The mother

 

She is a widow pensioner in her late sixties. Her husband who was in police expired long ago. She successfully raised two boys and a girl. It was challenging as usually it is. She lost her daughter to dowry sharks. It was a huge trauma. Both her boys are settled with their families now. She stays with the younger one. There was a time when he was struggling with his small business. During those times her pension was handy for the family budget. Economic dependence fetches its fair share of loyalty and obedience on part of the dependent to the benefactor. So he was a sweet boy, caring with his tongue when it came to dealing with his mother. Then his small business picked up and he turned moderately well off. Now he was no longer dependent upon the contribution of her small pension in running the household.

What can a mother expect from a self-sustaining boy? He wasn’t directly insulting but due to his newfound economic independence she felt him to be dismissive of her. It pained her. She shares this sadly with me. Now she has to be reminded that it hasn’t gone waste, her struggle and support.

‘Sweet, sugar-coted, flattering words of an economically dependent boy are far lower than the practical, matter-of-fact, official sounding, formal words of an independent self-sustaining boy. As a mother what would you choose? A boy who speaks sweetly just because he is dependent on your pension to run his affairs. Or a boy who sounds dismissive of you but is respectfully earning his bread.

‘The latter,’ she replies.

‘As a mother what was your duty? It was to help him grow up. His speaking over you is a sign of his growing up to be independent. Which mother would want a cringing dependent son? So sister, feel happy and proud that you have raised a man who is standing on his own now. Growing old is being transparent, mellow, adjusting and understanding. Most of the unwanted stuff ought to pass through you without getting stuck up and create pain inside. Listen and smile and keep blessing your children,’ I try to assure her of the wisdom of old age.

A smile comes on her face. She now feels the joy of raising independent sons. 

Smartphone solace in solitude

 

The sun at its baking best on this June noon. Who would come out in such fire unless forced by the circumstances ?But a writer needs to accede to his whims sometimes. My head draped in a towel, I’m walking on the canal embankment. The water seems vaporizing right there while on its course. The grass and bushes almost famished. The trees dispirited. The birds silent, probably taking a siesta. A little flock of sheep is grazing on the sunburnt tufts of grass. The sheep in their woolen coats look like an old man draped in a thick military blanket on a June noon. They look suffering under their coats. But during the winters it makes them look so comfortable and warm.

A sheep is startled to see someone out in such heat. The shepherd is lying under the not-so-dense shade of a small tree. Far away from the world. He is a poor boy in shabby clothes. But he has a smartphone. The panacea for all your vacuums. The world is at your fingertips. You don’t need anyone. You easefully pass time from the airport lounges to the faraway places such as this one. Virtual socializing consoles us in this lonelier than ever world. Beyond all the cacophony, we are lonelier than ever. The smartphone is a faithful companion to the billions of lonely humans.

A visit to Delhi

 

I visit Delhi only when it’s unavoidable. Despite innumerable new bridges and flyovers, traffic congestion and pollution is almost the same from as long as I can remember. The reason is thousands of new migrants and scores of new vehicles on the road every week. The national capital is a sufferer of over-expectations. Urban planning will be better with diversification of focus on smaller cities and towns.

On a recent trip to the national capital, something interesting caught my attention. There was something written at the back of a car of some senior government official. On the road it moves like a stern disciplinarian message. The people mind their driving business well and follow the rules in the vicinity of such a vehicle. I think a cool proportion of drivers on the road are illiterate. But even they understand the pictographic meaning of these red words.

One such vehicle moved in front of my car. I’m already cautious while driving but I turn extra-disciplined now. Then on second reflection I read it again. ‘Great of India’. Well, it looks the same to even those who can read. We are used to read it as ‘Government of India’ and get extra disciplined when driving near it. While, the illiterate ones would give it the same guard of honor as to any official vehicle. The white ‘Great of India’ Swift Dezire moved with honor among the motley crowd. Many drivers gave it space to overtake to allow the high government functionary to reach his destination on time.

