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/

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,

$

Of live music!

It's strange how a  song from a distant day can trigger a flood of memories. While shuffling songs on the player today morning, I heard the familiar beats of Tu Aashiqui Hai and was transported back to the year 2008. My second year of graduation. AIIMS annual fest. We were there for the finals of the India Quiz, waiting in the last rows of the auditorium. It must have been 7 in the evening. A music competition was being conducted on stage and I wasn't paying attention. But more than anything that day I remember the performance of a college band who played 'Tu Aashiqui Hai'. It wasn't the era of mobile recordings but till my last breath I will remember their rendition. I do not even remember if they won but it was the beginning of a lifelong romance for live music. I hadn't heard the original but when I did, it did not even remotely capture the magic of that performance, that evening.

What is it with certain notes at certain times that, that moment remains frozen forever. Sometimes I feel as if there is music for our ears and then there is music for our souls. The latter is the kind which strikes a chord deep inside and nourishes from within. I do not as much remember the songs I play everyday as the songs we sang on our journeys, on our special get togethers and the songs I heard my parents or my grand parents sing. That was all the live music we needed then and even now.

December 2018. On a rain drenched christmas eve in Nuremberg, I heard the mellifluous strains of 'Hallelujah'. As people milled around the Europe's oldest Christmas market, it was as if that quartet conveyed the timeless spirit of the festival through their music. That is what a European Christmas will mean forever. Perhaps their notes will carry the sound of their music way too far, for way too long.

And just as I was least expecting any musical interlude, over dinner at a neighbourhood place, I heard the most beautiful piece of violin in my life. Perhaps my word is too small or perhaps my soul hasn't been drenched in enough music as yet. But these three live performances will remain 'alive' forever. Of all the things I try to share in life, these will be exceptions. Nothing could recreate their magic, nothing could replace/replicate those notes etched in my memory.  During my last, I hope these will be the moments that will flash before my eyes. These will be the moments which will assure of a life well lived.

Of Jamuns..

My first post from Sitapur. Three months have whirled by and I have never quite found anything as fascinating to merit a post. The days follow a mundane pattern and often being occupied at office, I found 'fruit lunch' as a solution to menu related inquiries. As rains draw in, watermelons begin to lose their colour and sweetness and I requested for replacement with whatever fruit was locally available in abundance (in addition to our super abundant mangoes of course!). 

To my astonishment (and immense nostalgia), I was presented with a plateful of Jamuns today. In the past decade of serving in Uttar Pradesh, of all the fruits that grow well in this part of the country, I never imagined Jamuns could be one. To us, Jamuns have always been small black-blue-violet berries which dot the pathways of parks and public gardens and leave amethyst streaks wherever they fall. It is a common sight to find folks gathering the edible ones for consumption in such parks and streets. Growing up in Delhi, I only remember buying Jamuns in small newspaper pouches (which never contained say more than 10) and thought like most berries (falsa and shahtoot) these must be rare and not meant to be eaten heartily.

And yet when I was brought that plate of Jamuns, it suddenly took me almost three decades back. I clearly remember the day it had rained heavily all night, there was a storm and there was no power in our part of the city. Therefore, as soon as our school van deposited us (the very few who had braved the weather to attend the school) at the gate of our small school building, to our utmost glee, a huge branch of the lone Jamun tree in the school courtyard had fallen. With no electricity to keep us indoors and the absence of sun outside, we were given an impromptu picnic of sorts. I remember filling the pockets of my rust colored skirt and everybody else doing the same. But what I remember most is my sister suggesting we empty our 'Milton' water bottles and fill them with Jamun too (and we did that eventually only to present our Mother with squashed Jamuns upon arrival and also the problem to clean that bottle somehow!).

From that day in late 80s to the day I saw these Jamuns today, I have no other memory of a Jamun feast. In reality, I do not even remember eating or buying Jamuns eversince I am on my own. And yet as I write this post, it occurs to me now why my 'Nani' (grandmother) always referred to the color purple as 'jamuniya'. While I believe purple is my favourite colour, the connection never occurred to me before. Nani is no longer around and others in the family refer to color purple as 'baingani' (like a brinjal). Like many memories which evaporate or remain tucked in some unknown corner, this was one. 

For once I am contented and grateful for the surprises life offers us. For once, I am astonished how stories of life resurface unbeknownst. For once, my plate is full and I relish what I have!

