A few moments in the spring

 We have a solid proof of the spring—a peacock spreading its fan-tail for some dancing moments. Brand new tail feathers, sleek, sprightly, strong, long enough to be flaunted and not too long to be cumbersome—like early youth free from the limitations of both childhood and mature age. To be too fashionable comes with its costs. Walk a bit unfashionably and you get some arbitrary windfalls on the way. And some of these give a sheer sense of freedom, the freedom of not being bound by anything or any routine. Too much of fashion is a reflection of our peculiarities, a veritable remonstrance against the simplistic tidings of the soul. And going with the worldly illusions, it romanticizes the path towards perilous excursions.

The squirrel is greedy. The grains are primarily meant for the sparrows. It not only eats them to its heart’s content but ferries jowl-fulls to its house somewhere in the group of trees nearby. It’s very pushy and chases away the sparrows. A few brave ones try to nibble at its fluffy tail but that isn’t too effective. There is no discomfort at the squirrel’s end. So as the octogenarian fixedly nibbles down their share, the sparrows wait on the nearby branches. Patience has some intrinsic value. In our confusion and hurry we just thwart the fruit of patience waiting at the next turn.

To consecrate this truth a babbler arrives. As far as quarrelsome tone is concerned, a babbler is an ever-exterminating tyrant. They hand out impious, bitter reprimands to the less noisy birds. Now it’s the squirrel’s turn to run. It tries to stay its ground with some impertinent attitude but the babbler is too quarrelsome for it. The babbler now occupies the property and seems to hold onto its version of truth like a conventionist holding onto his powerfully twisted myths.

A tailorbird—not a party to the issue and hence in an ideal position to enjoy it as a fun game—is hooting, applauding, shouting. Chik-chik-pik-pik-tik-tik-lado-lado-maro-maro. Full enjoyment. Or maybe even some painful cries as if it has got a boil on its buttock.

Ultimate freedom of expression and right to live—the right to sleep rather: a puppy sleeping right in the middle of a street having its routine traffic of two-wheelers, tractors, walkers, cattle and much more. I see him sprawled to deepest slumber. He is still in it as I return after a couple of hours. There is still peace in the world. Well, you have to believe in it first in order to have it. You have to believe in the kingdom of silence and peace with its invisible gold insignia.

There is another freedom of expression, a kind of swooning and frenzied liberty, that I witnessed by the side of the road. It’s a group of adolescent boys on a trip. The bus has seen wide open fields on its journey. But then an all-open option might mean no option at all. You need a milestone to mark your arrival. So the driver, looking for a suitable clue to an appropriate clearing, stops in front of a power sub-station on our village’s outskirts. The long front wall is freshly painted. A beautiful mushy cream milestone with bright blue border and orange stars in the middle. So a few dozen of them get down finally and line up to relieve themselves of extra water.

You certainly need milestones. The open fields were too dull for the momentous event. They leave ostensible but somehow artistic wet lines on the wall as a mark of their arrival, of utilizing the basic freedom of expressing themselves through relieving in the open as we Indians love to do with our inflexible sentimentality for being natural and open with the nature’s call. The time has a traitorous abnegation of our footprints. So put firm prints of your arrival. They move on with a deep sense of satiety on their young faces. Well, for the time being at least they have assiduously left a mark on their path.