World cycling day

 

I never knew there was a world cycling day falling on June 3. I came to know of its existence through a pleasant coincidence. We had once bought a very nice bicycle for my niece. But she turns out to be unsporty type. The bicycle rusted on the roof. Then my nephew came of age, the time when six or seven years olds fall in love with cycling. Thinking he would love it we sent it to a mechanic, getting it totally refurbished. It looked well-oiled and properly greased to pedal a childhood to joyful glory. But even seven-year-old Nevaan, coming during his school vacations, hardly showed any interest in it.

Stationed in the verandah, I again saw the signs of rust gathering on the lovely cycle. That sounded so derogatory to a cycle, especially when there are so many children who would lose their sleep out of sheer excitement if they get a cycle like that.

There are two little boys from a needy family in the locality. I gifted the cycle to them. In the evening of the same day, the sultry silence was broken by a sweet trilling by the familiar bell. The elder one rode, the younger one riding pillion, there they went sashaying across the streets, their dreams on swift pedals. A few moments later, through the ever nosy social media, I came to know that it was the world cycling day! What a beautiful coincidence?

May musings -- 2024

 

The month of May was unexpectedly cooler. The coolest May in the last four decades in fact, thanks to the western disturbances. But the heat will put up its grip in June, the loos will sigh, the sands will fly, the street dogs will walk with their tongues hanging out, the flowers will get charred and vanish (except peregrina). The deep red little flowers stay through the year, except for the coldest moth in January. But the sadabahars also are quite brave. They aren’t bothered about winters and summers.

The curry leaf tree is in full bloom. Smallness is no handicap for smiles. These are little bouquets with tiny white petals. They are so small that you see them only as a pale collectivity from a distance. They have a faint jasmine kind fragrance. They are countless like ants. So many drizzle like a mango tree’s flowering. Yet there are so many left to invite an entire colony of bees to feast through the day. Big yellow-brown stinging wasps also drone among the clusters. To have your stinginess you need to have some sweet core inside. Purple black berries would form later. They taste sweet. I remember the Morni hills trekking times when a huge curry leaf tree would welcome the solitary walker and offer its ripe, sweet berries.

Ganga Maa Doli yatra from Mukwa to Gangotri

 

जन्नत में आग

 कश्मीर में निर्दोष पर्यटकों की हत्या घनघोर पापकर्म है। विडंबना ये है अब पक्ष और विपक्ष दोनो इसका अपने अपने तरीके से राजनैतिक फायदा उठाएंगे। त्रासदी का लाभ उठाना ही तो राजनीति है। पाकिस्तान के कुकृत्य तो जगजाहिर हैं। उसपे विलाप करना निरर्थक है। सवाल उठता है कि एक अलग थलग प्रयटन क्षेत्र के आस पास, जहां करीब २००० पर्यटक उपस्थित थे, उसके आस पास सिक्योरिटी क्यूं नहीं थी। अगर मीडिया रिपोर्टों को मानें तो उग्रवादियों ने फ़ुरसत से लोगों से उनके नाम, धर्म पूछे। इतना ही नहीं कुछ को तो कलमा तक बोलने को कहा। मतलब हिट और रन नहीं था। फ़ुरसत थी। और फ़ुरसत तब होती है जब विश्वास होता है कि सिक्योरिटी अरेंजमेंट बहुत ढीले है। यानी सिक्योरिटी गार्ड काफी दूर रहे होंगे। इसलिए हिन्दू मुस्लिम की आग में कूदने से पहले अपनी सरकार से हमें ये प्रश्न पूछना होगा की इतना बड़ा लूपहोल कैसे छोड़ दिया गया?

