A Waiting

I have seen
the grasses grow tall
supple, tree straight,

Seen them greenly nod
their purple and russet heads
as the rains thinned

Into dew, wintering
the light turned golden.
my eyes sage

Wells of thirst,
I am full with a sapience
of knowing.

The sickle stab of light
in a tapestry of grass,
is that you, O Time...

I am a waiting
for the coming of words
grey of tongue, to storytell

All that's hard to hear.  

Muir, Thoreau, I ?

Yes, my dreams have changed, this
of my free will, I admit.
This too -- in me a content grows

From these days outdoors, amidst
the goodness of trees,
the soil and the dirt

And that tell, the smell,
of the open meadow, the wooded trail;
and the rich fortune of being afoot

On the good, unpaved earth.

Prosaics on doing nothing

Lately, I have realized that I am busy with a lot of things that really have no value, or that in the sum total of things, I am doing nothing. And then again, even when you are busy with the minutiae of doing nothing, sometimes you still end up doing nothing. Like it was day before yesterday, when there was a lot of gusting, thunder and lighting (again a lot of it) and almost nothing in terms of rain here near S's place at Bhubaneshwar. Of course it all contributed to making the evening pleasant (as opposed to the one before) but then what is the sum total of small things like that anyway?

What the afternoon of summer rain (or rather the afternoon of threatened summer rain) did result in was -- light so bad I could do no shooting at all which meant that my date (emphasis on "my", birds of course have their own schedules to keep) with the White-breasted Kingfishers that abound all around hereabouts ( I have already sighted 5 of them in convivial proximity to each other) was a parade that got rained on.

And then again, I saw a "bothered to bits", "almost going around the bend" (at least that's how it seemed to me) tailorbird in a wildly swaying mango tree that's almost eye level from S's bedroom balcony.

Poor thing was half crazed with all the gusting and the thunder and the lightning and the occasional pellets of rain. I spent close to a hour watching it, unable to help mitigate it's misery of hopping from one branch to another, wondering (not for the first time, I will confess)-- where do birds go when it rain? Especially if they don't have trees to nest in?

Ah, all these small things and nothings, no?

I also wrote something in verse, in more or less the same vein...I guess it needs a couple of revisions sometime soon :-)

Untitled

Yesterday, in a burning
nib's crawl on my skin
the heat wrote nothing.

Today, the sky's a page
of silver haze, riven by lightning,
it rains a drizzle, of watery ink.


Like it? Do let me know!

The holiness of wide open places

As the sun sets on another evening out in the field -- in this familiar milieu where I have found poetry and other idylls (such as photography) while dealing with the increasing number of perplexities that have stalked my days -- I am overcome by the desire to give away half of the millions I don't have to own a patch of wilderness like this, to ensure that every tree and trail in it can remain the way it is -- sacrosanct.

Not because of this smell of burnt undergrowth, as indescribable as that of ink. Not because I have seen and known these grasses (now, a dry and wheaten gold) as a rain-fed green, ripening into a granary of bird feed. Not because, it is here that I come across the elusive majesty of raptors -- Oriental Honey Buzzards, Shikras, White-eyed Buzzards...but because of a very selfish reason, because of a feeling of blessedness. The kind that makes my favorite song come to my lips -- unbidden.

कहीं दूर जब दिन ढल जाये /
साँझ की दुल्हन बदन चुराए /
चुपके से आये /
मेरे ख्यालों के आँगन में /
कोई सपनों के दीप जलाए...

कभी यूँ ही जब हुई बोझल साँसें /
भर आई बैठे बैठे जब यूँ ही आँखें /
कभी मचल के, प्यार से चल के /

छुए कोई मुझे पर, नज़र न आये /
नज़र न आये...

And I feel rich, feel like I am overflowing with a happiness that I cannot even begin to explain or express, feel touched by the holiness of these open spaces.

A lust for life and close encounters with the beautiful wilds

Looking back, over the last three years, I have spent a lot
of time outdoors, and most of it is in the "wilds"
near my place, in what is more or less military / government
land that has been left on its own -- crisscrossed by grass-verged
dirt tracks and populated by quite a few trees (though none
are that old or that giant) and interspersed with rocky outcrops
and disused quarries.

And I have been spending a lot more time here than the usual
hour in the morning or hour in the evening in the last two months,
thanks to the fact that I have had plenty of time on my hands and
that the profusion of butterflies and birds that I have found here.