A splendid Sunday.. and the long awaited walk to the river!

Wheat fields!

Today was an ordinary Sunday like any other but sometimes the crisp blue skies and the yellow sunshine make all the difference. Even before I could properly open my eyes, I could see the golden beams of sunshine knocking on my vintage glass doors. In a place like this where winters are literally bone chilling and there's no sun for days on end, a sunny radiant morning has the power to lift spirits instantly. After bath and breakfast, I decided to just stroll around.

Perhaps the opportunity beckoned. I digressed from the my regular walking route and into the vegetable patch and wheat fields. With a little help from Prisma and phone camera, I too could immortalize my memory of this day with my own series on wheat fields. And being reminded of  VanGogh's wheatfields' series, I realize why artists are often drawn to the beauty of what might appear to others as the ordinary and the mundane. It was also an education of sorts to witness how broccoli and lettuce grow.

When I had broached the possibility of walking from our house to the river bank (the proximity of the river was known to me thanks to Google Maps) to our staff few days back, I was not just discouraged on account of the fear of wild animals and snakes, I was also told how impossible it was to cross the the boundary wall of the campus.Yet the spirit of adventure (attributable to heavy dosage of Ruskin Bond stories) refused to die and as a first step, I thought it would be interesting to survey the wall itself and check if it offers any recess for me to disappear quietly. While the wall appears low and easily surmountable from a distance, upon reaching near, I discovered that it was toughened concrete and there was also a trench running alongside which was overgrown with low bushes and thorny shrubs. Yet the view of the house from the wall was a joy in itself and I continued walking parallel to the wall (not to mention my socks and shoes which were soaked in mud by now from walking on damp farm soil of the fabled wheat fields). 

My doubts over the idea of an impenetrable fortification were shortly confirmed when I discovered a section of the wall that had possibly been vandalized for either ease of access or some other petty theft like mangoes etc. However, that little egress was also my portal to the magical realm beyond my boundary walls. With an escort in tow (who was even more game), and Google Maps for general sense of direction, I embarked upon my little expedition.

The 'pucca nala' behind the campus walls and the mango orchard in the distance

It became clear that if I managed to cross the adjoining sugarcane fields and the mango orchard behind my house, the river would be less than 200 m away. However, there was a brickwork trench that separated me and the orchard. Common sense dictates that this 'pucca nala' must be some sort of emergency channel when the river  is in flood. At the moment, it was dry as dust, and I used the trench as my path for roughly 100 m till I found an easy entry into the orchard. Crossing the orchard was easy and Google Maps showed if I walk North-West, I would reach my destination. Reaching a thicket of foliage, I managed my first sneak preview of my neighbourhood river. The river was reduced to a clear stream and was flowing in a narrow channel at least ten feet below my vantage point. I saw a beautiful pair of Saras birds (which made me long for someone's presence) playing on the river bank but flew away quickly hearing the rustle of my feet on dry leaves. 

First glimpse of the river

As the river quietly flowed, I wondered how in the midst of a bustling city, these few moments on the river bank are full of serenity and pristine beauty. I was reminded of a few lines by the poet Keki N Daruwalla who wrote; 

"if you decide to pull away

from the dust of your lives,

the best thing would be

to get hold of oars

and row down a river."

I decided to make this trip to 'river' again, possibly with a DSLR camera next time and definitely before the wall is repaired. It was my own little meditation and my own piece of solitude in an otherwise whirlwind existence.mAnd also the joy feels incomplete, if you constantly think of bringing that special someone to share the beauty of your find and marvel at its existence.

On my way back (through the vegetable patch), I decided to feast on a Pilibhit version of Caesar salad (with lettuce-broccoli-raw paneer- tomato tossed in olive oil) for lunch.  A good siesta and evening tea followed by a beautiful orange-lavender sunset are perfect nourishment for a starved soul.  I sincerely hope all Sundays gave a sense of fulfillment like this one did.

An orange lavender sunset

Slipping through my fingers..

It seems only yesterday that little N was four months old and I wrote her a poem. Now, with her fourth birthday barely a week away, I sometimes wonder if she was ever that small, and if yes, then when did she really grow up. For all the things she says, all the ways in which she shows her love for me, A and her pet brother, S; I find it hard to believe that I was actually capable of bringing something so beautiful to this world. While words can never truly capture the churn of emotions inside a mother's heart, even now as I pull her close, I already dread the day she will grow wings and fly out of my nest. And when I saw this ABBA song in a movie early today, it was as if someone had channeled my feelings into words..

"Slipping Through My Fingers"

Schoolbag in hand, she leaves home in the early morning 

Waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile 

I watch her go with a surge of that well known sadness 

And I have to sit down for a while 

The feeling that I'm losing her forever 

And without really entering her world 

I'm glad whenever I can share her laughter 

That funny little girl 

Slipping through my fingers all the time 

I try to capture every minute 

The feeling in it 

Slipping through my fingers all the time 

Do I really see what's in her mind 

Each time I think I'm close to knowing 

She keeps on growing 

Slipping through my fingers all the time 

Sleep in our eyes, her and me at the breakfast table 

Barely awake I let precious time go by 

Then when she's gone, there's that odd melancholy feeling 

And a sense of guilt I can't deny 

What happened to the wonderful adventures 

The places I had planned for us to go 

Well, some of that we did, but most we didn't 

And why, I just don't know 

Slipping through my fingers all the time 

I try to capture every minute 

The feeling in it 

Slipping through my fingers all the time 

Do I really see what's in her mind 

Each time I think I'm close to knowing 

She keeps on growing 

Slipping through my fingers all the time 

Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture 

And save it from the funny tricks of time 

Slipping through my fingers all the time 

Schoolbag in hand, she leaves home in the early morning 

Waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile

Its hard to say goodbye to my doll everyday. Irrespective of how good or bad my day might have been, her little stories make it all worthwhile. And for the rest of my life, I will remember this.

A snail-mail project and a million questions!

“I've always felt there is something sacred in a piece of paper that travels the earth from hand to hand, head to head, heart to heart.” 

― Robert Michael Pyle, 

Sky Time in Gray's River: Living for Keeps in a Forgotten Place

My past few posts have been dedicated to my zillion pastimes during six months long maternity leave and the importance of doing nothing once in a while. The initial days were all  about getting used to two kids in the house and their innumerable demands on mom's energy and time. After a while, however, life begins to follow a pattern and one is somewhat able to reflect on small acts of kindness and gestures of affection shown by family and friends which make life truly worth living. Given mine and A's mechanical home-office-home routine and our tendency to remain caught up in inanities of everyday life, often people/things that deserve heartfelt gratitude and need to be acknowledged go unreciprocated and after considerable time has elapsed, one is rather ashamed of expressing the same (with such delay) anymore.

Over the past few years, as me and A lived in separate cities (for a long time even separate states), life had become a constant effort to spend time together and many important things slipped past unnoticed and unacknowledged- whether it was our best friends' getting married and then having their first kids, or shifting out of places without saying thanks to the people who constantly supported us. Therefore, this time when we had the opportunity and the time, we decided to let all the fabulous people in our life know how much they mean to us. While my original intention was to make a handcrafted card for each recipient, it took no time to figure out that (given my zillion other preoccupations and being 'full-time' Mom to two tiny kids) the thank-you-card-idea would once again become an item on our wishlist only. Therefore, I decided to get two of my watercolors printed in the form of thank you cards (Thank God,for once the internet printing company delivered to a place like Pratapgarh) and shoot them immediately to our 'magic circle' of friends.However, getting everyone's postal address seemed to be a task in itself and I SMSed/Facebooked/Whatsapped everyone to send us their address please.


The most interesting part of the story is the variety of questions and responses that followed my request for postal address:

• Majority of people enquired if we intend to visit them soon and much as I feel delighted with the idea, I had to politely convey my answer in a negative.
• The other set was hopeful that am planning an event (to celebrate something) and perhaps intend to send an invite. For one, while postal invites are still the norm in our part of the country, Me and A did not even send our wedding cards to begin with and rely completely on paperless invitations till date!
• Yet another interesting set had two subsets of its own. This comprised two people we are extremely open with and who wanted the full story before they would fish out their address. While one of them felt that only somebody as crazy as me could come up with this (and gladly complied), the other plainly refused to accept any Thank-Yous from me whatsoever.
• Then there was yet another (largely international) set who cited 'operational difficulties' in receiving anything by post (like nobody at home to receive, shifting homes in the interim etc). Considering the difficulties at their end, I could never bring it upon myself to incur international postage charges without being sure if the post will ever even reach them.
• Lastly, there were dear friends who chose to never respond to my request.