इस संबंध में ओशो का वक्तव्य सार्थक है: "दो तरह के लोग हैं दुनिया में। बड़ी पुरानी सूफी कथा है कि एक मूढ़ और एक ज्ञानी एक जंगल से गुजरते थे। दोनों रास्ता भूल गए थे। बिजली चमकी। बड़ी प्रगाढ़ बिजली थी। अंधकार क्षण भर को कट गया। मूढ़ ने आकाश में बिजली को देखा। ज्ञानी ने नीचे रास्ते को देखा। मूढ़ ने जब बिजली चमकी तो ऊपर देखा। जब बिजली चमकी तो ज्ञानी ने नीचे देखा। उस नीचे देखने में रास्ता साफ हो गया।"

इसलिए मूढ़ तो इस त्रासदी की कोंध में धार्मिक उन्माद की चमक ही देखेंगे। लेकिन ज्ञानवान आदमी इसमें रास्ता देखेगा। और रास्ते उचित प्रश्नों को उठाने पर ही निकलते हैं।

Tiny superheroes

 

Let us talk of tiny superheroes. They are not visible but can outfox even the wildest imagination. Conan the Bacterium is a little multi-celled superhero that grabbed the show from its discovery in the cow and elephant dung. It kept its bright orange smile in the face of sterilization, exposure to dangerous radiation and extreme temperatures. The Japanese researchers put it up for a Sumo fight in the space. It was left sticking to the outer walls of the International Space Station. It flashed its orange smile even after three years when they rechecked it. Now they estimate that it can survive for millions of years on the Mars. I think Conan the Barbarian (in a movie)did full justice to the name. Now, I’m convinced that the original shot of life was some such superhero microbe that came darting on the back of a burning meteorite and landed on this little planet.

Bacillus Subtilis breaks down toxic industrial waste and crude oil by almost 85 percent. Hasn’t it got wonders in its metabolic pathways?

Rhodococcus Ruber has probably the strongest gut on earth. It has a flair for eating and digesting plastic. It breaks plastic into nontoxic waste.

Geobacter is named Iron-Man Bacteria. It has a flair for flirting with toxic cobalt. It hunts like a great miner. It sucks cobalt from the surroundings and makes a cobalt suit with it and wraps itself in it. In this way it stops the poison from seeping into its cells. A cobalt suit it wears! Can you believe it?

Methanotrophs is methane guzzler. The best and the most helpful addict to substances. The more it abuses, the better it’s for us. As the permafrost melts in the Arctic, it releases massive amount of methane, the notorious greenhouse gas. And there in the frigid environment, this unsung hero fights for us by consuming methane.

Addicted to mother's milk

 

Despite the best efforts by his mother, Jhallu master won’t stop breastfeeding on his mother. He suckled at her breasts till he was in the eighth or ninth class. Her solutions like putting bitter neem paste and chilies on her nipples having failed to deter him. He would run to his house for lunch during the break at the village school. After eating rotis he would insist, ‘Maa, e maa kam se kamek doka de de!’ Mother, o mother give a little bit of milk. Doka (a tiny milk unit in the farming lingo, equaling just a quarter of a pint) was used for the lactating buffalos that would unwillingly give a few squirts of milk in the basket after much effort.

The banjara baby

 

A small town hospital run by a doctor couple. He a physician and surgeon, she a gynecologist. Nice doctors who won’t dab into your pockets with unnecessary tests. Almost like a state transport services bus—big, slightly disordered, bustling with lower-middle class people. A hospital for medication and service, not a five-star level swanky set-up to take the treatment costs into many lakhs of rupees. The long rectangular entrance hall had a reception desk and chairs and benches for the waiting OPD patients. It would be usually full due to the affordable services and ethical code of conduct followed by the doctor couple.

This day a banjara woman is in for delivery. Dauntingly clad gypsy women are huddled in a corner, sitting on the ground. Then the elderly banjara patriarch comes lumbering along the dim-lit corridor. He is an imposing figure with great moustache, big red head-cloth, slim-fitted white vest, heavy knee-length dhoti and massive leather jutis, which creak to announce his arrival from the delivery section. His stick stomping on the cement floor. His voice boomerangs across the hallway reaching the ladies huddled in the corner, ‘Chhoro hoyo se paanch kilo ka!’ It’s a boy weighing five kilogram. Well, everyone seems weighed down by the heavy announcement.