I have seen the most stunning of artists -- mother nature -- at
work here, seen the dusty expanses of sun-scorched grass turn
green and then burst into colour -- with a billion wildflowers --
blue, wine red, yellow, purple and so on. And I have felt like
going down on my knee, overwhelmed by the inherent mystique in
the fluidity with which mother nature transforms what was once
a barren, almost dead landscape into something that calls out
to the Van Gogh in me...

I have agonized over the choice -- on continuous forays into
these wilds, on continuous days -- if to stick to shooting the
landscapes on offer or be led on a dance shooting the birds and
the butterflies. And there have been days when I have kicked
myself for not having both of my lenses with me (while perched
high on the narrow saddle of the Schwinn -- which doesn't have
a carrier or allow for leisurely ATB kind of cycling -- lugging
much gear is a bit tough) or when I have had both with me, I have
agonized over whether to shoot the whole meadow or a close up of
a flower and so on and so forth...

It is another matter that I have already come to the conclusion
that photography cannot be mixed with anything else; even with a
leisurely cycle ride, especially when it is the photography
of birds and butterflies.

Being on the cycle (with the camera zipped up in a bag) means that
by the time I am ready to shoot, the bird has flied off or it means
that there is a limit to the amount of "on foot" chasing that's
possible behind a butterfly, while leaving the Schwinn unguarded.

Which means, I have spent a lot of time afoot in these wilds and
hopefully will spend some more time walking through them.

And while enjoying the feeling that the wilds are my own private
preserve, thrilling in knowing these open expanses first
hand, for having played amateur naturalist and rookie woodsman
and coming across tailor bird nests, conclaves of bee eaters,
shy peacocks and even shyer coucals, pairs of bulbuls, colonies
of weaver birds, trapezing chameleons...

How do I even begin to express the pricelessness -- of the wealth
of all these ramblings in the wilds? It certainly cannot be
measured in terms of the photographs I have taken; I sincerely
feel that peering through a zoom lens is no less "naturalist" and
fieldwork from an ornithologist / lepidopterist point of view
than it would have been if the peering had been through a pair of
binoculars...and the ego boost of a good / perfect capture -- of a
bird or a butterfly is at many times secondary to the joys of seeing
the bird or butterfly with an enraptured eye :-)

And yes, just when I start thinking that I have seen it all, I see
something totally new and wonderful, something that -- yet again --
thrills me with the joy of witnessing and understanding the magic in
the behaviour of yet another "wild" species while simultaneously
humbling me with its beauty and economy of being natural.

I forget I have a camera with me when I see multitudes of small
butterflies like the Anderson's Grass Yellow -- fluttering and
wheeling around, like so many children at play -- preparatory to
settling down to puddle. Or I forget that I am supposed to take
a picture, capture the minute when I see a pair of Pied Kingfishers
bobbing / balancing on a barbed wire (for some reasons these birds
always seem to fish in a pair) while -- with the accompaniment of
a twinkle in the eye -- shitting a pearly white; instead grinning
to myself...

And it still doesn't cease to wonder me when (after having observed
the same countless times) I see weaver birds in their bright yellow
plumage, at work weaving freshly fetched green grass into what is
already a project that is a month long...going on and on...with the
finickiness of the true artists, building masterpieces the same way
countless of their ilk have done before as directed by their genetic
code.

It is more or less the same feeling -- of wonder and awe -- with
which I watch a butterfly pirouette on a lantana flower, preparatory
to going for the nectar the way a kid would for the jam bottle;
somehow the butterfly's greed seems more worthy of respect,
more evolved!

I don't know how long these wilds will survive -- as with most
open spaces within or flanking a concrete jungle called the city
these face the depredations of man too. I found (on my return from
Varanasi) that many weaver bird nests have been knocked down
and in some cases those very branches on which the nests were
have been cut; God only knows why and by whom...and a large
residential colony is already coming up flanking the wilds --
but I do look forward to some more close encounters, some more
peaceful epiphanies like the one I had on this Sunday.

I was cycling through the wilds on the dirt track and I came
across three bee-eaters, their green plumage iridescently
dazzling lying right on the track, beaks and beady red eyes
looking skywards, wings stretched out, something I have never
seen any bird do. Maybe they were sunbathing, or they were
praying.

Whatever they were doing, I did go down on my knee yet again.

And the photographs that resulted were but a bonus.

