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!

Home

"Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home."

~ Basho

Home. After two years. That familiar sparkle of happiness on two sets of tired, waiting faces. Those old, unaltered spaces of comfort. Books, old and new, awaiting my arrival, neatly stacked by my father. The enchantment of summer all around. My mother's garden, a playground of colours. Faint whiff of hibiscus in the air; some decked up, fresh and dewy, on the sacred basil every morning. Mangoes galore, those forever summer magnets. Their trees laden with fruit, an orchestra pad for cuckoos and other chatty birds. Wake up calls and evening ballads they leave behind, every day. And every day the journey gets lovelier, more complete.

Of course, Ma's food adds the final dollop of bliss to this perfect summer recipe.

Indian summer

Come Friday and most of our cherished stuff shall be carted away by the movers for the big shipping. What's left behind will be put up on craigslist. The apartment resembles a hurricane ravaged place at the moment and despite my compulsion to fix and arrange, there's not much I can do. The time to leave draws closer and closer with each passing day and with every move bound decision we make, the knot of unease in the stomach becomes more tight. At least once a day our talks have to have some piece of the 'when in India' puzzle, however minuscule that is. A vase here, a book there. But it's there, even if in the unspoken form.

I know I have sung my relocating litany here time and again but I'm sure you all will understand.
There is a certain comfort in repetition, not that the foolhardy roundabouts make life any easier. But it certainly makes change look simpler and somewhat less threatening, which is when my mind starts to focus on the things that I should be thankful for. The unrestrained happiness of my parents of course tops the list. They have been waiting forever and now that the time has almost come, plans and proposals of visiting and getting us settled have started dominating our phone and Skype talks.

Also, it will be the start of summer then - the legendary Indian summer. And this time I am not talking about the idyllic, late autumn scenes that the Western world tags the season with. Back home in the tropics we take it literally, word by word, where the Sun god and the electricity have a mind of their own. But as much as we curse the merciless sun and the haphazard power cuts, there are many seasonal beauties that our summer brings with it. So whenever I think of the big move, along with the assuring smile of my parents, there will be many more joys that we'll be looking forward to.

The ubiquitous presence of the golden shower (photo) that literally showers the streets with its lush yellow. The mango madness that soon hogs the limelight at every meal. The salted fruit pieces dried on the terrace before the elaborate process of pickling starts. The sweet, refreshing scent of the moist vetiver curtains filling the dark bedrooms in the sultry afternoons. The colourful sherbets to beat the pinching, hot wind. The nocturnal jasmine, aka 'queen of the night', stirring one and all with its intoxicating scent. The much awaited swing festival in June, the high note that marks the end of summer and paves the way for the monsoons.  

My summer of love

Humans have an inscrutable tendency to keep returning to things of the past. For me, summer is one of them - the summer of childhood, the summer of love and sometimes just the nagging sultriness of the season. With summer there comes a bundle of green memories that stir one to the very soul - the old and stubborn habit of recollecting tiny fragments of the past like a child gathers seashells on a seashore, and in the due course giving birth to a myriad of unexpected emotions. Memories that one loves to revisit, sometimes relive too, despite the inevitability of fate. Despite your own faults. 'Pleasing pain', the oxymoron is called.
Just like I keep returning to one of my most potent elixirs - Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez which is pure, unadulterated poetry in the guise of prose. A truly vintage read. If only there was a man like Florentino Ariza made of flesh and blood, and love, that walked this earth. If only love could actually transcend age and years, and hover on flapping its wings for an eternity of fifty-one years, nine months, and four days. That's how long he waited for Fermina Daza. Despite his six hundred twenty-two affairs of heart, very carefully in the dark whirls of his being, he had preserved his soul for her. I know it is magic realism at its best, but then what is life without a dollop of magic?!

Like the book, I must keep returning to my baking too, to keep my senses up and about lest the world discovers these fleeting moments of delusion and kick a good laugh out of them. Hence the return of the orange cake - classy and summery, yet light as fluff. Oozing with the love-like aroma, tangy and sweet at once, and laced with the orangeness of the zest, it is summer personified. And it's perfect companion - ice tea packed with fresh mint leaves and a hint of lime.

Summer sure fell on my lap like the elusive fruit from heaven!

Yeh Dilli hai mere yaar!

It has been two days and a few hours in Dilli (I love it that way), and our homecoming could not have been any better. Our visas got approved, we gorged on lovely food and splurged on ethnic wears. Nothing could dampen our enthusiasm except the obvious complaints of the scorching heat and the blaring traffic. Seriously, we had no idea that the circumstances would be so favourable, especially after a harrowing flight journey of fifteen long hours followed by the fatigue and disorientation of jetlag. There were the rains too, accompanied by the nostalgic smell of wet earth and childhood. So this time the Gods weren't crazy! Ever since we got into the taxi from the airport I cannot stop humming the peppy number "Yeh Delhi hai mere yaar/ bas ishq, mohabbat, pyaar" (This is Delhi my friend, the land of love), one of my Rahman favourites. What else but this song, so simply yet so perfectly, can describe "Hindustan ka dil" (India's heart) and the eternally unbeatable mood of its people:

Iske baayen taraf bhi dil hai, iske daayen taraf bhi dil hai

Yeh sheher nahin mehfil hai.

(It has got a heart on its left as well as right side

It's not a city, it's a celebration.)