Fathers and sons

 

Jat fathers and sons would share a most formal relationship. The son kept his head low, spoke in monosyllables, got up to leave the group when his father arrived, and always expected verbal and hand and leg lashings. They stayed like almost strangers under the same roof. When the equations reversed in the old age, the son stamped his authority as an autocrat and the deposed king would need to call ceasefire, smoke hookah, eat rotis in silence and while away his time in the community chaupal.

The same was the equation between Father and Grandfather. They had their own views of running the household, spending, eating, everything in fact. But now Grandfather being in his nineties, Father was at the peak of power. Grandfather usually minded his business. But sometimes, while Father was in office, he would try to regain his lost territory and we would revolt. Usually the matter reached Father’s court after his return. We were always assured of victory there. So one night when Grandfather’s case had been summarily disposed, he felt crestfallen and angrily declared, ‘I’ll ensure that I become a ghost and make troubles for you all!’ he admonished Father. Father lost it. ‘Imagine, he is nearly hundred and still talks of becoming a ghost. That’s no option for you!’ he laughed.

The village of our childhood

 

When we were growing up, the village had plenty of bullock carts. Cattle, buffalo and bulls still pulled the cart of farming. Tractors had just started to come onto the scene. Carts, driven by male buffalos and bulls, had their unique means of shifting gears to increase the speed. Imagine the farmer and the bull both falling into a lethargy, the carter almost dozing with sleep and the bull going very slowly in the rut of the track while chewing cud. Fully relaxed. Then the farmer suddenly realized the passivity. Then he would shift gears. It involved holding the cart-puller’s tail, giving it a jerk, simultaneously his heel hitting the bull’s balls, and the tongue giving a loud clucking sound. All done in perfect synchronism. The bull would be jolted out of its laziness.

So we would imitate clucking our tongues like seasoned farmers. In fact we had tongue-clucking competitions. The atmosphere would resound with clucking sounds. Some chaps would cluck their tongues so loudly that even the bulls tethered in the barns got startled.

My brother took a fancy to be the clucking champion in the village. His practice session would cross over into late evenings when Father arrived from office. The sound has a vehement, egging-on vibes. And who won’t be egged on after a day at the office followed by a commute in a crowded train from Delhi to the nearby town and then a ride in some rag-tag three wheeler plying on the potholed road? So Father reprimanded him very severely after a week. ‘You know what, your tongue will get a fracture with so much striking like flint against your palate!’ Father further admonished. ‘I saw a guy with a fractured tongue. He cannot speak now.’ So my brother had to abandon his practice to become the village clucking champion.

Mother's Day

 

Mother’s Day falls on May 14. Maa left us in January 2020. With Mother gone, one is suddenly less loved, forever. Because who else will love you so selflessly? The space that a mother leaves in one’s heart stays vacant forever. It cannot be filled. Till your mother is around, and even if you yourself are old, you hardly feel that you are old. After all you are still someone’s child and your mother would show the same care like she did when you were small. So how can you feel old?

I keep convincing myself that Mother is now part of everything around me. In her human form she gave me birth, reared me, protected me, nurtured me. She still does the same as Dharti Mata, Mother Earth. So to me Mother’s Day and Earth’s Day are just the same. In her lap I walk, enjoy, shit, pee, cry, laugh, throw tantrums. The very same child of yore.

It pains to see Mother Earth getting older and older, her strength failing to support the errant kids. But She will give her all till She lives. I’m not a power aspirant. I know I cannot handle it. But if ever I’m given some authority I would make cutting the trees without justified permission a punishable offence. I know it’s hardly possible. But this type of daydreaming helps me in imagining a lush green earth at night.

