May flowers

Yesterday, while buying some flowers for a friend's housewarming, I came across two little girls with eager smiles and deep, searching eyes. As I stood inside the florist's air-conditioned shop, they were watching me keenly through the glass doors of the shop standing in the scorching sun outside. When the florist took the selected flowers out to chop off their stems and other straggly bits, the girls rushed towards him, pointing to the blood-red carnations in the bunch. I could tell from his hesitating smile that he had politely turned them down before stepping inside the shop to give the finishing touches to the bouquet. After I paid and was almost on my way out, I noticed the girls were still standing there with their faces pressed to the glass door, their gaze lingering longingly on the fresh-cut flowers in the buckets. Already late and a little bothered by how muggy it was for a day so bright, I rushed back and grabbed two yellow gerbera daisies, tossing a twenty-rupee note to the shop assistant. When I handed them each a daisy, the girls' puzzled faces lit up instantly breaking into broad, beaming smiles — a sparkle that outdid even the blazing noon sun. "Thank you, madam!", they chirped together in sing-song voices. I smiled and asked them to pose for a picture which they quite enthusiastically did. 

As I slammed the car door shut and turned on the air-condition, I realized how little it takes to make someone happy. A kind word here, a warm smile there — and that's how the world keeps spinning day after day, everyday. I also realized that, perhaps, in this unexpected exchange of smiles, I ended up being the happier one. Sure, they took the daisies home but I came back with a memory and much more.

In the wake of the very recent Nepal tragedy*, it is these little gestures of give-and-take that one must remember to share. Thousands of lives smothered under the rubble of now lost spaces, centuries' old temples and stupas battered into incoherent halves, priceless heritage pounded to nothingness, and villages 'flattened' beyond recognition — such horror of horrors!
Whenever the world is struck by a disaster, which, sadly, is so often these days, and I'm overwhelmed by a crumbling sense of doom, these lines come back to me again and again:  

"Because the world is so full of death and horror, I try again and again to console my heart and pick the flowers that grow in the midst of hell".

~ Hermann Hesse

*If you are interested to contribute to the Nepal relief efforts, here is a list of the organizations that are are soliciting donations. 

A summer of bouquets

"... When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table ..."

~ T.S. Eliot, 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock'

Last week, on a quintessential summer afternoon, we set out on a picture-taking long ride. As the mocking, piercing late-afternoon sun gradually began melting into a warm, golden twilight, things took a mellow turn. That is when Eliot's timeless poem struck me, when the sprawling, bougainvillea-laced roadside, draped with the pinkish-gold sheen took our breath away. We have always admired this green, wooded patch of about ten kilometres, a road that leads to my alma mater, the University of Hyderabad, but come summer and it turns into a different world altogether. Therefore, only passing by it and admiring nature's patchwork isn't enough; one has to capture their kaleidoscopic glory, the gorgeous pink-and-yellow embroidery of the bougainvilleas and the laburnums. A fine summer bouquet, I call it. Who would believe there's this huge concrete, IT jungle that lies coughing and panting right next to it!

 
The other bouquets, and none too pleasing as the above, that are looming large in our days is the hullabaloo of an upcoming move to a new city in June. This May marks the exact two years since we wrapped up our lives in Seattle for a much-debated return to the home country and now it's time to move again, to go through that uncomfortable process of leaving the old and adopting the new. And this time, unlike Hyderabad, it's an entirely new city. There's a world out there that doesn't know me and whom I don't know. Despite its claims of being the best city to settle in India for nomadic hearts like us, if you have been reading me for a while you probably know how and to what extent change bothers me. I am a creature of habit. To the core. But hopefully, with friends who go back a long way and with scenic getaways within hours' drives from the city, this time it'll be different. Hopefully, this time I'll be less complaining and more appreciative of my surroundings. Hopefully, this time I'll have a tree by my window and can watch the sky puff and roar when it rains. Hopefully.  

Renewing, restoring

I have been away for more than a month, though it feels much more longer than that. It has been ages since I've created anything or given shape to any of my countless mute ramblings. Words, other people's, are all I have these days, across which I splosh copious amounts of digital red ink. At times it feels strange, even a little cruel, to be striking out ambitions so ruthlessly, to tweak thoughts so mercilessly that someone would have spent hours constructing. But that is how the world works.

