Of Few Poems and Amaltas..

Sometimes there is not much to write by way of a 'post' but a recurrent thing/theme/object also wouldn't allow one to find peace until one gets it out of one's mind. Come summers, and as its time for the Laburnum flowering, no matter where I am, a surfeit of 'Amaltas' memories start playing in my head. 

The memories go far back to our school days when we would come home on sizzling afternoons and the streets of Delhi would be paved with either the 'gold' of Amaltas or the 'crimson' of Gulmohar. As years passed, the daily 'struggles' and far more 'important' things crowded the mind space and one no longer even spared a thought of the same. And yet, today, nearly two decades years later, staying in a district where I have managed to come across just one Amaltas no matter how hard I try to find, I pine for my hometown and its 'streets of gold'. 

Each time I think of Amaltas, my most stirring memory is that of my dear friend (and hostel mate KC) leaving JNU and two of us setting out early on the day of her departure to take as many pics as possible of our beautiful campus. Today when I look back at those pics, nearly all of them seem to present a yellow splurge in the backdrop. If I am lucky enough to find, I would add to this blog post a pic (of the same tree of gold growing inside our Godavari hostel) that I happened to capture during my last visit (which in turn has precious memories of its own). Though a lot of water has passed under the bridge since we left our alma mater, a few things are caught in a time warp. Am sure each of us who carry a bit of JNU in our hearts, will always also carry a bit of this gold.

Years later as life took me to the arid Bundelkhand where summers meant a challenging time of misery, droughts and fires, and the landscape turned dreary into the color of dust, it was once again only a few trees (Amaltas, Gulmohar, Palash and Mahua) which would provide succor to the eyes and the soul alike. Needless, my 'gilted' memories are the only thing I carried along as I waved goodbye to Bundelkhand twice!

Leaving Delhi almost a decade back (and living in multiple places before I could settle and call Lucknow my home), once again my eyes are invariably drawn to Amaltas in bloom anywhere on the streets of Lucknow. Yet a particular favorite of mine is a feeble Amaltas near the Loreto crossing that I saw everyday on my way to the State Secretariat. It doesn't remain in bloom for long nor there is anything special associated with the same and yet I couldn't help making it a part of my art journal and writing a few lines about it.

There was this lovely yellow tree

Everyday it seemed to be greeting me

On my way to the work

My own little happiness quirk 

 (14 May, 2015)

As I shared my art journal entry (sans the poem) with friends and family, long stories flowed in (not to mention a century of 'likes')! Of particular mention are the two poems I received. Not just that these poems need to be shared, the memories would no longer be complete without them.

अमलतास / गुलज़ार


खिड़की पिछवाड़े को खुलती तो नज़र आता था
वो अमलतास का इक पेड़, ज़रा दूर, अकेला-सा खड़ा था
शाखें पंखों की तरह खोले हुए
एक परिन्दे की तरह
बरगलाते थे उसे रोज़ परिन्दे आकर
सब सुनाते थे वि परवाज़ के क़िस्से उसको
और दिखाते थे उसे उड़ के, क़लाबाज़ियाँ खा के
बदलियाँ छू के बताते थे, मज़े ठंडी हवा के!
आंधी का हाथ पकड़ कर शायद
उसने कल उड़ने की कोशिश की थी
औंधे मुँह बीच-सड़क आके गिरा है!!

The Laburnum Top/ Ted Hughes 

The Laburnum Top is silent, quite still

in the afternoon yellow September sunlight,
A few leaves yellowing, all its seeds fallen
Till the goldfinch comes, with a twitching chirrup
A suddeness, a startlement,at a branch end
Then sleek as a lizard, and alert and abrupt,
She enters the thickness,and a machine starts up
Of chitterings, and of tremor of wings,and trillings -
The whole tree trembles and thrills
It is the engine of her family.
She stokes it full, then flirts out to a branch-end
Showing her barred face identity mask
Then with eerie delicate whistle-chirrup whisperings
She launches away, towards the infinite
And the laburnum subsides to empty

There are a number of people who have stood by us in life's journey and who have left an indelible imprint on our lives. Incidentally, many of them already know of my 'Amaltas love' and were not surprised to receive a-middle-of-the-year-no-rhyme-or-reason 'Thank You' card that carried a pic of (you guessed it) AMALTAS! 

However, the story doesn't end here. I came to know, my 'yellow fever' has truly caught on, when,(living far away from my loved ones,) one morning I unexpectedly received  the adjoining pic and realized sometimes no words need to be said.

House This!!!

House This!!!

