Cancered Mother and the Unconcerned Son

 

Well, trees are falling. It’s a routine thing now. The trees themselves don’t even seem to complain anymore. Men and his kind completely own earth now. The rest of the part of nature is all secondary. Everything is too familiar and routine now. Wilderness is gone. Go anywhere, in the most desolate part of the world, and you still cannot forget the familiar homo-sapiens smell.

My solace is a little eucalyptus grove that was planted 34 years back by my father. I remember myself tugging behind him and trying to help with my little self. Many trees fall in storms. People take away wood. Farmers drink and defecate here as I see tell tale signs whenever I visit it. Some say frustrated farmers go into paid orgies also. And I believe it. I don't have any problem as long as there is no rape and forced endeavor to infringe upon somebody's modesty. I tolerate all and everything as long as this little green patch is there as my father's leafy memorial.

Trees are being cut around. Roads after roads under construction. Mechanical farming takes one toll after other with poisonous injects. And there it stands with its little piece of seclusion. Love you father! Hope your consciousness still caresses these leaves.

Trying to amuse myself like a rusted classical poet of the bygone era, walking in the virginal silence of a forest, right there in the little grove, I come across a forlorn pair of peacock eggs in the eucalyptus grove. Two little lumps of fluid waiting as a milestone on the path of creation to shape into winged lives.

The world of seclusion abruptly comes to an end beyond the small proportions of the grove. Farmed fields are as clean as human dwellings. Farmers spray poison even on narrow 6 inch field divides lest grass grows there and encroaches into the paddy inside. There starts the tale of beggar peacocks—about whom I write so copiously in my stories—who roam in the villages to survive. This pair of eggs hardly stands a chance of successful hatching. Even if it does, it will be a sad pair of beggar peacocks.

On my curiosity-driven next visit, I see them growing in numbers from two to four possibilities of life and living. The mother seems to be doing well. The crows are croaking schemingly above. I hope they don't get into any mischief. But can there be a bigger mischief than the mankind himself?

It’s a gloomy forecast for Mother Nature. They quibble like school kids over trifles and nobody seems to be bothered about the house on fire. Still there are some faint rays of hope.

The Philippines, a tropical island nation in the Pacific, will now require by law all graduating students, from elementary school to college, to plant 10 trees each before they can graduate. It’s the best law any legislative body can think of at the moment. It will help alleviate our collective sins against the mother planet.

The bill, called the “Graduation Legacy for the Environment Act,” is meant for the Filipino youth to help tackle climate change and build a greener environment for the coming generations.

Well, Philippines seems too far. Here in my home state of Haryana, the last nail in the coffin of scrub forest appears firmly driven in. Haryana is a small state. However, the fact that it has the lowest forest cover in the country at 3.59% makes it really sound miserable. Yet, not too many seem to miss trees here. As a silver-lining to the hopes of development enthusiasts, it surrounds Delhi NCR and that is where the planners find scope of creating more and more concrete jungles.

Politicians in India basically keep their financial spines sound primarily by managing real estate, mining and quarrying through their cronies. Haryana is no exception. With Delhi NCR getting over-bloated, Haryana politicians have always eyed construction scope in Gurugram and Faridabad. Nothing wrong with that. However, the simple fact that this area covers Aravali scrub land, which is the last bulwark against total desertification of Delhi NCR, makes it really worrisome, especially given the fact that Delhi already is an intolerable torture chamber for its residents due to pollution.

Haryana governments, despite the SC directive of 1996, have not notified forest land in its territory falling in the NCR. They eye the mullah by keeping a scope for construction by clearing the semi-wilderness of the scrub forest in the area. Already a lot of it has been destroyed through illegal mining. The recent Haryana government legislation allows the illegality to be carried out in open, which till now has been carried out through dubious means. It also leaves the heavenly slice of little patch of Shivalik hills in Panchkula, having exotic species of trees and birds, open for quarrying and hotel industry. Greed for money has no softer consideration for Mother Nature. I wonder will the reprimand by the Supreme Court be sufficient to stop Haryana politicians from raping the last remnants of scrub forest in the state.

