Have you listened to
The banter of the winds
The whisper of the leaves
The chatter of the birds
The silence of the sky
The clouds sailing by
The songs of the bees
Flowers’ urgent pleas
Mutterings of the trees
Soils that cling to roots
Giggles of the shoots
Anklets of the streams
Fishes’ humble dreams
Forest’s haunting echoes
Meadows’ soothing sighs
Nature’s plaintive cries
Not to squander thus
Treasures of Mother earth
Have you cared to listen ?
Really?…………..Then why ?????
This is in response to Esther’s Weekly Word Prompt.
This week’s prompt is Mood.
Mood-s
Though I am not a mood-y person but when things don’t happen the way I have planned or wished I do get upset. Yesterday, I had planned a good summery lunch which did not turn out well. I analysed and re-analysed what had gone wrong and then chalked out another elaborate plan to redo the messed up meal and in doing so I over used the gas cylinder. Given the LPG Cylinder crisis in the country I wanted to expend fuel cautiously but in actuality I did the exact opposite. So I was cross with no one but my own self for a very long time.
Moods are fickle. They manifest in odd ways. My paternal aunt squarely blamed the Government if anything went wrong in her kitchen. A problem with the gas stove, cylinder needing a refill midway cooking, masalas getting burnt due to lack of attention, vegetables getting over cooked – none other than the State Chief was to be blamed. If the Chief Minister luckily escaped the slew of accusations, the responsibility of kitchen mismanagement and malfunctioning then fell straight on my poor uncle’s shoulders. After all she was cooking a five meal course for him on a working day getting late to the office. Punctuality was never my aunt’s strong point but nobody had the guts to tell her that.
In a better mood she would address uncle as Newton and make tea for him humming to herself. Uncle….? Newton….? Seriously….?
At first, I attributed aunt’s mood swings to hormones but it took me some time to realise that the couple thrived on such idiosyncratic exchanges.
My mother was a stickler for discipline and also known for her red hot temper. A series of clanging noise from the kitchen and we’d know something had triggered her royal rage. It’s the time when father would quietly advise me and my sister to be out of sight. A pure sane handling of a ‘delicate’ situation.
I once knew a temperamental artist, who in one of his fiend-ish moods, painted the sky red, the meadows blue, the trees purple, the sun white and the moon green. Once spent, he threw the vitiated canvas in the garbage pile from where his agent, used to his eccentricities, retrieved it.
At his next art exhibition, when he saw the cursed canvas up for public view, they had a massive showdown. But when the discordant painting was auctioned for a jaw dropping sum he fluffed up with self importance.
Mood can be notoriously tricky and playful – it can make or break relationships, it can ominously wreak havoc, it can even add a generous measure of comic relief to a day’s choc-o-bloc schedule.
I wonder in what mood did the Supremo order that devastative strike… ?
Maybe we’ll keep that topic for another post..
This post is inspired by Luisa Zambrotta’s invite for writing an acrostic poem on March.
In this part of the globe the month of March symbolises Spring. The touch of this heady but short-lived season is evident everywhere.
The bottlebrushes smile.
The roses intoxicate the breeze.
The Sada Bahaar (Evergreen) winks.
I am a gongoozler. My senses are inebriated by the overwhelming rush of colours – the headiness of floral charm.
Even the leaves have a glaze to them. The colour green has gathered shades hitherto unseen.
Marveling
At the splendour of
Rejuvenation
Call of Spring
Heralds hope…enchants!
Foot Note : Incidentally, I came upon the word Gongoozler which captures the simple act of standing around and observing things without doing much else — a slow, curious kind of attention that feels almost peaceful.
It is so me in this slim breath of time, I couldn’t but indulge in its aptness.
This is in response to Rochelle’s Weekly Photo Prompt for Friday Fictioneers.
Word Count : 100
He entered the ancient cave gingerly.
The slightest of sound could bring it down.