While it shouldn't be a surprise that (prima facie) the idea of receiving anything by post is rather difficult to digest,I was equally charmed by the responses to my request for people's home address (and hence this blog post!). However, for all the trouble that it is, as a dear friend warmly conveyed 'it struck the deepest chords of the Heart'. It was heartening to note that the post still works (and much faster now!) and most people were touched by the simple surprise. There are also a dozen cards still left to be sent for a multiplicity of reasons and I hope they too serve their intended purpose. Much as I have created a story out of the entire exercise, there is no judgement involved in doing so. Some of the dearest people in our lives couldn't be sent any card and as one of them remarked, they perhaps do not even need any. Yet, to each one of them, we owe tons of our happiness and gratitude.While the card could barely contain a few words, to most, I wish I could write tons and tell them how life would not have been the same without them.

“Generally, people who are good at writing letters have no need to write letters. They've got plenty of life to lead inside their own context.” 

― Haruki Murakami, 

A Wild Sheep Chase

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.

Losing Ronnie and Finding Rudolph!

Dear N,

It will probably be years before you are able to decipher the true reason for narrating this story but as your Mom I have been meaning to write this for you for long and no matter how late you ask me about this, this memory will always be my amongst my hardest lessons in life and  a parable I will probably reflect upon often.

When you were barely six months old, my favorite boss (Uncle A) and his wife (Aunt S) returned from their sabbatical in London and amongst several things, brought along a stuffed puppy for you. As Aunt S still vividly recounts she picked it for you during the Christmas week sales in anticipation of your imminent arrival into our lives. It was not the only stuffed toy you had and definitely not your first one, but from an early age you took a liking for it. When you would need to cuddle something to sleep with, we would give you the same pup and soon it became your inseparable companion who even traveled with us on long journeys to distant places. As you learnt to speak, we taught you to call it Ronnie (because it wore a leather name tag which mentioned the same).Each time we would visit your either set of grandparents, I would fear that if Ronnie got left behind, how will I ever calm you and procure it back.

In the winter of 2015, your Dad got transferred out and as it was nearly time for P to come to us, you and me had no option but to continue staying all by ourselves in Lucknow. Each afternoon, I would send you to the park outside and you would spend hours playing with your toys and ball in the sun. Needless to mention Ronnie always accompanied you. I still clearly remember that afternoon as I was putting you to sleep after lunch and you started crying for Ronnie. As we began to search your pram, your room and gradually the entire house, it became clear that Ronnie never came back with you that day.

While I managed to put you to sleep somehow, I myself could not find any peace. Not just that Ronnie was exorbitantly priced and pretty difficult to buy anywhere in India (and I learnt it only when we lost it and I mounted an internet search to find a replacement for you), I could not come to terms with the loss myself. As you continued to cry (for days afterwards), I felt miserable and helpless, for being unable to save you from the pain of losing Ronnie. Sometimes, my instinct would tell me to request one of our several friends living abroad to help me find a replacement. It took your dad a good amount of time to explain to me that it was okay and you will gradually get over it. 

When you read this story years afterwards, you will perhaps not find it to be such a big deal at all. But at that point of time in my life, it was. May be I was emotionally fragile (at that stage) and tried my best to keep you happy (while you missed Dad) with my limited energies and alone-time with you. For a while, I even turned selfish and would have done anything to restore Ronnie to you. But something kept me from doing so. I slowly began to realize that no matter how much I may try to protect you in life, you would sometimes get hurt (both physically and emotionally) and agonize over it for days afterwards. While I will always tell you to get over it soon, the hurt will take its own time to heal. You will devise your own mechanisms to deal with pain/loss and hopefully, emerge stronger in the process. And with all the resources and comforts at my command, I would not be able to prevent any of it from happening to you. Much as my parents loved me and still do, they could do nothing about the pain it entailed as I grew into a Mum of two.

Now, it would shortly be six months since Ronnie went back to live with his Mom (that's the story everybody in the family has to repeat). While it was difficult for you initially, over time, you not just brought Monkey and (a Pink) Ronnie to accompany you everywhere, Nanna even bought you a Rabbit you now love. And the biggest surprise of all, Masha brought you an elk from Finland and we decided to name it Rudolph (after Santa's reindeer). While you are unable to pronounce Rudolph even though you are three, Rudolph is clearly the current favorite and am sure Ronnie is already a distant memory to you.