Deccan Diary

30 hours for a bit over 1600 kms from more or less the middle of the
Gangetic plains (which in many ways, is still the heartland / cowbelt
of India), i.e. Varanasi to Hyderabad -- Deccan is a bit of a
creditable haul by train; even in these times of Shatabdis,
Rajdhanis and Durontos. Because the basic infrastructure, underlying
complexities, local issues, etc. on / through which the railways
ply just cannot be wished away or treated as a theoretical
technicality. As such, in retrospect, I am happy with the 33
hours that my train took to reach Hyderabad.

And heck, in the light of the fact that this train was "canceled"*
and then ran (more or less on time) is itself a creditable achievement.

And it compares very creditably with similar long hauls on a
Bullet, at an average of around 50 kmph.

This is not to say that everything is good with the Indian
Railways -- in many ways the Railways are still stuck in a
time warp dating back to the 80s and the 90s -- but more
(hopefully) on that in a later post.

For now, I will take this long haul that got me home --
with the family of 6 (and their 2 friends / attendants /
relatives who were coming over for breakfast, lunch and dinner
from wherever they had parked their butts) "adjusting" in 5
berths around me from Varanasi to Sewagram and the man and
woman who boarded the train at Mancherial along with their
two 3-5 year old girls (for the sake of whose sleep, I couldn't
do much sleeping) and the numerous other things that make
most of Indian Railways compartments seem as if they are
"packed like sardines" -- and give the Railways pass marks.

#++++++++#++++++++#

One good thing about that slow, long haul - the home run from
Kazipet (Warangal) onwards was how it reminded me -- nodding
off at a window or hanging out from a doorway of the compartment,
of a similar slow, long haul from Warangal, with a moon in the sky
(like yesterday night) in a convoy of Bullets with a fellow
rider who had met with an accident and broken his arm riding along
(in an Ambassador). I was sleep deprived on that Bullet ride and
it was the stunning beauty of the moonlint night that helped me
keep awake, mentally marking off the distance to Hyderabad
(Jangaon, Bhongir, Bibinagar) even as I set the pace at the
head of the group. I was sleep deprived yesterday night too,
and again it was the stunning beauty of the moonlit Deccan that
helped me stay awake and get down at Secunderabad Railway
Station (as opposed to waking up next morning in the
shunting yard).

#++++++++#++++++++#



From what I gather -- through interactions with K and my
mother, it has rained twice (and "showered" more or less
every other day) here in the 10 days I have been away. The
skies (I get to see a lot of them around my place) have been
breathtakingly blue and beautiful all since morning. And yes,
there are clouds, with silver and gold linings aplenty along
with the persistent promise of a cloudburst. In fact, it did
rain a bit too, more or less for five minutes, but that
tells me there's rain left in the skies still.



#++++++++#++++++++#






Among all the stuff I had lugged along with me, on long
walks on endless platforms and up and down the stairways
that lead to them was my 55-300 mm lens that I did not get
to use (or feel like using) even once on this trip.
As such, it was imperative that I do a bit of narrow
perspective shooting ASAP. This necessitated a stroll with
the camera and that led to a couple of nice captures of Brown
Pansies. And some Sunbirds. So my wild touch still survives,
after travels through a lot of civilization, or so it seems :-)

#++++++++#++++++++#

Speaking of Sunbirds, while I was away, the Yellow Trumpet
tree that flanks the boundary of the homestead and has served
as a world -- for food and drink, shelter (and in all probability
as a nesting place) for a bevy of Sunbirds has crashed and
broken its trunk. Or so I am told. In fact, it had slanted
onto the road even as I was here (and earlier too) and I had
spent the good part of an evening (with a couple of neighbours
helping and the little man watching) trying to straighten / belay
it. Later on, I had firmly managed to pull it into more or less of
a vertical position with a wire (and some help from willing shoulders)
and tied down the wire with some granite blocks. But it has gone
ahead and crashed...and there is a big, irreplaceable chasm
along my boundary wall (and in my being). I wonder what the Sunbirds
must have made of the disappearance of the tree. And I wonder how
long it will take for a Yellow Trumpet (or any other flowering tree
that attracts Sunbirds) to get equally heavy with flowers as this
one for whom all I can say is RIP...

#++++++++#++++++++#

The first thing I noticed on getting home yesterday was the fragrance
of Parijaatam (it had started flowering -- for the first time -- a
couple of days before I left for the train trip). Even before I
noticed that the Yellow Trumpet (and its world of yellow) was
missing.That happy fragrance lingers, even now :-)

#++++++++#++++++++#



And, oh yes, here's the final diary entry for today. Everything
does seem hunky dory in Squirreldom.