What does it take to realize that there's always, always a little corner somewhere where days recycle themselves and things start afresh? That there's still a world of splendour waiting on the earth that we haven't seen? A walk to the nearest plant nursery. A stroll amid the stoic, old tombs. The palm-sized, sun-hued hibiscus tells you that; it's velvety petals tickle you with life and joy, rubbing some of that magic on you. The inviting archway of the tombs that have been standing there forever and are currently undergoing a much-needed face-lift, say it too.
With the tropical winter breathing its last, well almost, and a very short-lived, confused spring blooming here and there, it's time to start afresh. To renew the yearly stack of hopes, to air the room full of dreams, and to get cracking before summer takes over our lives. Here's to hope. And to more blogging!

Place of my heart

 "There is nothing like returning to a place that has remained unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered."

~ Nelson Mandela

December. That same streaming of winter sunshine through marigolds and their fragrant, dark-green leaves. The view from the portico, a blurry tracery of gold and green. The tea that hasn't changed in flavor or the doting love with which it is made and served. Aai, my ever-smiling grandmother, pairing a ceremonial saucer with the teacup despite my repeated refusals. My favourite red-and-orange marigold that is planted every winter. The constant gardener, my grandfather, fretting over the indiscipline of the dried leaves in the yard lawn. And then, there's the sea. The never-changing, ever-same sea. The grey-green waves, folding and unfolding in similar crests, humming the same restless tune for years. Their self-destructive love of coming back to the same heartless shore regardless of the continuous battering.
The place of one's heart truly remains unchanged and so does that tiny corner of the heart that houses it. It will always stay the way it once was.

PS. Also, I did not know how else to pay my tribute to a great, wise man.

Orange joys

With nothing much to tell and hardly any time for leisurely weekend jaunts, I have taken to capturing roadside colours and flavours. Being a lover of local sights always, and more so when one lives in a colour-chocked, prismatic country such as ours, it's hard to overlook the vibrant joys that are here, there, and everywhere. And quite interestingly, when I was trying to gather a coherent mood for this little post, these different shades of orange came together. Just like that! Like a jumbled picture gradually falling into place, it meant a lot, this little coincidence. Enough to tickle the Monday blues away, enough to remind me how fortunate I am to be surrounded by such an unassuming, permeating colour palette, and enough to bask in the joy of one of my favourite colours.

Brave gulmohars rising up against a belligerent monsoon sky. Baskets of feisty marigolds, those fluffy balls of orange wonders, thronging the weekend bazaar. Mouthwatering rows of roadside chicken tikka being grilled inside a rotisserie as we wait for our to-go, Saturday-night parcel. Two halves of an orange stare at me, trying hard to perk up my Monday-morning mood. And life, suddenly, appears to be not so bad. A little less dull. A little more orangish.   

Floral encounters

"I must have flowers, always, and always."

~ Monet

A struggling topography and the most inhospitable weather as it may be for the flourishing of any kind of life, I keep getting pleasantly surprised by these unexpected floral encounters now and then. But yes, one has to look hard, for more often than not, these gorgeous colours get lost in the ugly coming together of construction sites or their polished and inhabited replicas of sky-high apartment buildings. Sometimes these delicate darlings are just overlooked because of the blindingly bright sun, or simply because you are stuck in a traffic jam that for the moment seems eternal and your smartphone is the best distraction you can afford.

Baby pink ixora, or the jungle geranium, one of the many morning finds recently. What better than a fresh summer morning and the sighting of such forlorn beauties while catching your breath between what can be best described as a cross between a jog and a run.

The flamboyant gulmohars, aka the flame tree, one of the summer staples, adorns the lackluster roadsides and most importantly, camouflages some really unsightly buildings. Driving under a stretch of these feisty blooms gives one the impression of riding under a giant ball of flames.

The bougainvilleas and the very ubiquitousness of them. I don't mind them growing here, there, or anywhere, for that is exactly how they appear, after a turn here or a bend there. Spreading their arms and legs in a disheveled frenzy, the speckles of pink, orange and white blossoms lend that elusive color rush to an otherwise dusty and arid facade of the city.

And once again I go back to fretting and wishing, worrying and hoping - if only the rains come on time this year!

Tulips

"When words become unclear, I shall focus with photographs. When images become inadequate, I shall be content with silence."