Each time you lose something as precious as Ronnie, I hope you will remember there's always another (pink) Ronnie, Monkey and Rabbit waiting to be discovered. And just when you least expect, you might get Rudolph. Even if you had Ronnie now, am sure life would not have been much different and you would not be willing to change one bit of it for anything. In the process of writing this to you, I am also reminding myself of the lesson I have learnt both as a parent and as an individual.

With lifelong concern and my heart,
Mum

A page from the everyday life of an about to be 33 year old!

“I’m the kind of person who likes to be by himself. To put a finer point on it, I’m the type of person who doesn’t find it painful to be alone. I find spending an hour or two every day running alone, not speaking to anyone, as well as four or five hours alone at my desk, to be neither difficult nor boring. I’ve had this tendency ever since I was young, when, given a choice, I much preferred reading books on my own or concentrating on listening to music over being with someone else. I could always think of things to do by myself.” 

― Haruki Murakami, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running

As March Madness makes way for 'May Mellowness', and friends and family grant a lifelong extension to my license to be mad, for the first time since school I find something to look forward to each day and for the first time 'everyday' seems more interesting than some 'special' days. While there a million thoughts running through my mind and at least half a dozen blog posts (which require dedicated writing time) traipse half-baked through my imagination, I earnestly wish I could freeze a slice of my time and relish it at a later stage in life. While time travel remains a distinct improbability at the moment, I could always mark this great time of my life with chosen reference points which will be my memory aids in days to come. If I were to present a cross-section of my daily activities, this is what it would look like:

• Enjoying- Summers in Pratapgarh (I know its 43 degrees outside!) and long evening walks 
• Listening to- MTV India Unplugged (all seasons)
• Loving- my disconnect (not yet freedom) from cellphone/Whatsapp/Facebook..
• Learning- to drive around and observe the beauty/architecture of country homes
• Feasting (my eyes) on- Gulmohars in full bloom and Mahua leaves which appear red in sunlight
• Relishing- home-cooked 'Litti-Chokha' (typical meal of this part of the country) 
• Playing- Two Dots (my meditation)
• (Night time) Reading- David Levithan (all books), Murakami (What I Talk About When I Talk About Running)
• Organizing-Craft Supplies/ Digital files/ Photographs
• Clicking- Parakeets and Hornbills and Hoopoes flitting about in the fields in the evening
• Dreading- Return to office in July and managing two kids by myself
• Hosting- People over lunch/tea and serving meals they do not expect in Pratapgarh (We never host dinners because its kids' sleeping time)
• Sending- love and wishes in the form of self designed cards to dear friends all over
• Hoping- to complete my Tapestry of Dreams before younger one turns one
• Reflecting upon- being emotional and instinctive (and its fall outs) (As Murakami says, "Emotional hurt is the price a person has to pay in order to be independent.")
• Smiling- over the little things my kids do and amazed at God's kindness.
• Thanking- Everyone and Everything that has made all of the above possible

Of beautiful ruins..

Hogi is dher imaarat ki kahani kuchh tau
Dhundh alfaaz ke malbe mein maa’ine kuchh tau

                                                         ~Shahpur Rasool

(Surely a story hides behind these ruins, somewhere

Search the debris of words, the meaning is there, somewhere)

While reading a book on Delhi recently, I came across these lines and could not help but think of some beautiful ruins in the heart of Lucknow I happened to visit last summer.Whatever be the original purpose of such buildings or the current extent of their dilapidation, the air around them teems with stories which bore witness to silent passage of time. Sometimes one feels as if one merely had to outstretch one's hands, and catch a few words which seem rather too palpable. But then, lest the superfluity of my words ruins the beauty of the the feeling such places evoke, I rest my case with a sense of awe and abandonment.

The Doors Have Been Shut

I was lonely
But did not seek anyone
Then I met you
And now I am
Lonelier than before

You took away my words
My songs, my poems, my prayers
How I wish I knew
You did not even understand
The language I spoke

There are ways to say things
Which remain unsaid
I wish you could
Hear my silence
That grows louder each day

A part of me knew all along
My anchor rests on loose soil
But heart has its reasons
That reason knows nothing of
And that is where it ends.