* There was a Rail Roko announced for 13-15 of October,
the Railways first canceled my train and then (as the
Rail Roko was deferred to 15-17 October) ran the train.

A room with a view

In Telugu, there is this saying -- illu
kati chudu, pelli chesi chudu. Literally meaning -- build a
house and see, conduct a marriage and see. I wouldn't know of
marriages (though I am arguably a Shaadi.com veteran) but now I
can say I know a bit about building an "illu", even it happens to
be on the terrace of another and nothing very grand.

Oh yes, it has gone over budget. As any wise man would have
expected it to. And it has taken a lot many days than was
estimated. As any wise man would have expected it to. But then,
what matters is that it is finally done and now I have a good
idea of what it takes to "build" something. Even if that "something"
is but a sheet-roofed writer's shack designed and built (for lack
of a more "builderly" term) to be a penthouse.

How exactly should a newly built place feel? Overwhelmingly
impersonal? Silently spacious? Finished and foreign? Fragile
enough to inspire handling with care?

Whatever it be, I wouldn't know much about "new" spaces -- being
very low maintenance and afflicted with a sense of aesthetics
that borders the spartanly minimal -- I have not much of an
affinity for the grand and glitzy (in terms of spaces) and I
haven't been in that many of them -- at least long enough to be
considered a resident.

And then again, though the walls are new, the tiles are new
and a lot of time, money and work (at least by my standards) has
gone into creating this space, I am certainly no stranger to
it, this being the terrace of my "illu" after all. So maybe
this feeling of guarded strangeness is nothing more than what
I feel when staring at an empty page in a much used diary...the
diary is familiar but the page is still new and empty.

And yes, now for some background on this writer's shack :-)

If you know me, you would know that I absolutely adore open
spaces and just love being close to nature. So then, its not
tough to guess that a shack for someone like me would be either
on a cliff-top or besides the sea or out in the middle of trees and
other wilds. But then, I haven't got any closer to owning any such
space for the shack to come up there.

So...

If you know me, you would also know that I am rain mad and just
cannot have enough of getting drenched or being close to the rain.
And then, for me there is another far more crazier (and probably
primeval) level of associating with water, inasmuch that it is in
many ways my very ink. And, since we had a very very wet season
last year, I spent a lot of time getting drenched in deluges of
water; be it on my expeditions into the city, to or fro from work
or on mycycling trips. In fact, the first time I had the terrace
seen by an architect was on August 15th of last year, a day I got
totally drenched six times (inclusive of once on the terrace).So,
once I decided on getting a "room with a writerly view" here itself
on the illu, it had to get ready in time for me to get high on waters
that fall from the skies*.

So...

If you know me, you will also know that I am unschooled and
decide on things in my own patented illogical way. And another
strong motivator for getting the shack done ASAP was one of
the little man's sketches. Of a structure that has one door,
a conical roof and another door up there on the roof. And oh yeah,
it got done in a jiffy too!

Now, for the view. I would of course have wanted some more
elevation, maybe some 3-4 floors into the skies to see more
of the sunrise and the sunset. But yes, there are guaranteed
views of both (does that sound like advertising copy?). When a
bit more footloose, I can walk a few steps on either side and
get an eyefull of bursting blooms. A (tree of a) rosebush that
doesn't respect or care for the boundary that separates my
place from a nice neighbour's (ok, it is their rose bush, but
they have never made us feel so) and a yellow flowering tree
which I think is the Golden Trumpet on the front
of my place which runs riot with more sunbirds than I can
count, describe or capture :-)And yes, the junction box, too.

And then, there is the view on one side. Of trillions and
trillions** of lantana flowers and 8GB cards full of butterflies.
How long the butterflies stay around and how long the plot
stays that way, wild and overgrown with lantana (and other wild
flowers) is anyone's guess -- especially since there are rumors
of a water pipeline being laid to my so far "developing" and
suburbian colony.

But as long as it lasts, I would love to drink of it.

Maybe I will put little bird houses all over the terrace
(with blinds in place too) and shoot bird portraits. Or
maybe I will do some cooking. Or I will do what I have been
doing all this while, a bit of this and a bit of that :-)

But anyway, it's a bit of a kick to have a room with a
view. And yes, the little man agrees too.

* -- Call me an optimist (as opposed to being pessoan or
angsty) but I am still hoping there will be a bit more of
rains this year. And a cloudburst does seem and sound out
of the world up there.