However, propelled by an odd compulsion, he stepped in…
And stood rooted.
The uneven walls held the imprints of a past untraceable.
Stunning artworks by unknown artists.
Buddhist monks…the historians had conjectured.
Master strokes, delicate lines, vegetable dye colours still preserved over ages.
Chronicles of alien ways of life and faith …
A veritable art gallery extraordinaire.
He shifted a little from one wall to the other.
Funny feeling as though someone was watching over ….
He turned …
The eyes of the Buddha stared back…!!!
98 Words
You can read the other stories here.
Author Note : The flash fiction is based on a trip to the ancient caves of Ajanta and Ellora many years back. I do remember one of the caves where the eyes of the Buddha painted on the wall seemed to follow us.
The image shows the paintings adorning the roof of one of the caves. The paints derived out of plants, minerals, earth and stones have survived millennia.
The image above shows a honeycomb of caves (Ajanta) on the Sahyadri Mountain range on the Western Ghat in the Deccan Plateau.
One of the caves of Ajanta (Cave no 24) does not have a roof perhaps because of incomplete excavation or collapse of the facade.
The Kailasa temple in Ellora, also situated in the Sahyadri range, is said to have been carved out of a single basalt rock cliff top down. Ellora is a UNESCO World Heritage site.
Image of Ajanta courtesy Namaste India Trip.
Image of wall painting in Ajanta courtesy Wikipedia.
Image of Ellora courtesy Shutterstock.
Nature walks have made me observant of little details which I overlooked earlier.
This tree stump a month ago was a pathetic display of ugliness to me.
A day previous, I saw this transformation.
The red leaves sprouting on the body of an ancient peepal tree indicates how the new envelopes the old and bestows it beauty and youth.
Spring is a game changer. It is the harbinger of hope and optimism and change. What is considered a discard springs up with new life and freshness.
Seasons are like the dance of the river. As the river shifts its watery body from one terrain to the other, nature too changes its garb from one season to the other and dresses anew.
Finally, the river reaches the ocean and merges in to find a new identity. Spring does the same to nature. It gives a new face, a new perspective, a new charm right after winter has bereft everything of colour and strength and courage. This is the resilience of spring which refuses to surrender to winter’s decoy of deprivation.
I once wrote a spring haiku
beginning
to end
spring
I’ll flip it over
end
of a beginning
spring
Spring is the dance of life. It’s the end of death and decay and destruction which begin with winter.
And this seasonal dance continues in its own rhythm in a cyclic order.
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This post is in response to Reena’s Xploration Challenge #420.
We have to use any of the above quotes as a theme or backdrop for our piece – The themes are Hope, Resilience or Change.
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A long meditation was due after the session of a short one that I had with my buddy in the month of December. The long meditation happened in the month of February at the Paramhansa Yogananda Self-Realisation Centre (of Yogada Satsang Society of India) in Central Delhi – an oasis of tranquility in the midst of frenzied existence. In the peaceful prayer hall filled with nothing but silence, me and my sister lost ourselves into our beings. After an hour and a quarter we awakened to our surroundings completely rejuvenated , our senses on the alert.
It was afternoon and we needed to partake of lunch. Since the meditation centre is quite far from our home we decided to go to Connaught Place, the nearest shopping arcade, where there are a number of vintage eateries, restaurants and coffee houses.
A little about the shops in Connaught Place – I call them vintage because most of them date back to pre-independence time. Their interiors, still unchanged, bear an understated elegance – a mark of that era. Most of the shop owners are running the business for generations. Their over-the-counter conversations have an air of dignity which is not in any way comparable with the transactions we have at present day malls.