Elsewhere, the juggernaut of our consumerist greed goes on unchecked world over. Not the end of July yet and we have already consumed the annual budget of natural resources meant for the whole year. It means whatever was supposed to be used as per our needs in a whole year has been chucked out in less than seven months. So the remaining five months will bear testimony to our greed when we will rape natural resources. Unchecked growth of cells in a physical body leads to cancer. Unchecked growth of modern civilization has led to cancer and tumors in mother earth. It's a dying planet, eh!

Global Footprint Network (GFN) prepares an annual budget of natural resources. Since the 1970s, we have chucked out the complete year's budget well in advance. Now we spend the whole year’s budget in just half year.

They have this concept of Earth Overshoot Day, also known as Ecological Debt Day: It's the sad date in the calendar in the year when “humanity’s resource consumption for the year exceeds Earth’s capacity to regenerate those resources that year.”

The earlier it's met in a particular year, the more it indicates that our unsustainable practices are going deeper into earth's natural reservoir to draw out from the basic pool. Under the onslaught of ever rising demand born of bursting at the seams population, the pressure on the ecosystems is ever on the rise. Demand exceeds the supply, thus there is 'ecological deficit'. The planet is thus hugely debt ridden under the onslaught of consumer culture. Will things improve? Probably not!

The Sad Love Story of a Lonely Hoopoe

 

The pining notes are insistent, persistent, adamant and brave. Aaw, I can feel your pain lonely Romeo! Apart from my mind's own inconsequential blabbering with its own self, I hear this hoopoe's mate song almost with the frequency of thoughts in my mind.

He is relentless. Going on and on for the last two weeks. Hope he hasn't forgotten to eat in his mad song of love to attract some female of the species. Hoopoes are almost gone from the area. Where are woods, so where will they do their master carpentry on tree trunks? There are hardly any flocks left. It's a lonely bird who wants to keep its species alive at any cost.

Hidden in the foliage of an acacia tree, he is busy with love song in all this heat: The song of love that may reach some stray female to allow the natural chemistry to take place and delay their tragic story of extinction from the area for some more time. Its lyrical, pining uuup, uuup, uuup is riding the dusty air of wheat harvesting season.

Hoopoes are hardly seen in this part these days. In fact, I had forgotten its sound. Then its lovely sad notes reached me in meditation and some long asleep memory drew a picture of hoopoe in the blank vastness, reminding me of those childhood days when we were lucky to see them going tonk tonk on big tree trunks.

So that's how the tragic stories of bird extinction are unfolding. These are not just the desperate love notes of a lonely bird. These are the sad stories told by the last of their generation here in this part. Let's hope some lonely lady hoopoe comes to hear these mate-finding notes.

Contrary to the weeks-long day-in and day-out songs of love by this lonely bird, humans are having gala time. We have bred with the tenacity of ant swarms. So there is hardly any fight. Mates are available easier than provisions in stores. People pick up mates with the drop of a hat. Relationships last for weeks because there are humans and humans around. We humans are spoilt for choice. Instragram, dating sites, Facebook, twitter, everything is saturated with more and more choices for a mate fling. People hardly come to feel the depth of love. It's a short version T20 cricket type love. Hit sixes and fours, grab your trophy and start new innings.

Isn't it ironical that only animals and birds appear to carry the message of love these days? This hoopoe for example appears the lone flag bearer of genuine love in the scandalous air around. Can somebody show this type of lyrical dedication for weeks in all this heat? Well, it makes me sad and happy at the same time. Sad because love seems to have vanished from the world of we humans. Happy that I am at least lucky to see and hear these love tales in nature.

Sharing my Space with some Natural Claimants

 

Time is frozen in the leafy green verve of a fresh breezy morning. The night blooming jasmine is clad in bright green new set of leaves, after the spell of autumnal detachment when it shed each and every leaf and looked like a brooding old man. Now it's young again and sways to intoxicated gusts of monsoon winds. A beautiful moment gets copied one year down the line. The natives return. It's a spotted munia couple. They are striking rusty brown birds having a chessboard pattern on the breast. They trill even more beautifully.