** -- Lantana flowers in an inflorescence arrangement. Also, I am
not being literal.

A dray of squirrels

It was on either the first or the second second day of my
Shiva Deeksha, towards April end, that I had got my first
sighting of a squirrel in my neighbourhood. The credit for this
mostly goes to the degree of early morning bushy-tailedness of my
eyes (the grogginess from Coffee deprivation kicked in from the
fourth day onwards), or probably to the fact that I had been peering
through a 55-300mm lens for almost a month, and had developed a
naturalist's perspective, in terms of detecting movement in what
probably constitutes the nearest plane of sight for the eye.

Or, as my brother said, it had to do with my Shiva Deeksha and
divine intervention -- since Lord Shiva is considered the lord of
all beasts, birds and praanis -- and the squirrels were "visiting"
me.

Whatever the reason be, that first squirrel sighting led to a
second squirrel sighting and then -- before I was a week into
my Shiva Deeksha -- came the discovery that a pair of squirrels
were living in a cable junction box fixed onto the electric pole
in front of my gate. Naturally, in the days that followed, the
squirrels were more or less a constant daily object of my attention,
while I got more adept at using the camera and learning the ropes of
"wildlife photography". And, the reason for a lot of wonder and joy
too, because there were times when I had to blink and pinch myself
and question if Coffee deprivation was making me see double
(or quadruple), because there would be days when four of these
little fellows would be looking back at me, watchfully and
squirrely in their mien -- perched on the junction box, peering
out of it or just curled around the coil
of cable, bushy tail hanging, shooting the breeze...

And oh yes, life wasn't exactly a picture perfect
portrait -- ensconced in a cosy and safe junction box and
the object of attention of a harmless poet -- for the
squirrels. There was much drama and pathos too.

Most mornings all through May the junction box used to be
visited by a pair (and at times three or even more) of
Brahminy Starlings (a bird related to the Common Mynah) and
all hell would break loose. Because (unless the reason for this
attack was some running feud at the family level or the species
level) the Brahminy Starlings seemed intent on grabbing the
junction box for a nest and determined on driving the squirrels
out by hectoring and dive bombing them at every available
opportunity.

In retrospect those attacks by the wildly fluttering and
airborne Starlings seem a bit comical, but when it was happening
it was quite an eyeful for me to silently observe and mindful
for me to understand and digest. Especially on days when the
Starlings had a glint in their eye that bordered on the evil
and a body language and demeanour that indicated a total
siege mentality.

For all I (or you) know probably the junction box was a nest
for these Starlings and the squirrels had moved in without
permission. However as you can very well guess, I was totally
rooting for them and completely biased towards them, and even
joined the battle on the rare occasion when (as if to break the
siege, the squirrels would emerge one by one and slither down
the pole, quickfoot; to forage) an airborne Starling seemed
close enough to hurt one of the squirrels.

I mean I would shoo away the Starling.

The attacks stopped after a while and (having shot gazillions
of squirrel photos) I ventured onto focusing on other
"wildlife", namely birds of the feathered variety, ranging
around my place barefeet and cycle-borne. And getting capture
after capture of Sunbirds, Little Egrets, Great Blue Herons,
Great White Herons, Cormorants and so on..

The Deeksha ended, life became a bit more laid back (in terms
of getting up in the mornings) a bit more caught up with this
and that and then with the first hint of rains, I discovered
that the camera and lens combo I have is good to take pics
of butterflies too.

So you can very well guess what I have been busy with these
last three months, in terms of being creative that is, when
not writing poetry that is.

Yet, all this while not a single day has passed without a
sighting of one of the little fellows; either shooting the
breeze on the junction box, or in a clump of Lantana (seems
squirrels eat both the flowers and the ripe berries)
or -- in a very mock navigatorish pose -- perched atop
the pole surveying the horizons for tidings of the weather.

And yes, I have also been taking the odd squirrel picture
here and there between captures of Common Roses and Blue
Pansies and Mottled Emigrants.

These little fellows are of course cautious to a fault
or it must be that my dark visage and bearded face makes
me look like a thundercloud. Whatever it be, at the very
most we are neighbours and I have not been anything more
than a very curious observer of squirreldom. Which means
(though I agonized about what they eat) I did not stuff
down almonds or peanuts or whatnots into the junction box
or requisition a thumb sized AC for them to deal with the
heat of May and June.

But then, two days back something happened that has
changed the equation.