All these days I have been trying to take some time out to be able to pen down a few thoughts for my blog but the election fever in the state, A's posting to Odisha on Observer duty and my own transfer on the day he left meant little respite for days to follow. Little N has shown understanding well beyond her years (she's not even 14 months as I write this!) while Mamma discharges the election duty and stays away for hours on end. Once again as I find myself in complete solitude after the day's work and as little N sleeps peacefully after chasing peacocks all day, my thoughts wander back to the days when A was still in Tripura and I endlessly pursued a zillion hobbies to keep my hopes from fading and my energies creatively channelized. 

I had brought along with myself M-i-l's book EASY EMBROIDERY by Lis Paludan and had wanted to start on some work of my own too. The way her book is written, it seemed like a matter of patience and practice before even a novice could embark on embroidery project of sorts. One of my two initial choices was the embroidered houses which seemed simple enough to begin with.

During the recent visit to my parents' house in Delhi, as I looked at the houses I had made, I reminisced about the winter evenings I spent confined to my Agra house all by myself and doing embroidery for hours on end. My dear friend P made an interpretation of the same work too and if it were not for the countless happenings in her life these days, I could have showcased her work too.

The work comprises of 11 houses stacked in three rows of 3-4-4 respectively. In the bottom row for example, the outline of the houses is done with black running stitch, the rooftops are done in pink asymmetrical running stitch, blue satin stitch, yellow chain stitch and dark pink and red chain stitches respectively from left to right. The doors are mostly in chain stitch while the daisy flower petals are done in french bullion knots. The marigold flower and the windows of the second house from left are done in buttonhole stitch.

The Bottom Row

The Middle Row

The middle row too comprises four houses done in outline black running stitch. The roof of the first left house is done in a mix of buttonholes and french bullion knots while the windows are outlined by chain stitch in two colors. The chimneys of all the houses are done in chain stitch. The roof of second house has a double outline done in chain stitch and filled with satin stitch, windows are filled with buttonhole circles and double chain stitched door is adorned with french bullion knots. The third house from left is a classic example of chain stitch and buttonhole stitch while the herringbone roof of the last house lends a real touch to the depiction.

The three houses in the top row are largely a mixture of chain stitch and buttonhole stitch used in tandem.

The Top Row

While I truly hope I have tried my best to preserve the beauty and color scheme of Lis Paludan's work,the unavailability of certain colors' threads and my own lack of discipline coupled with the fact that the project was completed in over six months in different cities with different states of mind, meant a melange of ideas on the fabric. The left panel is my work and the right is the original depiction as given in her book. I really hope my sister M loved her long promised gift when she saw this!

Living next door to office!

Just as the deadline of contributing to the latest issue of our service magazine began to close in and just as I had nearly made up my mind to cut-copy-paste one of my blog posts and pass it on as my write-up for the same, at a decent mid-nightly hour a note slid under our door proved to be the God-sent remedy to cut through the red tape of my thoughts' process. Not that the note was an invite or a congratulatory one, rather it was a NOTICE to us- the residents of the magnificent towers- to shift our belongings out of the common area within three days. 

Prima facie, the notice would appear to be just and right to all our justice-dispensing souls, but when two such souls are caged in a one BHK space for over a year and also have to keep in mind the spatial needs of an infant soul who recently joined them, the case needs to be heard before being summarily dismissed. Needless to mention, given the constant bumping and encroaching tendencies of the souls in question, they have long forgotten their vows of being soulmates!

Let me introduce the case systematically. Given that the concept of one BHK means one bedroom-one bathroom-one kitchen-one wardrobe, and also given that the souls have wisely chosen to reside in the ivory towers despite the huge opportunity cost it entails, how could two souls who have lived in sizeable spaces all their lives (and yes, palatial mansions after joining the esteemed service) be suddenly expected to squeeze all their lives, their belongings and their needs in a less than thousand square foot space and yet be expected to appear nonchalant/cheerful or patient about it. But for the wonderful friendship we have struck with a batch mate from another service ,who has generously given us a room in her house to park our belongings, the paraphernalia we thought would add value to our existence would have all but disappeared by now and left a gaping hole in our hearts and pockets. 

The real crunch is not just for space but also of equally (if not more valuable) privacy. What if any set of parents/relatives/friends decide to visit? While they never tend to resent the arrangements, the fact that a singular bathroom has to be used by many people (even if we leave out our infant), two of whom are expected to reach office in time may be hard to imagine for some of us by now. Not to mention the huge laundry generated by infant's activities which too has to be handwashed each day!

And yes one could straightaway walk right into the house from the main door (the only door) and also get a fair idea of what's cooking for dinner. But if the visitors come late in the evening and expect a quick-fix dinner or snack, they would be rather disappointed- for the helpless souls are literally without any help after six in the evening (If there ain't any space for the owners of the house, it would be ridiculous to expect any for the domestic help.)

