Being with small things in life

The winter has been pretty harsh. Its passage through the pathside grass tells the tale. As the February sun shines I can see the little patches of faded green that fought the cold and now give the wilderness a pleasant aroma along pathsides, field embankments, fallow lands and canal bunds—little sinewy hideouts still surviving for mother earth to keep her flag flying, to still somehow maintain the timeless sanctity of her duty, her divine principle. Gone are the days of large doses of wildly engaging swathes of mother nature. Well that is fabled past. This is enough for me, a middle-aged poetic man with lukewarm sensibilities, moving on the visual surface almost lost in the puzzling quizzes of existence. It’s a representational canvas and by its side is placed earthy palette. There is soulful stillness and I distinctly hear nature’s compositional effort to still get attuned to the changing times. These little ribbons of weather-beaten wilderness alleviate my tensions; a sense of openness permeates my being.

Wild sorrel or common sorrel, a leafy bouquet, stands as a green beauty among the winter-beaten grass. It welcomes me with its clumps of arrow-shaped leaves and juicy stems. It will have whorled spikes of reddish green flowers in early summer. Butterflies and moth larvae feast upon them. It’s not that useless as one may think it to be as you pass it. In Nigeria it’s used in stews. Indians who know about its properties use it in soups and curries. The Afghanis coat the leaves with butter and consume them as appetizers.

Disengaged from the world of utilities and economic valuation stand some stalks of great mullein. It’s a hairy biennial plant that can grow to two meters. It will add to the short spring waiting just round the corner when it will have small yellow flowers densely grouped on a tall stem, growing from a big rosette of leaves. It’s a prince of fallow lands and hosts a variety of insects. Its tall pole-like stem greets me with a very slight nod as a gust of wind eggs it to greet me. Its hermetic disposition has fetched it quite interesting names including Hare’s Beard and Moses’ Blanket.

Sardonically stand a few twiggy mulleins, a kind of spiky rosette of leaves, self-absorbed in their pleasant redundancy. Beyond the gloss and superfluousness of mankind’s manipulation, it stands as the unpretentious, anonymous engraver of the last lines of free nature on this planet.

On the canal bund stands a dwarf shrub called bluemink, or pussy foot or flossflower. Reaching up to three feet high its bluish and purple fluff-haired flowerheads are the harbingers of spring. It seems to be waiting for the first butterfly carrying the colors of spring. It knows how to defend itself well as it repulses insects by secreting a repulsive compound. Then it’s toxic to grazing animals because it causes some mild liver complications to goat and sheep. And the grazers know it through natural intelligence.

There are some billygoat weeds with attractive mauve flowers. It by the way is a medicinal plant and is used to cure dysentery and diarrhea. And the goats, sheep and buffalos don’t need medicines much, so they leave it to bask in its glory.

There is a very nice colony of annual ragweed. They are invasive by attitude and know how to grab their share in this competitive world. They have much-branched hairy leaves, 4-5 inches long, that can cause allergic reactions to some humans.

Riverside wormwood, also called mugwort, has long leaves and safe to be even considered a culinary herb.

Then there are strands of smut-grass, or call it pheasant’s-tail-grass, having whisk-like crown heads gently swaying to the late winter solitude.

Pampas grass defines the second tier crown of this little ribbon of wilderness running along the canal. Only occasional trees hover over them. They have razor-sharp leaf margins having whitish inflorescences on top of their stout upright flower spikes. They stand in clump-forming solidarity with their blade-like leaves. The dark brown and whitish spikes at the end of stems sway to the gentle accosting of breeze. Their clumps carry an indispensable air. They are the fortresses of birds of bush and reptiles.

There is greater pond sedge along the water margins in the thickly overgrown sides of the canal floating over the water in a decided sense of agnosticism.

All these sentinels of wilderness greet me on my solitary march in the countryside. They have weathered a tough winter and now leave us at the threshold of a pleasant spring. 

Friendship with dogs

 A farmer has around seventy buffalos in his dairy in the secluded, forlorn corner in the countryside. Of course, they need security. So his staff has pampered a pack of five stray dogs through generous dose of lullabying words, chapattis and buttermilk. Left free to spend their time, unconcerned about the battle for belly, they growl and bark as the indomitable defenders of the citadel. Their view of ownership is far beyond the dairy premises. Everybody within sight is an enemy. So there they come dashing down the dusted pathway. I was at least half a kilometer away. Their body language gives big clues to their determination to growl, bark and bite. Showing fear and running is an invitation to taste the meaty slice on the calf muscles.

It primarily depends upon the human whether the dog turns out to be friendly or antagonistic. Show the intent to fight and they will keep quarreling. I think inside them they have a bigger quota of loyalty for we humans. The remaining quota of animosity is defined by their loyalty to some other human being. A dog has almost infinite sense of loyalty. You have to just calmly take your portion out of it.