Two-mouthed snake

 

During our childhood there were lots of free sands for the harmless red sand boa (RSB) to lie lazily and be found by the excited, scared eyes of the children. We called it ‘do muh wala saanp’. The village myth went that it had mouths at both ends, that it never bit but if it did on a Tuesday then nobody would survive. The gutsy boys would tentatively hold it in their hands and the chicken hearted like yours truly would stare from a distance.

Then the times changed. The sand was lost. The red sand boas turned rare. Then as per the growing economy even the RSB got an economic tag. It was considered lucky now—maybe due to its rarity. The new myth went that it sells for lakhs of rupees, that rich corporate houses kept it as a lucky charm. So now when a RSB surfaced at a house in the locality, and the unsuspecting children put it in a bucket and left it outside the village, the news busted and the entire locality went searching among the bushes for the big prize. Luckily the RSB had crawled to safety in the meantime. The children were severally reprimanded for harming the family’s economic interests.

A stormy afternoon

 

There was a squall in the afternoon, a powerful windy rain-lashing by the weather gods. And the small creamy white butterflies that were flitting around on a relatively cooler day faced what is most expected from life—a crisis. They struggled through the beating rain. The strong wind made it seem like a flirtatious dance with death. The branches shook angrily as if saying, ‘No, not here!’ as the butterflies approached them for shelter. And once a butterfly landed on a branch, it swayed and shook so violently, catapulting the hapless butterfly again into the squalling throbs of life. The rainstorm was pretty powerful and lasted for half an hour.

It was a little group  of butterflies and I don’t think many of them survived. Most of them must have perished. But how many butterflies get a chance to try their wings, beautiful patterns and colors against a storm? And some chance survivor would see the real beauty of the next dawn and flit around as a living memorial for all of them.

The next morning is a foggy one. It’s real fog with the temperature dipping as low as fifteen degrees. It’s unbelievable for this point of the season in the burning north Indian plains. Nature’s catapults!

The landowners

 

Owning land has been a hallmark of reputation and prestige in the countryside society. So the farmers in soiled, stitched clothes, weathered faces, callused hands would try to receive some respect by exaggerating the acreage of land owned by them while chatting with strangers. One old Tau from the village got a tiny jab at his prestige when he lost to an unknown farmer he met at the town. ‘How much land do you own?’ the other farmer asked. ‘Well, around twenty acres I reckon,’ the Tau from our village replied while using the mathematics of doubling the actual figure. ‘And how much do you possess?’ our Tau asked. ‘At least double of yours,’ the other farmer scored a clean win with a glint of pride in his eyes. ‘Well, even I had that much but just that you happened to ask it first,’ our Tau sighed and congratulated him on the victory. As a reward, in his capacity as a junior land-owning farmer, the Tau from our village filled the chillum and offered the first draught at the hookah pipe to the other, a mark of respect for the senior more respected farmers.

An ode to the spring

 Summer the moth is passionately kissing the dewy petals of spring blossoms in my courtyard!!! The heat of its greedy passion is building up!! Aye, summers plz stay away from my flowers for some more time!!

All pains and suffering lose their meaning in the face of such smiles. Wake up to a beautiful spring morning. The worst of frosty nights are over. The sun shines warmly. The air is fresh. The skies bathed in repainted blue. The trees assertive through new saplings. The birds ecstatic. And with a kissable smile, Mother Nature sends her assurance through a belated spring. The message of love, life, living and compassion. Listen to it. Read it written all over. Her child is sick. She has redecorated the garden with utmost care. So when the child comes out of the sick bed, there will be plenty of fun and frolics. She just just put her child to bed for rest and recuperation. Most importantly, she has given the little picture of alphabets for the child to revise and recollect the basics of existence, the simplest things which the child has forgotten as it made its postdocs thesis too complex. Time to shed the burden. High time to smile more. Acquire the natural cosmetics of health and glow with peace of mind. To hug the trees. Kiss the flowers. Listen to the singing rivulets. To lie on grass and stare at the vast canvas of the sky. To breathe in life and let go of anger, hate and jealousy. To shed animosity. To love animals. To allow Mother Nature to stay undisturbed in pristine forests. To maintain the sanctity of the seas. To distribute dignity to the masses instead of amassing wealth in select pockets. To make this little home earth a paradise instead of seeking heaven in the cosmos. To liberate faith from the clutches of dogma. To replace paranoid competition by balmy cooperation. To rest, repose for creative imagination. To walk joyfully instead of huffing and puffing to another same boring destination. To be joyful and help others be the same. To complete the journey so joyfully and fully that the culmination loses its pain. To reach the destination full of grace, dignity and with a smile. To say goodbye not with a painful sigh, but with smiling tears of feeling blessed!

