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/

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 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

And it comes to leaving again!...

The time runs out fastest precisely when we want it to slow down and let us be where we are. And its six long months that am talking about. I had come to Pratapgarh when little P was barely ten days old, it was the last week of January (last spell of cold) and A was yet to come to terms with the challenges associated with this new official assignment. In the middle of December, precisely a month before P was born, when A had been posted out of Lucknow and given less than 12 hours to take over in Pratapgarh in difficult circumstances, we had bitterly resented the sudden shift of events. Not only it meant me being left alone with N when it was beginning to get difficult for me, I had also looked forward to spend my maternity leave in the comfort of my own house, living in a city. But while not everything turns out as we want it to be, with the benefit of hindsight, the beautiful memories of the past six months will continue to be cherished for an entire lifetime.

Once I moved here, it was difficult to come to terms with the new reality of living in a countryside house when one had spent three comfortable years living in an ultra-modern, self-designed, super-convenient apartment space. My initial days were spent trying to restore some normalcy to our daily routines (and having a less than one month old baby certainly doesn't help!). While I relentlessly tried to revive the flow of wind and light around this beautiful colonial house, I also found myself increasingly drawn to the boundless treasures it seemed to contain.

A large part of my time (before the summer sun became too harsh to bear) was spent sitting in the 'courtyard with magical light' as I call it and watch the play of light and seasons on the Siris tree that grew beside it. Even before I had brought newborn P over, A had restored a number of doors and windows around the house. My greatest joy on my first morning in the house was waking up to a garden view (after a very long time). Often afterwards, in the early hours of the morning, I would find a golden ray of sunlight filtering in through the gap in the curtains  in my room as if kissing the cot-mobile while P slept like a little prince underneath.

I could not be more thankful to God for making it one of the happiest times of mine and A's life as we watched little N chasing butterflies, filling the rooms with her multiple pursuits and we entertained family and friends alongside. It was here that I could finally live my dream of building a studio where I could paint/craft for hours without any distraction and stream endless music while being at it. While we introduced Masha to our multiple birdie guests (and he taught their names to wide-eyed N), or the multiple impromptu snack parties we hosted and clicked pics for the keepsakes, both me and A were beginning to fall in love with the place that has given so much to us. 

While I sit here writing this and there's less than 24 hours remaining before I take up my old duties in Lucknow, move back to work and start school for N, I completely realize none of it would have been possible without the fabulous people who took care of us- the women who took care of my kids during the day so that I could make up for my sleep deficit, the housekeepers who kept everything in order and the officers who hosted us, worked hard with A and stood by us. Upon return from a recent visit to a fabulous plantation resort in Chikmaglur, we realized there was no point traveling 2000 kms for the same. At least not when one himself lives on a huge estate, in a century old heritage bungalow while still being able to enjoy delicious home-cooked meals. If waking up to the call of the birds and sleeping by the sound of cicadas sums it up, then it is precisely that.

Yet there is more to my 'leaving' this time. And its not just the house, the people and the place. Its also the security and well being of living together as a family that I leave behind (till no certain future date!). Living as a single parent to tiny ones in a city, while continuing to attend official responsibilities is going to be a huge challenge. And there's also the guilt of depriving A and kids of the joy of each other's presence. Multiple sources of advice (and may be even a part of me) suggest I extend leave and continue to live on a little longer. But what solution would it be. In a profession that we have chosen, this will always be the case. While I do not write this by way of justification, but another six months or a year wouldn't make much of a difference. The kids will continue to need both me and A the same for a very long time to come and also better learn soon what it takes to be the children of a 'working mom' (you could say an ambitious and obstinate one at that).

And just before I go and take one final look at the things (before I start packing them up), I look up at the twenty feet high ceiling and think of the innumerable people like me and A who would have lived in this house, children like P and N who grew up in its environs and the countless stories exchanged under this roof. And yet the house doesn't complain about the good and the bad,it doesn't moan about the change of the times and continues to be. How I wish things worked for us the same way!

Time, You Old Gypsy Man

Will you not stay, 

Put up your caravan 

Just for one day? 

All things I'll give you 

Will you be my guest, 

Bells for your jennet 

Of silver the best, 

Goldsmiths shall beat you 

A great golden ring, 

Peacocks shall bow to you, 

Little boys sing. 

Oh, and sweet girls will 

Festoon you with may, 

Time, you old gypsy, 

Why hasten away? 

Last week in Babylon, 

Last night in Rome, 

Morning, and in the crush 

Under Paul's dome; 

Under Pauls' dial 

You tighten your rein - 

Only a moment, 

And off once again; 

Off to some city 

Now blind in the womb, 

Off to another 

Ere that's in the tomb. 

Time, you old gypsy man, 

Will you not stay, 

Put up your caravan 

Just for one day? 

~Ralph Hodgson

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.

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

                        

Tree of Life!

"For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.

Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.

A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.

A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.

When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is Happiness."

~Hermann Hesse, 

Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte