An ode to a flower!

A few years ago, we got the graft of a “brahma-kamalam” plant and potted it. Also called the “Queen of the night”, it is a variety of lotus that blooms at night. Over the years, the plant has grown well in the balcony. The peculiarity of this flowering plant is that it blooms exactly once a year. The flower blooms in the late hours of the night and by day-break, it is withered. It glows like a fire-fly, that one sparkle and no more.

While in bloom, its beauty is matchless. Milky-white, with petals arranged in concentric circles and with a crown-like center filament, even a single flower stands out in the dark of the night, against its deep-green spiky leaves. The air is redolent with a subtle fragrance, pleasant but never overpowering. This year, we were lucky to get six flowers abloom a single night. But there is more to the flower than meets the eye. It has left an indelible imprint teaching us valuable lessons for life.

The flower has no expectation. It does not care for a passing look of approval. It blooms that one night because it must. The petals unfold quietly, no show and no advertisement whatsoever. Ironically, we pose for a photograph with the flower and post it on social-media, for the world to exclaim with “oohs!” and “ahs”! At a time when exhibitionism is a way of life, the flower maintains its stately silence. As the bard says, “To thine own self be true” and the flower lives up to this adage.

As they say, “which was born in the night, to perish in the night”. In the few hours it has, the flower is in full splendor and captivates us. So too, it does not matter how long the innings, a cameo innings is good enough, but let it be the best possible one. “Yesterday is a canceled check, tomorrow is a promissory note, but today is ready cash”. We resolve to make today count, as if it is the only day available to us.

The flower teaches us to “be our best version”. The flower simply “is” and through its very existence, it gives happiness to one and all. So too, it does not matter, whether we “do” things mighty and far-ranging. It is enough to simply “be” and be the best we can. As the poet says, “If you cannot be a sun, be a star. It is not by size that you win or you fail, be the best of whatever you are!”

Sometimes, we come to the balcony to find we missed the epochal event- the flower had bloomed the previous night, and we failed to notice it. We purse our lips in remorse and regret. How could we be so callous, caught up in daily chore, to the extent, that one moment could not be spared? Even in its withered state, the flower smiles back. It has made its point- so complete is its self-effacement that it is willing to live and perish unwept, unhonoured, and unsung.

As the poet Kabir says, “jab hum paida huey jag hanse hum roye”. “When I was born, the world laughed while I cried”. “Aisi karni kar chalo, hum hanse jag roye”. Let my life be such that when I leave the stage, I laugh, while the world cries.

Life’s greatest lessons are sometimes taught by a simple flower!

The sounds of rain!

Rain as a “visual” spectacle is fascinating. It is equally enthralling to look at the “world of sound” associated with rain. As we focus on the aural aspect, more details emerge and we appreciate rain’s unique soundscape. 

You retire for the day, pull the curtains and lie down in bed. All is quiet. The silence of the night is punctured by a storm that is brewing outside. The whisper of the wind gives way to a stiff breeze. It picks up momentum- you hear the wail of the wind and the spooky rattle of the window. The trees sway, branches creak, leaves rustle and twigs snap and crackle. Streaks of lightning knife through the curtain. There is a rumble of thunder like the dribble of a drum and one deafening strike! And now, the rain comes down in a gentle pitter-patter. 

It is like an orchestra that starts with the strain of a single violin. More violins join, and then comes the Cello and Trumpet and finally the Clarinet and Bugle to complete the symphony. So too, rain builds up into a torrent now- it pounds the roof and lashes the window. From the edge of the roof-top, a wall of water gushes down. The entire neighborhood is a swirling river, the competing streams gurgle as they rush down the slushy slope. Sometimes, rain makes a sudden exit, as dramatic as its entry. You part the curtains and peer into the night. The trees shrug off the water droplets hanging on their leaf-tips! A new, noisy choir takes over- the chirp of the cricket, the croak of the frog and the flutter of night-flies. In the aftermath of the storm, the cracks in the ceiling make their presence felt. You place a bucket to avoid the floor puddle and now, in the gathering silence, the plop of each drop is so much more amplified! The swish of a distant car on the wet road completes the picture for the night. 

To travel through the Western Ghats in a night train, is a great opportunity to tune in to the sounds of rain. During the rainy season, this stretch comes alive. You lie down on the berth and prick up your ears. You listen to the reverberating boom as the train enters the tunnel and hear the clatter of water running down the rocky crevices. As the train emerges from the tunnel, the sounds of the rain-fed mountain-stream and waterfall mingle with the shower of rain against the window. And in unison with the train’s rhythmic rattle, it is a musical act, all its own. 

During the monsoon, a house on an ocean front is not for the faint-hearted! The wind, rain and ocean join hands to create a racket. You hear the chorus-the incessant downpour and the ocean’s increasing ferocity as the tidal waves crash against the embankment and threaten to reach the living-room! 

Artists attempt to capture the mystique of rain through ragas like “Amritavarshini” and “Miyan ki Malhar”. The phenomenon is beyond expression; still, we struggle to give it a contour, at least an abstract “sound-form”. The musician explores the nuances of the raga leisurely, building it up phrase by phrase. In his expert hands, the myriad feelings evoked by rain pour out- of separation and longing, of wonder and amazement, of happiness and exhilaration! Through art and through music, we pay our humble tribute to Mother Nature’s greatest gift- the magic of rain!

The magic show!

One day, the Master Magician came to school. The school auditorium was packed with excited children. There is nothing that elicits as much thrill and awe as a magic show! The Master was at his best- he materialized a rabbit out of a hat, a bouquet of flowers from an empty basket and spun an entire design suspended in mid-air with steel-hoops! When he asked for volunteers from the audience, students made a dash to the stage! Who wouldn’t want to be part of the show?

He finally selected my classmate but once the act began, we were glad we didn’t make it. Sridhar had to swallow an entire tennis-ball. In the audience, we were worried sick. Next, he pressed Sridhar’s tummy, and what popped out of Sridhar’s mouth was not the ball, but an endless stream of colored ribbon! Later in class, Sridhar was hemmed, and we carefully scrutinized the insides of his mouth for any ribbon remnants! There were none.

But the act that held center-stage was the one where the Master tore a newspaper to bits and stuffed it in a glass. He began his special incantation and asked the entire audience to repeat the magic words with him. At the end of it, the glass had turned to milk!

It was truly an age of innocence. I rushed home, threw the school bag away, tore up the newspaper and stuffed it in a glass. I recalled the magic words, down to the last syllable. It was such an expectant moment, but nothing happened! The disappointment was total. The next day, we cross-checked the magic words with the “class-brain”, who had a photographic memory. Despite some alterations made in the word-sequence, the secret-code failed to work. It was a letdown- as if we were so close, and yet so far. Life’s first lesson was learnt the hard way.

These days, we miss the roadside magician. His show was in the open- a busy thoroughfare or a market-square. His narration kept the audience captive for an entire hour, as he built up the suspense. When the crowd swelled to the optimum, he unveiled the trick. The audience gasped as his boy disappeared into thin air after entering a basket! Magic came in smaller packages too- those endless tricks with a pack of cards. The surprise was much the same that someone could guess the exact card that you selected! And the day you learnt a card trick, you couldn’t wait till you showed it to everyone, often stumbling in the act!

Magic tickles the curiosity and teases the intellect. There is a suspension of belief and an irresistible compulsion to solve the puzzle. Many years later, in the US, we watched a program on TV where some of the famous magic acts were decoded. It was dissected piece-meal, till we understood the angles used by the magician, the secret compartments in his equipment and his distraction techniques. We wished we had not seen the program. It was a total spoil-sport, as if someone announced the name of the killer, when you were half-way through your suspense novel.

Life would be pedestrian without magic, robbed of all wonder. For the eye that looks for it, there is magic everywhere. There is magic in the rain, in the twinkling stars of a night sky, in the flower that blooms and in the eyes of a newborn!

Those canvas shoes!

I saw someone jogging in a pair of canvas shoes. Sometimes, you need just a suggestion, to take a trip down memory lane. A kaleidoscope of images gatecrashed into the mind- of canvas shoes and school days, of fun and freedom and above all, that carefree, “bindass” attitude to life in general! 

Maintaining a pair of canvas shoes was not easy. It had to be a coated with a special polish and left to dry overnight. It required foresight and extreme diligence. As a school boy, you had none! Just before the PT class, students scrambled to rub the shoes with a stub of chalk. Often, they got away with this last-ditch cosmetic effort. But then, PT teachers were always one step ahead. The students were lined up and asked to jump up and down! If it was chalk-polish, it exuded an enormous puff of powder and the shoe was back to its dirty self! Boys came up with glib excuses all the time. They had polished the shoes at home, but the public transport bus was overcrowded and the shoes got into this shabby state!

 

During Mumbai’s famed monsoons, canvas shoes were a liability. The shoes turned to sponge- they were soaked with water and now squeaked with each step. The school corridor was a mess, pocked with footmarks. The floor was wet, the shoe had no grip and walking was a challenge, like skating on ice! Boys continued to be unmindful, and ran down the corridors like an unleashed cyclone during lunch-time. Accidents were many- as they skidded and collided with an unwary student finishing up his mid-day meal. The tiffin box with its contents took a few sommersaults before it settled face-down! The face-off during those occasions was ugly! 

Sports Day was an annual event and the Shoe Race was hugely popular. All the 50 students in class had to remove their canvas shoes and pile them up in one big heap. At the blow of the whistle, you had to run to the heap, search and wear your shoes, tie the lace and run back! At the end of the event, there were always disgruntled students. They were left with shoes, which weren’t theirs and to make it worse, of different sizes! It was impossible to trace your pair after the event, with each student insisting he was wearing his own! The rest of the year, you somehow managed, with an oversized shoe on one foot and the other foot squeezed into a shoe half your size! 

On one occasion, canvas shoes came handy as a tool to exact revenge. The class monitor was the teacher’s pet and that distanced him from the rest of the class. Students took pot shots at opportune moments. One day, the teacher called for the monitor. He tried to rush towards the teacher, but strangely could not. His legs were rooted to the spot and he shuffled like a mermaid! Some crafty student had stealthily tunneled his way under the desks, reached for the monitor’s shoes and tied the lace of one shoe to the other! The class was in splits. The teacher was angry and summoned the usual suspects. As was often the case, the offender left no trace and in the absence of evidence, the class was allowed to disperse after a strict warning! 

A virtual class is robbed of all this entertainment. We hope this period of virtual schooling ends and students can go back to school and create their own memories- memories that will last a lifetime!

Delhi is too far away!

The pre-internet days were characterized by a naiveté that fills us now with disbelief. Access to information was difficult. It is all too easy today, with everything- from booking tickets to ordering food, just a click of a button away. Back then, we gambled with the limited information at hand. Often, we blundered and bungled and none better illustrated than this episode dating back to the late 1970s.

School was coming to a close and the summer holidays were about to begin. One day, my father grandly announced we were going to Delhi for vacation. He had got tickets for us to travel by the Jammu Tawi Superfast Express. To us staying in erstwhile Bombay, Delhi was a distant planet. We presumed a journey to Delhi would take 2 days by train, perhaps a lot more. 15 days before the trip, it was a shocker to get a postcard from our uncle in Delhi. He asked if we had noted an important point- the train was to reach Delhi at 1:30 in the night! Needless to say, it threw the entire household in a tizzy. How could a train starting from Bombay in the morning, reach Delhi that very night? Wasn’t Delhi too far away? That’s when we rushed to borrow the railway time-table handbook from a neighbor.

It was too late to cancel and rebook the tickets. Given that it took a fortnight for postcards to travel back and forth by snail mail, there was time for just one way communication. My father wrote to my uncle that the plan stays unchanged. The rest was left to chance and a lot more to bravado. Elders worried if it was safe to reach Delhi at such an unearthly hour. The rest of us had better things on our mind- we could not wait to be on that train to Delhi!

I remember that train ride as if it were yesterday- forehead pressed to the window and eyes glued to the landscape that rushed past! With only the fabled Rajdhani Express for competition, Jammu Tawi was one of the fastest trains. It sped with the roar of a possessed spirit and had just 4 stops- Surat, Vadodara, Ratlam and Kota. In the dead of night, we pulled into New Delhi station. Did uncle receive that last postcard? Would he be at the station? What would we do if he went missing? Our fears were set to rest, Uncle was present. If he was flustered by our cowboy-like travel plans, he did not show it and quickly took us under his arm. As we drove through the hushed streets of Delhi, there was a feeling of total amazement! Just this morning, we were at home in Bombay, and now, here we are, in Delhi!

"Dilli abhi door hai", Delhi is far away, may have a proverbial connotation, but we actually believed so! In retrospect, we chuckle at those earlier versions of ourselves, as if they were distant characters enacting out life's drama on some prehistoric stage! With our cell-phones today, we can track the movement of trains and travelers. Travel plans can be nailed down to the minutest detail. But we miss a crucial point. It has actually come for a price. A wayfarer on the highway, will he ever know the joy of that unchartered trail in the woods, with a surprise at each step and a suspense at each corner?