The storm screeched through the night,

Poured its fury through sadistic love bite,

Undefeated but smiles the beauty,

Still doing its fragrant duty,

Her holy petals bear 

the storm's violating drops without fear,

Holy beads now they are,

Smiles, smiles and no war!

There is always hope,

As long as nature holds the rope

through its smile pure, 

Survive we will for sure!

Summer nights in the villages of past

 

During our childhood, the village was far smaller. The houses were small with plenty of space around. The electricity would continue playing hide and seek. During the summers we would sleep in the open on charpoys. The street dogs got a night-long stringed roof over them as they slept under the charpoys. But then you can’t just sleep at night, especially if you happen to be a canine species. Maybe they felt playful during the night and the chappals and jutis would be found missing in the morning. These were the favorite toys of the dogs.

It was a usual sight to find someone searching for his missing footwear in the morning. The lucky ones would find the item still somehow usable even after very serious canine attempts to decapitate it. But humans are one step ahead of the rest of the species on this little planet. They are born to go seeking solutions. The habit is so chronic that when all the solutions for the time have been found, they create fresh problems in order to have the satisfaction of seeking new solutions.

We also had our solutions in this regard. Our slippers, chappals and jutis turned into pillows. We tucked them under the durries and bed sheet and rested our head on them to avoid a situation of beginning the day with finding the solution to the puzzle of missing footwear. A short-sighted solution, like most of our solutions are, because it would surely give cervical problem to the elderly in the medium term.

Summer shades in the countryside

 

Nevaan’s birthday falls in the last week of April. Even the mornings look tired due to the heat. And the charmless air almost guilty over the village. Then a triumphant sound creeps across the sullen sky. Six sarus cranes, three pairs, three husbands and three wives, announce their flight path over the village. They go in a line, in a slightly curving arc of faith. I reckon they extended their stay in the plains by three weeks or so. Places have a tendency to turn homes, they have their own pull, and develop a nostalgia before we realize. But then the heat here will almost scorch their wings. So they have to leave. The manner of their call and the conscious arrangement show that they are up for a journey to spend the summers in the Himalayas among forests, valleys and lakes.

They hold the baton of grace, faithfulness, unconditional love and marital fidelity in a world where love is getting brittle day by day, thinning like air, vaporize like water from the desert sands and fall like pale, dead autumn leaves. Their call carry excitement about starting on a new journey. And for those who might care to listen, it’s a full-of-love, best-wishing goodbye. Happy be thy journey and return safe for your winter stay!

The crane spirit is for elegance, rest and pause. They are married for life and never allow their love to go stale. They keep the flicker alive through beautiful courting displays, dancing, calling, bending necks. It’s a lovely mating dance. For matrimonial harmony, both sexes take up responsibilities in building nests and rearing the kids. A crane couple involves two happy soulmates seeped in their little world. Both of them happily undertake long risky journeys over mountains, deserts and forests. I really love the fact that they are the tallest flying birds because the sarus stands almost six feet tall.