It's the same branch and the same section of twigs where they had set up a nest last year. I am sure, it's the same couple. If I am right then birds seem to have more fidelity than humans because meantime millions of men and women must have parted ways on bitter notes over trivial, funny things. Well, none of my business to comment on our foolish ways.

I enjoy the making of this irregular globular nest. It's a masterwork in deception. To a predator it would appear like a broken, abandoned nest. In reality, the eggs will be safe in an inner chamber. The father ferries big sinews of grass. He has to pay for his lusty overtures...haa haa. The mother is busy in decorating interiors. She has to pay even bigger for her emotional surrender. Last year, the hatching wasn't successful. A squirrel came—she still does—visiting the tree. She is just a guest, not a resident of the tree. I enjoyed the sight of her old-womanish tiktikking. Little did I know they are egg stealers also! So she must have been the culprit last time.

With this addition to my knowledge about the ways of squirrels, I’m better prepared this time. I will keep an ear for the agitated notes of the little birds to find out the cause of distress, like I did yesterday around noon. Busy in writing, I heard the plightful softest of notes and ran out to find out the squirrel scouting around the new house in making. Recalling the last year episode, I chased it away, lost my meditative balance also by the way. What to do? Have to support the underdogs. She is no longer a welcome guest. A birdie life saved is more important than a squirrel missing a meal. It seems so at least till I cross the final hurdles to beat the paradoxical plays of duality to see everything in the same way. Well, till then the squirrel has a tough time I tell you.

The spotted munia is a little docile bird that can manage faintly trilling notes even at its agitated most. Wait, the tree cannot miss its typical birdie song and dance. They co-share the little tree with a pair of tailorbird who have crafted a masterwork by stitching leaves to make a nest cup. They shout pretty loudly for their size. So the tree is under double occupancy. I hope they don’t start fighting like cantankerous humans in residential colonies.

I am determined on my mission born of emotions for the underdogs. If it results even in a bump on the lined back of the irritating tiktikking nuisance, whom I found cute earlier but now find a villain due to the addition to my knowledge, I hardly care. I have turned mean in following my basic instincts guiding my emotions for the beautiful birds. I know it will play truant many times. I am but ready for the job. I have a weapon also in mind to punish it with. In fact, I have taken out a flexible single strand of switch from my mother's bamboo broom. It's waiting for the culprit. Though it won't harm the squirrel critically, but I see it can definitely give her a painful back, if she messes with my birdie friends. All the best little couples. Let there be a successful episode in your love tale.

Things appear pretty normal with the usual humdrum till there is an itchy-tailed intruder on the scene. There is a literal blast of chirpy protests against this unsolicited visit. The bully, a male Indian Robin with rusty red rump and its itchy tail flicking, arrives on the tree. Probably it has not so fair intentions, otherwise why would the hosts raise such a storm of choicest abuses against the intruder. The tailorbird pair, half the size of the intruder, can fight—verbally of course—with more tenacity than even the most cantankerous aunty in your neighborhood. Their shrill notes have sharp talons man. What proficiency in quarreling!

Well, they have a right to do it. After all, they own this tree under the birdie constitution. They have their nest sewn up among three leaves. The tree belongs to them, of course. Even I, whose courtyard happens to keep rooting of the tree, have surrendered my rights of ownership after witnessing their vehement show of abusive lung power in protest against any effort to prune even those branches that are well away from their little nest and are of inconvenience to me. But then I can't match their quarrelsome capacity, so I have resigned myself to the fate of my face and head getting some brush against the irksome caressing of the branches. What to do? They own it completely as long as they have their family here.

The spotted munia couple also try to contribute to the protest, but the cute chocolate brown little beauties having chess pattern on their breast have such feeble jingling notes that you can't even make out their contribution to the noisy protest. It's like their sitar notes get lost in the humungous, buttock-busting notes of the biggest drums in the loudest discotheque in the maddest part of the world. Anyway, they also protest and flick from branch to branch. It pays to have quarrelsome neighbors sometimes. Isn't it? So the bully gets intimated. He flows away with a jarring note of typical chhhrrr accompanied by its ever-flicking tail.

