told me it is five in the morning, that my colicky baby allowed me to sleep only an hour before, that my phone is still in wind-down-mode and I can't seize the moment except in thoughts, and that I must let it roll over like a dream and get some sleep before my daughter's online class begins in a couple of hours. There's only as much for the life we live but so much more for the ones we LOVE.

Standing tall and strong

I feel so dwarfed by this majestic tree. It stands tall while the winds try to rustle its leaves. A silent witness to the years of history in making. A canopy of shade to a house caught in time warp. No portrait can capture its sheer magnificence.

Of a forever gone friend and full moon..

Dear @

It's been years and yet every time I see a full moon I am reminded of our conversation long ago. It was May.. around the time of your birthday.. We just managed to sneak in a telephone call somehow while we were both busy preparing for the counting of votes on the following day.. Now when I think of it I am convinced I must have called to wish you on your birthday. But I do not remember exactly. What I remember is that you noticed the roosting call of the peacocks on my end. And asked me to send you a picture. And since those were early days when camera phones clicked hazy pictures, I brought  out my bulky DSLR. (And you were terribly happy with the shots when I must have sent them much later.) And it was our small moment of shared joy while we lived in two different world miles apart. In the madness that pervades election season in this country, hanging around with a friend (even if on a phone call, and there were no video calls then) was a stolen luxury.

I can no longer send the moon pics to you. And moon continues to fascinate me as ever. Yet having lived through more than 400 full moons in my life, nothing compares to the memory of that day etched in that pic. We never knew it would be the first and the last Lok Sabha election for both of us- but for different reasons. 

I have learnt to appreciate the beauty of moon (and everything big and small) not knowing what tomorrow might bring. I see moon when the faces' of my children light up upon seeing me.. I see moon when a lone bulb (yet to be replaced by CFL) lights up a long winding street.. I see moon in rivers, and lakes and puddles reflecting glimmers of light from insignificant sources.. And I have also learnt meanwhile, however bright and resplendent the sun may shine, it is no match for the serene beauty of moon.

Remember you just as fondly each day,

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