Even if one of those souls tries to tide over the frustration by spending longer and longer hours at office, the incidental expenses are enough to leave them fuming at the end of each month. Even after growing up in an expensive city like Delhi, the souls could never imagine the seemingly insurmountable costs of living amidst this swish neighbourhood of Lucknow. Thanks Heavens for sparing us Mumbai, Bangalore or Hyderabad- given our narrow mindsets and even narrower resource sets, we never really deserved it!

While we count being blessed with an Angel as the greatest happiness of our lives, sometimes we truly wonder if we could have managed a little more space for ourselves if it were not for the pram-the highchair-the walker-the laundry lines-the toys et al. However mean or ruthless it might sound, may be life would have been much easier if one were not entrusted with this supreme responsibility of bringing up a kid in addition to the innumerable household chores and yes, the professional élan which the media and the common folks expect us to maintain.

Given that there's little scope for expansion (read stretching) inside the house, there are bound to be spillovers. And when certain items are rather indispensable, one cares two hoots for the outwardly appearances, which as is already the case with the two hopeless souls in picture, are supremely deceptive! Now it needs serious soul-searching on their parts to be able to find space to shift their stuff by the time these words see the clear light of the day.

Memories

“Forgetting isn't enough. You can paddle away from the memories and think they are gone. But they will keep floating back, again and again and again  They circle you, like sharks. Until, unless, something, someone? Can do more than just cover the wound. ” 
― Sara Zarr, Story of a Girl

In our day to day lives, one keeps complaining about forgetfulness. Whenever I think of Iris Murdoch or John Nash, I can't help but feel scared of losing my ability to remember and retain things altogether one day. And yet, when one tries to forget something and stash it away for all years to come, one realizes how powerful our memories are and the influence they wield on us. Often, our personalities, our character, our emotions and our abilities are shaped by the circumstances of  our past and the lives we have led.

As a quizzer in my early days of school and university, I always took pride in my eidetic memory. I could clearly remember my interactions with people, the place in the background, the clothes that somebody had worn, the events of the day and just about everything. Its been as if a particular moment gets frozen in my mind for all times to come.

Yet, as years have passed, I often find that my mind is also a huge obstacle in several ways. Events which should have long being forgotten, words which should  have not been spoken and things which should not have happened continue to resound in my mind as if it was only yesterday.  Sometimes, the burden of these memories becomes too much to bear and I can not help feeling overwhelmed.

Occasionally,these memories prevent me from making a fresh start when the situation warrants or make it impossibly difficult to do so. Often, the memories of the times we cherished the most are always the most difficult to deal with and make us long for things which can not be.

At times, I fear returning to old places. The reality of current times and the changed circumstances might ruin a perfect place etched forever in my memory. I treasure the smells of a place and the familiar sights and will never be able to accept any changes therein. The fresh smell of paint after Diwali each year, the lush smells of vegetation in JNU during the monsoons, the cold musty feeling of Academy rooms, the slow arrival of winters in Delhi, the aroma of my mother's food, the crisp feel of a new notebook, the familiar roadside bazaars of small UP towns.. Sometimes, life seems to be nothing more than a string of these memories.


Nobody can rob us of our memories and no amount of money can lighten their burden either. As life chugs along each day, newer memories accumulate, yet the old ones at best soften but do not fade. While we set our goals and go about our business to accomplish them, we need to spare a thought to build/do something memorable too. Because long after our lives come to an end, these memories remain and we are known by the kind of memories associated with us.

I share a beautiful passage to conclude:
“memories were tricky things…they weren’t stable. they changed with perception over time. …they shifted, and [she] understood how the passage of time affected them. the hard working striver might recall his childhood as one filled with misery and hardship marred by the cat calls and mae calling of playground bullies, but later, have a much more forgiving understanding of past injustices. the handmade clothes he had been forced to wear, became a testament to his mother’s love. each patch and stitch a sign of her diligence, instead of a brand of poverty. he would remember father staying up late to help him with his homework – the old old man’s patience and dedication, instead of the sharpness of his temper when he returned home – late- from the factory. it went the other way as well.

[she] had scanned thousands of memories of spurned women, whose handsome lovers turned ugly and rude. roman noses, perhaps too pointed. eyes growing small and mean. while the oridnary looking boys who had become their husbands, grew in attractiveness as the years passed, so that when asked if it was love at first site, the women cheerfully answered yes. memories were moving pictures in which meaning was constantly in flux. they were stories people told themselves.” 

― Melissa de la Cruz, The Van Alen Legacy