Do not look for me anymore
Do not even try to gather
The meaning of my words
You had it all
But now

The doors have been shut
The doors have been shut

March Madness- of a different kind!!

Life is beautiful. Being a mom to a three year doll has been a delight. Been blessed with a baby boy this January and life never seemed so incredible before. While it does take a lot to manage two kids, being home on a six month long paid maternity leave is also an opportunity that presents itself only twice in a working woman's career in my part of the world. And to add to these wonderful circumstances, living in a place away from the trappings of city life and close to nature, is an experience of sorts.

For someone who has spent nine long years in government service, March in India only means a month of meeting financial targets and reconciling funds and expenditures. Needless to mention, in my recent memory, March has always been an immensely stressful time of the year when office work takes precedence over everything else and life in general is put on hold. As our colleagues and friends in most professions too follow the rigors of financial year closing, there have hardly ever been any memories built around this time of the year.

While most of the above is till true, this particular March for me has been a rather memorable and personally satisfying one. It is perhaps for the first time in life that I have been able to immerse myself into any number of hobbies without any constraint of time and space. The entire experience of endless reading-poetry-painting-bird watching-photography-cooking-listening to music and so on has been a thoroughly refreshing one and renewed hopes and energies alike.

While I wish I could write every aspect of this phase of my life and read and reread it later in life whenever the going seems to be tough, certain things are too beautiful to be left un-shared. Being somebody who can not sleep without reading, I do not know if I never paid attention to the beauty of certain words before or if these three books (whose passages I reproduce below) were exceptionally well written, but certain books definitely take the reader to an entirely different level altogether.

“The more you love someone, he came to think, the harder it is to tell them. It surprised him that strangers didn't stop each other on the street to say I love you.” 
― Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything Is Illuminated

“Because we see only what we already know. We project our own capacities—for good as well as evil—onto the other person. Then we acknowledge as love primarily those things that correspond to our own image thereof. We wish to be loved as we ourselves would love. Any other way makes us uncomfortable. We respond with doubt and suspicion. We misinterpret the signs. We do not understand the language. We accuse. We assert that the other person does not love us. But perhaps he merely loves us in some idiosyncratic way that we fail to recognize.” 
― Jan-Philipp Sendker, The Art Of Hearing Heartbeats

“Even now, all possible feelings do not yet exist, there are still those that lie beyond our capacity and our imagination. From time to time, when a piece of music no one has ever written or a painting no one has ever painted, or something else impossible to predict, fathom or yet describe takes place, a new feeling enters the world. And then, for the millionth time in the history of feeling, the heart surges and absorbs the impact.” 
                          ― Nicole Krauss, The History of Love

While I was caught up in the web of these exquisite words, even more words flowed in. As I started reading about World Poetry Day,(which happens to be on 21 March,) while I revisited some of my favourite poems, I discovered the poetry of Kashmiri poet Agha Shahid Ali and in the order of precedence of my all time favourites, he currently tops the list.

1. Tonight by Agha Shahid Ali
2. I Will Meet You Yet Again by Amrita Pritam
3. Unending Love by Rabindranath Tagore
4. Jo Beet Gayi Woh Baat Gayi by Harivanshrai Bachchan
5. Bullah Ki Jaana by Bulleh Shah

Talking of books and poems, can songs and images be left behind. While I love to fill the rooms of our (current) colonial era house with varied music and sunlight, the house too presents small joys to elate our hearts in the form of chirping of birds, dappled sunshine, long shadows in the afternoon, the sound of wind in the trees, and so much more. The house and the place provide ample opportunities for experiments in art and photography and the results are often deeply gratifying. These multiple pursuits interspersed with the visits of loved ones and rounds of endless banter have only added to the charms. 

While one does miss the comfort and convenience of own house and the freedom and choices of city life and also while sometimes the professional hazards become too much to bear, our stay in Pratapgarh and the pursuits have shrunk these longings and troubles to a mere trifle. Once we leave this place, we may or may not get to see this place ever again. The house (more than a century old) itself may not be around in a few years time but the air around this place will always contain a few molecules of our precious memories of one of the happiest times of our lives. I do not know what future holds for us but this place will definitely be etched in our minds for all times to come. If this is not happiness, then nothing else can be...

Sunset over the Ganges at Kalakankar