The rich people may have the ACs to deal with the heat. But the poor people have to go out in the burning heat to earn a living. However, sometimes mother nature does them a favor. The western disturbances work as a mass atmospheric cooler for the burning north Indian plains. They bring down the temperature by a few degrees through cloudy skies, sporadic rains, scattered hailstorms and cool winds. The sun that could have burned the poor man’s skin turns a bit kinder. But then the rains and hailstorms destroy wheat and mustard crops as well. It being the harvesting season. It’s never a win-win situation for all of us. Mother nature is helpless in this.

The trees know the implications of climate change. The trees in my little garden have been dropping their burden, fearing a famine, like the crew on a boat flooded with water throws away its cargo. Every gust of wind brings down showers of rustling dead leaves. The trees stand bare, with open declaration, ‘See, we don’t have anything left now.’ Only the guava tree is as green as before. The flowers have vanished. Only peregrina has its red clusters of little flowers where the honeybees hover around in competition with a few butterflies and the purple sunbird couple to get the still left out nectar. It’s like various types of African animals gathering around a little mossy puddle of water at the peak of the dry season.

The nomadic chain has been broken, its pieces flying apart, by the crude hammer of modernity. The big caravans are gone, just like the joint families broken up to form tiny nuclear families with their bigger-than-ever woes and pains. The long lines of banjara carts slowly lurching along the roads and dusty paths are gone. Now we have a customized motorized tricycle with a bike torso and an open carrier body pulled at the back. The banjara riding the vehicle and his wife, children and provisions heaped at the back, going a bit more speedily, but clueless as to what to do, how to do, how to fit in a world that has changed beyond their imagination. One needs roots to survive in a hurrying world, otherwise it will shake you like a furious storm. They now seem to look for a suitable point to pitch the tent forever. And this banjara woman sat on a desert cooler in the mechanized tricycle’s cargo hold. Of course, you need to stay cool to beat the heat.

The Naxalites blew up a police vehicle in Dantewada forest of Chhattisgarh. Eleven soldiers, including the civilian driver of the rented mini-bus, died in the explosion. Another driver, driving the rented Scorpio SUV, can pay thanks to his tobacco-chewing habit for survival in the incident. Actually his vehicle was in the front and was on the way to run over the IED implanted on the road. But a split second decision to take a pinch of tobacco, thus slowing down, allowing the mini-van to overtake him and meet death instead of his vehicle, gave him and others in the vehicle a lease of life. Well, he and the jawans in his vehicle were lucky, just like those in the mini-van were unlucky in overtaking.

A sad tree

 

The mourning tree...it was once a huge, luxurious semal (silk cotton tree). In March and April it used to smile with big, red, luscious flowers. Then the sand mafia came. Greedy for the river silt piled around this tree, they scraped away earth, cutting its big roots. The tree survived somehow. But it hasn't smiled even once, not a single flower, during the last two years. And now when the spring is at its peak and flowers are abloom on uninjured semal trees, this sad tree stands without even a single leaf, forget about flowers. It's its way of showing its mourning over the loss. It still greets me with its sad barren silhouette. I feel its pain. With a little extension of our sensitivity, we can feel and be aware of the joys and sorrows of the non human component of life on earth. The flowers are their smiles. The sap oozing from the cuts on the bark are their tears. Their luxurious canopy swaying to the winds is their dance. The ripe fruits, shadow and fresh air is their kindness. It's all there. We just need to be aware of it.

I put my hand on its hard bark. A handshake. An acknowledgment of we humans' rapacious ways. I feel sorry from the side of the humans. 'Don't worry, I am trying to smile with flowers and one fine day I will welcome you on this solitary trail with my flowers!' it seems to say. Well, best of luck you fighter tree. You are injured but big and strong. Keep your faith alive. Let's hope for the best during the next spring. And till then our handshake and greetings continue...in my heart and your wooden tissues, let this friendship stay fresh!. It's a lovely friendship and I'm honoured to be your friend, privileged to feel your pain and would be joyous in sharing your spring smiles.