Wintery reminiscences

 

Daubed with dual shades the winter moves on. It’s a concoction of good-bad, pleasure-pain, joy-sadness. Laroop followed his drinking passion to the extent of pawning away the landed property, social dignity and domestic peace. But he earned something as well—the title of the craziest speaker and shouter of the words prohibited in all religions, castes and creeds. Most of these obnoxious verbal volleys were directed at his wife. I think he called her a ‘slut’ at least a million times in his life. But she had taken her vows as a bride around the holy fire to be by him, through thick and thin, come what may. As he created a mayhem of all civilities at public squares and streets, she would be always there like an unseen shadow around some corner or behind some column, keenly observing the vulgarized air around her dear husband. Let someone intervene to stop Laroop from his hellish torrent of cuss words, she would swiftly emerge and firmly stand between the keeper of social morals and the slayer of all civilized norms.

Then one day, at the age of roughly sixty-seven, Laroop, sloshed fully as usual, fell from a tractor and broke his back. He was paralyzed but God was kind enough to allow his tongue still wagging for letting out the still remaining stock of vulgarities. However, he was lucky to get his deliverance soon. The doctors had ruled out any chance of recovery. The gentlefolks said it was a respite for the tortured body and soul. Let’s hope he gets a good beginning in the next avatar. He left behind a genuinely grief-stricken and grieving wife. One gets habituated to pain and insults over the decades. The cuts and wounds take such a real shape that one draws one’s identity from them and gets puzzled in their absence. So maybe she still misses him much for all the insults he poured over the years.

However bad it was, but it’s sad to lose a human voice. But God is lenient to restore a voice that had gone mute. As I have already mentioned Kala had got a facial paralysis, leaving him tongue-tied. His hard-worked vegetable hawking skills lay abed. The streets missed enthusiastic hawking shouts at least, if not his not-so-impressive vegetable items. By the grace of God he has got his speech back after three-four months. There are auditory signs of a slurred effort in his hawking list. But his words, though slightly affected, carry enough clarity to convey the message.

He went for a desi treatment like most of the country folks do. I have seen many people recovering after taking the secret potions along with faith-healing by these people. They strictly forbid the patients from getting saline drops which the allopathic doctors do to begin with at the hospitals. ‘Don’t get the drips. If you do, our medicines won’t work!’ they admonish the patients. Thanks to their mysterious potions Kala gets his hawking voice back. He has to take medicines for at least six months. Let’s hope he becomes as fluent in shouting out his list as earlier.

Elsewhere, a pack of asian pied starlings keeps the neighborhood pretty lively during the bright, balmy noons. They chat a lot. Maybe they love this season. The pair of treepies hasn’t yet returned from the Himalayan foothills for the wintertime stay. When they come, they don’t miss to intimidate the smaller birds in the locality. Imagine their natural GPS system that enables them to track this small neighborhood on their journey from the lower Himalayas. There also they must be having a little home among the few trees on a slope or in a little vale. They would return to it after the winter stay. Imagine the natural sense of belonging to a particular place!

Apart from all this, dear readers, there is a tiny jingling addition to the world. Feeble, soft trills of baby birds are a welcome addition to any yard or garden. Although winters are usually avoided by the birds for adding to their families, but there are some couples who take the odd way. Like this pair of scaled munias. Their globular grass nest has little munia babies, sending their softly tinkering notes swimming in the air. The squirrels stay away from the curry leaf tree hosting the nest.

There is a cat in the house. The feral cat considers itself to be a pet now. It was a scared, scrawny, feeble-hearted dark grey cat. The elders would have serious issues about its suitability as a pet from many angles. But then a year-and-half old Maira finds it very cute. The cat is afraid of the grown-up stiff fingers but it’s comfortable with Maira’s soft touch. The elders thus have to adopt it. It’s a laidback cat, not much interested in rats, girl cats or nests. It’s happy to have chapattis and sleep. It means the munias have a nice chance of raising a successful family. Anyway the nest is beyond the reach of even an adventurous cat.