If you enter the historic Rikhiram & Sons you step into another time zone. Framed pictures of music maestros adorn the walls along with ornately carved musical instruments in shining glass and polished wood showcases. The photographs are not merely promotional gimmick but proof of heritage – the generations of music doyens who swear by the authenticity of the shop (read maker) and still patronize it, their progeny included. If you are lucky you will find the owner deep in discussion, with one of today’s giants of classical music, on the choice of the right instrument – the quality of its pitch and scale and sound – the one undoubtedly the artist should take home. You may also chance upon one of the masters trying their hands on the suggested instrument breaking into an extempore gat or bandish (composition pieces of instrumental music) eventually convinced by the advice given by one who knows the art and craft of the discipline through and through.
Likewise are the book shops redolent with the nose twitching fragrance of paper and print. You name an author they will present you with the whole range of his/her penmanship. And then there is that photo studio which claims to convert an ugly duckling into a beautiful swan as the photographer clicks you from the exact apposite angle with uncanny proficiency – in today’s selfie craze perhaps obsolete.
Years back I used to visit one small shop under a staircase bursting with wondrous stacks of music cassettes, CDs and DVDs. The shop had a remarkable collection of classical music – both instrumental and vocal. Often the owner himself would suggest the musicians I should listen to once I told him the raga I was looking for. Here in CP, as it is colloquially called, one doesn’t do the ordinary activity of buying and selling but transacts in depth of knowledge and unmatched experience. The shop owners not only know what they’re selling but also the intrinsic value of the product unquantifiable by its monetary worth.
Coming back to lunch we chose to visit Madras Coffee House – established in 1935. The unpretentious exterior belies a gentle and subdued atmosphere inside where loudness does not have an inch of space. The owner himself supervises the services. The waiters are polite and courteous. The lunchers are a relaxed community of office goers and families with friends and relatives or simply friends. Conversation flows serenely. It is obvious that the patronisers are dedicated clientele of the eatery like my elder sister who accompanied me. She said she used to frequent this place much before her marriage when she was doing her post grad – more than fifty years back!!
The first few pages of the menu card tells the story of how the coffee house came into existence -another exception –
“A historic outlet established in 1935 (converted 1950), is known as a legacy, no-frills spot with an old world atmosphere” – Wikipedia
Though it serves North Indian, Chinese etc. we ordered South Indian – Podi Dosa and Utthapam. Interestingly, the Utthapam boasted a tag – Kuchh Nahin, meaning nothing , however, it had everything – paneer, capsicum, tomato. The taste of food in CP is subtle, underwhelming yet unmistakably memory making be it Ambassador’s mutton steak or Ginza’s Japanese and Chinese cuisine or Madras Coffee House’s podi dosa.
We ended with coffee – sister preferring black – Vietnamese (with cream and mint) and I sticking to the age old comfort of plain, cold coffee.
We ended the trip with a short sojourn to Nalli’s – my go-to place for sarees, suits and fabrics! Another outlet which I can swear by for exclusive Indian wears from gorgeous South silks to ethnic, cotton casuals.
Connaught Place or CP stands resolute like a dollop of bygone times stubbornly unmoved by change. There are seasons which are earmarked for a must visit to a number of outlets gothically entrenched inside its muted whitestone facade beckoning bewitchingly if not for anything else than just to walk the length of corridors browsing, window shopping or just admiring and soaking in the old worldly charm of a past which refuses to fade away from Delhi’s contemporaneity brought about by the irreversible alterations to the face of the city in quick successions.
All pics from Google. Pics of Yogada Dhnyana Kendra courtesy Amit Pratap Singh.
This is in response to Sadje’s Weekly Photo Prompts on #Whatdoyousee
The ancient trees sighed
Looking up at the sky,
“Our roots are deep and wide
Our arms are strong by our sides
But let not the clouds float by
Without pleading a good bye
Let not the rains drizzle by
Without pouring for a while
Let not the fiery god of sky
Be merciless and hostile
Let his wrath not singe thy
Let mother earth rest awhile
Let it not be the end
Of all that is green and godsend.”