These four residents of the small Parijat tree also throw expletives on the baddy squirrel who tries to get away with their eggs. However, she stands little chance as long as these noisy defenders are there. Agreed that they can't physically chase the fur-lined snoutish nuisance, but their verbal fight draws my attention sometimes and I go to add resources to the defending army. The very same age-old instinct to be with the underdogs! By the way, sometimes even a pair of purple sunbirds, the male's metallic blue sheen looking over the mundane dull colors of the female, joins the protests. A pair of oriental white eye, their notes hardly distinct among the commotion, also arrives on the scene. But they make bigger statements with their beautiful white-ringed eyes and flit with their square tails from branch to branch. Once in a while, even the most garrulous babblers also join the protesting chorus, thinking there must be a bigger common enemy to all, for example a snake. However, when they find that these tiny birds are overhyping the threat over almost a non-issue, they just take off angrily.

But man at least you expect a bit of reciprocation for your help. The other day, I am removing some wild growth in a corner away from the tree and there go these tailor birds again throwing choicest abuses in their birdie language. I even feel irritated. I have even surrendered my right to the tree and now you don't want me to touch anything in the whole yard, I whisper to myself. So now I am open to the idea that they have at least equal right over the courtyard also. What to do? These tiny, shrill loudspeakers can definitely send down jarring notes when they are angry!

In any case, it’s my gain. Once you learn to share these things with the natural claimants, life and living becomes easier. There will hardly be any big issues with a person who has learnt to let small birds and animals have their share of the environment around.

Read the Unwritten Stories

 

Sometimes reading the unwritten stories presented by mother earth can give more satisfaction than the tomes of tales we read in books.

There is a little story of an abandoned nest.

It is a little tale of refurbishing an old nest and the story of birdie care. Well, not all abandoned nests go unnoticed. While the rains lashed in August and September, a scaly-breasted munia pair (spice finch or nutmeg mannikin) set up an irregular, oval nest of grass and straw lined with feathers and strands of cotton wool. The cycle was completed and the hatchlings flew to take their chance on life on the tightrope of creation and destruction. The parents, however, are known to use the dormitory off and on while on the way in their birdie sorties. I see them a few times sneaking in for a restful night.

The nest stands jolted after more than a month since the nestlings left. The rains and wind shook it. But then the old house is still fit enough to catch the eyes of a pair of white-throated munia (Indian silverbill) who are a bit lazy and sociable little beauties open to move into the used house. They have white throat running from beak to undertail, brown plumage and blue grey beak. So letting swift chirrup trill, the lady on house hunting is seen inspecting the rain-lashed nest, evaluating how much of refurbishment might be required.

Quite incidentally, the original house-owner, scaly-breasted munia, also happens to be there on a nearby branch. Perhaps it has come for some noontime nap. The silent and peaceful bird with bright cinnamon head, full brown plumage and scaly patterns on breast just looks on pensively. Possibly it understands that laying eggs by someone is more important than her sleep. So guys, there is no fight. It just looks at the would-be-mother with a strange detachment and allows the inspection of her former house. Hope we humans can learn something from these birdie guys.

Don’t you feel that primarily love is ingrained in the photons of the cosmic energy pervading around?

Empathy, Solitude and Love

 

Feeling lonely? Solitude is somewhere in the same garden. With a lonely feeling you are depressed, which perilously borders on being destructive. Solitude, on the other hand, is creative. There is an art of changing your loneliness into solitude. You can even start with a peacock like I tell you.

Finding it difficult to empathize with fellow human beings due to many setbacks and disappointments? Well, don’t feel too low. Start with nature and its constituents who have been pushed to the corner due to our onslaught. Empathy is the mother of compassionate self. Nurture her well, and she will deliver a healthy, kind and considerate baby. As a gift you hardly get brooding moments to feel lonely.