~ Ansel Adams

When Downton Abbey and The Big Bang Theory weren't diversions enough, to the tulip fields we fled. The annual festival at Tulip Town has always been a much awaited one, where the plump mountain air mingles with the faint, lingering smell of the tulips, a combination potent enough to numb the worldly worries for a while. As we neared the valley, it became cloudy and somewhat unexpectedly cold, but then the fields emerged like the unfurling of a hundred multicoloured flags. Row after row, wave after wave of breathtaking colours - fat yellow, feisty red, shy pink, seducing violet, rusty orange - all ending in a stunning kaleidoscopic blur, inching towards each other in a strange unison, till the eye could not say which is which. 

To tulips then, the invincible, undisputed queen of spring.

Change

"All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another."

~ Anatole France

I wish I could frame and structure my emotions better than what the great poet has already said, and how beautifully. Achingly beautiful, actually. How very ironic it all seems - when the whole world around me is undergoing a spring makeover and getting dressed in the splendor of a newly sprouted green, inside, I am groping for ways to embrace this whole other kind of change.

Change, however insignificant or huge, has never been my forte. An annoyingly stubborn creature of habit, I can crack and burst under the slightest of pressures, a trait I have continually loathed. Last week saw the beginning of the much dreaded goodbyes - bittersweet dinners and parting gifts - and as much as I would wish this all away, I know it's out there lurking around the corner.
However this time, I'm still in one piece and that is quite unusually strong for someone like me. The feeling is yet to sink in, although the countdown has certainly begun knocking at the back of my head. I don't know if this is good or bad but trudge on I must, belting my emotions for a proper unleashing, for some day quiet and befitting. Whether this is being brave or just wallowing in denial, let it just be. It's only a handful of days anyway.

The sparrows have come back in flocks and broods. The bird-feeder, never left a moment alone, swings in joy from the dance of their communal meal. Jostling for space while eyeing that next precious morsel, the patio fills in with their noisy chatter. The furry little guy has returned too from his long winter sleep, scurrying up and down the mossy branches, sometimes even hanging upside down in the most precarious of positions. Plump, promising buds on my potted azalea stir to burst open, the full-bodied May bloom of which I won't be here to see. Unfamiliar birds grace the berry tree, just like new future residents will inhabit this apartment. Chocolate-pecan scones, the last of the homemade goodies to come out of my oven here. And thus, the temperamental baker signs off. Of course, for the time being only. 

Spring

"Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems."

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

A maple grove ablaze in the nearby park. Furry, red blossoms in strings and clusters. The bride-like adorned tree. The never-ending treasure of daylight. Blue skies with whimsical, cottony clouds. The unmistakable spring in my steps. The unstoppable song in my heart. Dots of colour here, there and everywhere. Spring has sprung, at last.

Here's to new beginnings then. Happy spring to one and all.

I heart carnations

Dainty whorls of lace
Charm borrowed from a fairy face
Petals of pearly delight
A poet's giddy flight
A lover's teasing weapon
An unfurling of wild imagination
A close-knit ethereal dream
Colours trailing from a prismatic stream

All these and much more...
But not 'paper flowers' as some like to call it.

The Olympic Peninsula

Who says one needs a long, meticulously planned getaway to weave memories of a lifetime? Just a ferry away from home and a couple hours of drive through cozy little port towns with a distinct native American charm, and there you are - the breathtaking Olympic Peninsula. The surprises included glacial lakes, snow clad mountains, temperate rain forests and beaches with haystack rocks. All in all, a tiny world in itself, bursting with natural beauty. And what did I bring home back - forever. 

The guardian-like towering totem poles thronged the way... scores of Indian legends carved on fragrant cedar barks... a day by the side of the serene Lake Crescent... lazing under a mellow sun, amid wild flowers with Ian McEwan's On Chesil Beach... sighing over buxom rhododendrons, preening in the morning light... gazing dreamily at the floating marshmallow clouds... a drive down to Forks, the Twilight town in the late afternoon... once a quaint little lumber town, now all 'dazzled by Twilight'... how things change... Rialto beach, dramatic with the scores of bleached driftwood... contemplating the ocean's endlessness through the giant hollow of a log... spectacular haystacks stand high in the green waters... the day ends with a beautiful cedar planked smoked salmon... a drive up to the majestic Olympic mountains the next morning... snow, still there in patches, like a tattered blanket on the ground... baby bear spotted on our way down, bewildered by the sudden attention of cars and cameras... an idle afternoon walk in the old growth forests of the Pacific northwest... the forest trails paved with tiny blue forget-me-not flowers... resolute brooks gurgling through mossy rocks... sailing into the sunset on the evening ferry... gulls flapping their wings on the golden waters... watching the mountains blur into distant shadows... home, hale and hearty.