Footnote: This poem is inspired by the present water crisis that we are undergoing though due to routine cleaning of water reservoirs. Also the Met Department has predicted that this year, in contrast to the last, will be hot anticipating a prolonged and dry summer and scanty rainfall – the El-Nino effect after the La-Nina impact of heavy rainfall followed by biting cold and long winter in the previous year.
A little about El Nino and La Nina:
La Niña is a climate pattern characterized by cooler-than-normal sea surface temperatures in the central and eastern Pacific Ocean, driving strong trade winds. It causes increased, often above-normal rainfall in India, Southeast Asia, and Australia, while bringing drier conditions to the US Gulf Coast and South America.
El Niño is a periodic, natural climate phenomenon characterized by the warming of sea surface temperatures in the central and eastern equatorial Pacific Ocean, typically occurring every 3–7 years. It weakens trade winds, alters global atmospheric circulation, and causes extreme weather, including droughts in Australia/Asia and floods in the Americas.
(Source of Information: Google AI)
A few weeks back a leaf of the banana plant in my humble garden was curled up like an ancient scroll holding a timeless secret.
A few days later I found the leaf had opened up and sun dancing to the breeze.
Nature has its imperceptible ways. You cannot hurry nature. It will not listen to you. You cannot tell a bud to open up quickly or a leaf to unfurl in a jiffy.
Of course! I do not know whether human engineering can hasten natural processes in the laboratories.
Humans are such an impatient lot. They want everything now. Results now. Changes now. Progress now. Forgetting that everything has its own pace and its own time.
Hope we realise that everything cannot be achieved instantly. And there is no short cut to success or achievements. What happens with time stays because by then we are ripe for it.
So savour those moments of nature blooming slowly. Slowness in life is essential. As infants we have grown slowly. As children we have learnt slowly, As adults we have matured slowly understanding that knowledge and experiences gather slowly. And with age we realise that this slow unfolding is the journey of life which takes us from one phase to another as though riding on waves, surfing through rough and calm sea alternately and makes us what we are today.
Cheerio!!
Humour is a spice required in life. However, humour should be enjoyed sensibly and with sensitivity. Often while humouring limits are forgotten or crossed over.
I have seen many times among friend groups, office parties, family get togethers , a single person becomes the butt of all jokes. He or she is the perennial bakra (goat) at whose expense everyone else has a good time.
There is a thin line between humour and mockery, humour and hurt, humour and slur. And sometimes this line gets blurred. Those who humour others may not realise when boundaries have been transcended (intentionally or unintentionally) and someone’s feelings and self respect got hurt.
I guess best is to laugh at one’s own self and provide fun to others.
Being adjacent to parks and having a small garden of my own my flat is a freeway for mosquitoes. No amount of disinfectants, detergents, chemical sprays, room fresheners etc. can defeat or dissuade them from invading my territory. They are simply invincible.
Being allergic to strong odour I refrain from using mosquito repellents. Moreover, I do not think it’s healthy to inhale the chemical fumes that exude from them. After a lot of R&D I have found a ‘made in China’ contraption which has been working fine for some time – (prolonged durability may not be guaranteed).
A simple technology it has an LED light attached to a conical body with thin plastic bars with gaps around it. At night when all the lights are switched off the mosquitoes get attracted to the soft purple glow of the LED , fly towards it and get electrocuted. In the morning the net around the light has to be cleaned (with a tiny brush) of all the dead mosquitoes sticking to it. Not much of a hassle.
However, lately I realise I am taking undue interest in the number of mosquitoes killed during the night. If it’s less in number I doubt the effectiveness of the system. If it’s more I am getting a kind of weird satisfaction which I suspect is gradually bordering on sadistic pleasure.
Every morning this feeling of exultation that wells inside me reinforces that the primal instincts of the hunter-forager are still deeply encoded in my DNA and no amount of education, enlightenment or evolution has been able to uplift me to a staure of a more elevated being.
I’ll sign off now as it’s time for me to brush out the flimsy carcasses.
😂😂😂😂
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