Instead of just killing time, and as a result kill my own prospects to being better, I willingly sympathize with the evening guest, even though he won't have tea. I accept my share of the collective sins against Mother Nature. This very acknowledgment lays the first brick of the building of redemption. The biggest of trees sprout from the smallest of seeds. Similarly, mightiest salvations, and resultant boons, rewards and achievements, begin from tiny sensitivities. Sounds miraculous? Well, not to me, because I understand that they make up the persona over all. With the warmth of empathy, my solitude turns full of love.

I see groups of peacocks and peahens on rooftops and terraces foraging for survival in the concrete jungle. Farmlands cover almost all the countryside now. And there are hardly any reptiles and insects to feed upon. Landholding is decreasing. Population is increasing. Agriculture is becoming unviable. More and more chemicals are used to increase production. Commerce sees only the outstanding stats of production and profit-loss equation in financial terms. It overlooks the shadows under the shiny lamp where ecological destruction is writing newer and newer tragic tales. Chemicals give diseases to humans in the medium turn, but they kill reptiles and insects straightway. So where will the peacocks go? They take refuge in the concrete jungle. Ironically, almost every species now stands at the mercy of we human beings.

Well, the winter is slowly building up and the sunrays are losing their pinch. And the moment they lose their hot potency, your skin pines for a warm kiss. Welcome early winters! I have been writing for my blog almost through the day. Then feeling tired I decide to move around to take a tea break in the evening. And here comes the guy, the bald Romeo who has shed his plumage hence bothered more about food than peahens. No spare chapati, his favorite, this evening. So I offer biscuits. He takes a few unwelcoming bites. I try wheat grains. Lo, here he is savoring his evening snack. But I feel sad that he cannot have tea and be my tea party partner.

He has learnt the lesson: to survive you are at the mercy of humans. With his natural feeding ground, the countryside, turning into a chemical bowl of monoculture where poison kills insects, rodents and reptiles immediately in the fields—and humans also, slowly over a period of time as the toxicants enter the food chain and punish we humans for our collective sins—this beautiful multicolored wonder of mother nature enters houses, beating its natural fear of the two-footed most dangerous animal on the planet, and stands there like a well decorated beggar. What else to do? No option left.

The struggling farmers pour chemicals, pesticides and weedicides in the fields. Nothing is thus left for this free forager in the open countryside. So it lands on terraces and yards to get survival morsels. Sometimes when its hunger is unbeatable, it follows people well into their rooms, like a cute kid hankering after elders for chocolate. The last time it came, it had a huge bunch of shining and shimmering plumage, just on the verge of shedding it away. I could hear my mother requesting, "Arre pagal pankh hamare ghar gira ke Jaana!"

However, in this he is the master of his own will. So here comes the colorful Romeo without his burden. He has shed his plumage and looks like a nimble, flirtatious teenager. Moves freely, flies with lesser effort. But it comes at the cost of love. Peahens won't give him a damn look without his decoration. And of course my mother is angry that he didn't shed even a single feather in our yard. "Go to them whom you gave your feathers!" The poor thing gets reprimanded. She starts with her household chores, but not before handing over a chapatti (so it was there after all; or mothers have better eyes than sons in these regards) to me to honor the colorful guest.

With a sad smile on my face, I look at the guest eating the chapatti pieces. Possibly we have already done irreversible damage to the ecosystem. But then there is always hope as long as one sees such colorful wonder of Mother Nature. I decide to be happy and hopeful as it completes it belated lunch. Stretches and shakes its shortened plumage as a mark of contentment and majestically moves to the far end of the yard where it can spot a bucket of water. It always takes water after the meals, by the way. Cornered in a tiny eco-space, it may well be the last in its lineage, but then the sight is so beautiful that all the doomsday scenarios get dispelled. I smile with a contended feeling as it hops onto the wall and goes away.   

So brother and sisters, life is lying around in countless forms for us to provide a bit of meaning to our own self. It has unlimited potential to give love; has limits for our greed though. Go, pick up the small wares and build the palace of your happiness.