A sunburnt summer flower

I consider myself a summer flower on account of being born right in the middle of summers on May 5. Fiery summers making me feel like a sunburnt summer flower. But a little astrological fact sooths with its cool brace. It was the Budh Purnima day when I arrived for my current innings on earth.

Here I’m basking—sedate, pensive and sensitive—in the solitude of pale fallen leaves, sunburnt roses and some odd butterflies still darting about on this late morning of my birthday. It’s a small corner, a little peaceful niche in a world embroiled in lawsuits, lamentations and calumnies. Here I sit as a sovereign of my dwarfish, puny world; the sun a bit short of the baking point at this moment of the day.

The curry leaf tree is laden with clusters of little white flowers. These must be very succulent. Hundreds of honeybees are quenching their thirst on them. It creates an opportunity for the red-vented bulbul couple. The two of them stretch out their necks to pluck the bees. Four butterflies are also tastefully busy in enjoying a breakfast. The purple sunbird couple looks somewhat irritated at the nectar-sucking pandemonium. They think it’s their prerogative only, so they harangue their witticisms from nearby branches. It’s a buzzing, delighted, entranced little world at the cusp of gastronomical delight; a world with its refractory charm standing wholly for me with its indispensable fidelity.

The same tree bears the fragile little nest that allows the doves to lay eggs without putting an effort to make a new nest. One more couple lands to inspect. Denounce the dolts for their laziness. I always do whenever various dove couples lay eggs in the same nest, one after the other, only to lose them to cats, crows, gravity, et cetera. Thankfully, the tragedy is postponed for some time. The locality seems busier than their liking. In the stingy hubbub, a few bees bump into them and they flutter away, noisily clapping their wings, the take off somewhat loud for their peaceful nature. The butterflies and the bees also bump into each other. Well, everyone is entitled to participate in the feast on my birthday.

A tailless cat is eating the top ends of some still green blades of grass in a corner in the garden. The old women, they are all gone now, used to say that the cats and dogs eat grass as a medicine when they have stomach issues. He makes plenty of weird faces while taking his medicines, like children make while taking bitter pills. This particular cat is thoroughly wicked. Thinking that his poop will be mistaken as the deeds of my favorite cats, getting me angry enough to give them a hiding, the pettifogger relives himself on the terrace. But I know his tricks. Despite his vices and faults I allow him to take the grass medicine because depriving an indigestion patient of medicines would be a sin.  

Undaunted by the fiery summers, like rose-hearted guys still surviving in a stone-hearted, artless, brawny world, the petunias in five pots, making full use of their favorable circumstances—they have to face direct sun only till eleven in the morning—have enough blossoms to beat the sultry shades of sadness born of a yard littered with dry, pale leaves and a lonely birthday boy among them. Their infallibly pure, sprightly, indomitable, bright smiles wish a very happy birthday, gently offering lolling sympathies; a soothing balm over the burns, cuts and wounds, the result of strange antipathies presented by fate.

It’s a little flowery shrine with a potted tulsi in between: a live shrine with a living goddess with her living bouquet of flowers. They have to do a little less than half-day’s wage to survive. The sun can try to wither the blooms till only a bit past eleven in the morning. Till then they obey the law and bow their heads in reverence to the God of light, waiting for the wall shadow to creep over the edge. The rest of the day is manageable once they are out of the direct onslaught of the fiery streams. The tulsi reinforces her holy status each day as a sesame oil lamp is lit under it at the evening twilight. The holy incense smoke adds beautiful smell to the smile of the flowers around the venerable plant. So as good neighbors they share their part of offerings. That makes it a very happy neighborhood. Dozens of petunias of varied colors flash their smiles, beating the hot winds with their colorful spirit.

A lizard stays among these pots and the portion of the wall nearby hidden by the flowers and the pots. It’s her happy world carrying a unanimous and cordial air. Safe also. The fleas and mosquitoes who fall for the flowers end up finishing their journey here. She rarely misses her dinner. The bright oil lamp always has some moth or two, drawn by their passion for the flame, and then it’s the turn of the gecko’s tongue which is equally passionate about jumping at crazy, infatuated moths.

During the day, the life-giving sun tries to soak away all the life donated by it. It’s only the jollity, verve and optimism of the children that brings us back from the lolling lackadaisicalness onto the stage of life in the evenings. Rooftops and terraces are overtaken by the kite-fliers. And irremediably sullen monkeys, in heroic abdication of their foppery, peep over the parapets of the roofs, lost in deep deliberation to find places where there are no kite-fliers. They bear a sullen look, considering it as an infringement on their rights to rascality on the roof-tops.

There are two boys representing two types of kite-fliers in the locality. The one is the kind, his childhood in full bloom, who suddenly picks up a stone and throws it. In the same groove, he loves kite-flying without tail. The dives, ups and downs of a tailless kite present a real chance for fun and frolics. It’s challenging and adventurous. There are flurried notes with forceful, quick pulls and prongs of the cord. The other boy is a well-behaved one. He would just look over a stone on the way and thus maintain the level of happiness as before. He uses a tail for his kite, proportional in length to the speed of the wind. He wants a steady flight. The kite is safe against the playful windy shoves. The holder’s hands are relaxed because not much action is required. The adventurous one then decided to fly his kite in a windstorm. And taking inspiration from the kite-tails of the other guy, he used a forty feet long tail to give his kite a chance at survival in the storm. The windstorm ensures that there is even more excitement and fun with a tail this time. All this seems to be done in celebration of my special day.

Suddenly realizing that I may become a shuddering bystander in the game of life, struggling against the grip of self-denial, chastity and privations, I receive a special treat in the evening. A most welcome one: a few drops of rain in the season of dust-storms and hot loo. The drops feel icy cold and hit the sand to create one of the best smells, the smell of mother earth. The dusty leaves get a bath. It makes everyone very happy. A 100-year-old gypsy woman missed the moment though. She was dusted like the trees around; soiled with a century of age in addition. So her daughter-in-law, once the sudden downpour passes off, puts her on a charpoy by the side of the busy road passing the village, takes off her clothes and gives her an unhurried washing. Nothing special about it, it’s almost as normal as a little boy or girl getting a bath at a public place. A 100-year-old woman is shrunk to the cuteness of a baby. So a baby bath it is, at the most.