They smell something blameworthy in my approach to their well-milked territory. It’s a dog-eat-dog world. They come fiercely at top speed, barking with deep growls. I stand and watch them coming, raising dust like an attacking cavalry. I smile and shout ‘Kalu’. He seems a hoodlum, his vocals strengthened by steady stream of villainous barking over months after months. He carries an extorting look as well. Now every black dog has to be named ‘Kalu’. Thanks to the norm, I hit it on the nail. My sweet accost meets his approval and Kalu screeches to a halt. ‘Anyone calling me by name cannot be an enemy,’ he comes hesitatingly forward. I tickle behind his ears. He is a friend now. The brownish-red ones are suspicious as if still shaping their response either to bite or sway their tails. ‘Lalu,’ I whisper coaxingly. Lalu melts. In fact both red ones melt in the momentum built up by Kalu and now carried by the two Lalus. Again the naming norms doing wonders. All dogs of that color are named ‘Lalu’. They came as attackers, now they tread and trundle in front of me as friends and escorts, befriended and enjoying the positive emotional convergence with one more human being.

‘Kalva, Lalva,’ The Bihari keeper greets them. He is relieved that I have been spared. Now thank goodness that the dogs can understand the dialectical variations of their names. ‘Kalu means Kalva and Lalu means Lalva,’ they can make it out very easily. The next day I take a chapatti with me and they get a piece each. A little token of friendship and love. They look at me with languid admiration. The friendship is sealed very solidly. They remember the smell forever. A sense of loyalty bestows them potent canine glory. I may forget them but they won’t. Their loyalty isn’t affected by mood swirls hence a lot of melodrama is avoided. It’s not about food. It’s an initiation ceremony into friendship. Now they will even bite for me. 

Ma's temples

Ma's two temples: A glacial one and a man-made shrine. The former for a journey within. As you walk in the opposite direction to Her powerful currents, She cleanses you of darkness. She roars past you, outshouting the demons within you. It seems as if She is ferociously rushing past you to decimate the backstabbing illusions following you. She sprays Her divine waters to cleanse your little little mistakes and stumbles that we unjustifiably term as sins. She emboldens you to stumble over stony path to finally find your footing. Like a mother looking over her toddler falling while learning to walk. She wants your tired legs to know the importance of pause and rest in the art and craft of walking (life). As She powerfully cuts massive mountains,  it seems as if a strong mother is assuring Her children,  'I will cut a valley for you. I will lay a path for you.  You just learn to walk!' And once you get the lesson and complete the little assignment given by Her, She is there with Her motherly smile to welcome you in Her man-made shrine.

Breaking the winds

Tau Chunni Lal was the reputed wind-broker of the village. He broke wind with great effect and that came to be his primary identity for the village level fame. You need to break wind with good effect to become a village's numero uno wind-broker. His windy catapults were almost like massive cannon shots in comparison to the normal pistol shots of the rest of the villagers. And he was always very humble and unassuming in the art. Perfectly detached in the matter. I don’t think he felt proud about it. He wasn't even bothered about the reactions caused by his windy fireworks. He looked so free and natural about it, no pretense, no effort at hiding, no endeavor to appear, or sound rather, what he wasn't. There was a marvelous acceptance and spontaneity about his situation. As a free citizen of India he broke wind with utmost sense of liberation. Tau Chunni Lal comfortably lumbered through the street, unleashing the audible symbols of his freedom. These were hugely impressive, arriving in multitudes of rumblings carrying amazing range of pitch, notes, frequencies and volume. I think he played a great role in sharpening the linguistic intonation of our little tongues during our childhood as we put up best effort to imitate his sounds through mouth. It's good to be remembered. He wrote his little history on the windy canvas through the pen of sounds.

Father's Friend

 Once Father was getting some house-fixing job done. Some wooden rafters and beams were put up outside. A liquor-lover really appreciated them for the quality of their wood and make. ‘He will undoubtedly return at night to steal them,’ Father concluded. To guard his provisions, Father started sleeping outside. A charpoy was set down. The street dog Kalu became his new favorite for the guarding job. Who doesn’t want company in the dark? Kalu got pampering words and lots of buttermilk as remuneration for his help in the guarding job. On the third night he received even a bigger dose of love. Thinking that the canine part of the watch party must be feeling cold while sleeping near his charpoy, Father dumped two dry paddy bundles on the dog that had just retired for the night. Care is good but an overdose of it isn’t recommended. Moreover, the poor dog wasn’t aware of the scheme. It thought it was an attempt at its life. It bawled out into the night and continued to bark at Father from a distance throughout the night. ‘It’s good to be kept awake at least,’ Father consoled himself.