On Friday evening, the cable repairmen came and got
around to doing what cable repairmen do; with a nice
big ladder propped on the pole. The first I came to know
about this domesticus interreptus happening in
squirreldom was when I saw the junction box totally opened,
the lid hanging down, a cable repairman perched on the
ladder near it and another down below peering at the ground.
As if hunting for a coin that had fallen there.

I really have no idea of how much I bristled. I also did
not knee the repairman where it hurts a lot. I just asked
if they saw any squirrels. And I was told that a couple of
them bounded out and away. So what were they searching for
then? Enlightenment struck me when I noticed what looked
like matted brown hair on the ground below. And I
realised I was looking at a nest of squirrel fur!

Were there any baby squirrels? Oh, yes, three of them, a
bit littler than my little finger with lizardly tails,
curled up and looking as defenceless as three coccineas,
but for the three stripes on their backs...

The cable repairmen seemed to be nice guys, as considerate
as me and concerned about keeping the squirrels alive. So I
did not have to resort to any story-telling about their
lineage and refer to Lord Shiva or anything. Yet, the question
that was evidently top of mind for all of us homo sapiens now
was, "What to do?"

The cable repairman was of the opinion that the nest
could be left on the ground and that the squirrels will
come and claim their own once we all left. But, I could
think of half a dozen species including snakes, geckos,
cats, dogs and bandicoots who could make morsels out of
the baby squirrels. So leaving the nest on the ground was
ruled out and I ran home and got a shoebox. The nest fitted
snugly into the shoebox and I could have said bye to the
cable repairmen, taken the shoebox home, punched some
ventilation holes into it and then left for a drink.

But, wait, wait...I did not know what grown up
squirrels eat, what in the blazes would I feed these
thumbelina sized mites? And evidently they were still
suckling...would the mother squirrel visit my home and
feed them?

Would Pakistan give us Kashmir back?

So that ruled out the shoebox too.

Thus, only one option was left.

Put the nest back into the junction box and hope
that the squirrels would get back and take care of
their own. So, the cable repairmen did just that and
left. And I looked up at the junction box, then a bit
more upwards at the heavens and (as it was getting
dark and I was getting thirsty) went in search for
that drink.

For most of Friday evening the thought at the back
of my head was -- will the squirrels return back?

For most of Saturday morning, I had a hangover of
the same thoughts worrying my being.

Till I saw a familiar sight -- on Saturday
afternoon -- the right revered Squire Squirrel of
the lineage blessed by the son of Dashratha himself,
quickfooting it down the electric pole.

Dunno which squirrel it was, mother, father, uncle,
whoever...but it was a squirrel and it was moving
with more or less squirrely matter of factness.

Oh joy!

Sunday brought some more sightings and I have seen
the fellows busy with affairs of squirreldom today
too.

Which means that either they have gone back to the
junction box, or they have moved somewhere close by. Which
more importantly means that the thumbelina squirrels are
(in all probability)being taken care of by Mama Squirrel.

And I will be peering closely at the junction box, for
some more time to come. Hoping to see the thumbelinas
make an appearance at the "door" soon.

Okay, go ahead have a laugh on me, the big bad biker, the
intense poet sounding like a godfather.

But also wish me, that my own menagerie of all things
small and beautiful and wild will still (hopefully) continue
to include a dray of squirrels.

In addition to three goldfish at home, the birds and the
butterflies.

When a frog in a puddle dies

I am lucky in that, I live pretty close to wide open spaces and
what can be justifiably called "wilds". Barely two kilometres
from my gate, I can get lost in a charmed expanse comprising of
disused and abandoned quarries, vineyards, orchards and mixed
farms and acres of trees and grasses growing wild.

This is where I cycle as much as I can, sometimes for a reason,
mostly for none. These expanses are the setting for a number
of poems in Moving On, and one that deals with my cynical take
on the false hopes regarding the monsoons last year -- Unslept.

So it passed that this year too I was cycling in the same wilds
when the monsoons arrived over the Deccan. Many would say a sure
sign that the Monsoons are here for good is when you see peacocks
dancing. In my case, I have seen more peacocks (and peahens) than I
could count this year, but queerly enough that is really is the
Monsoons, the original item, not some false alarm was kind of was
communicated to me by a slightly dopey (or highly sated)
looking frog, sometime in late June.

It must have been five or six days into the Monsoons, and I was
on the dirt track (that winds through the charmed expanse mentioned
above) for the second time. This dirt track is incidentally wide
enough for a truck to pass and I see a healthy puddle forming on
it where it passes through a thickly wooded section. And I see
Mr. Froggie too, fat and glassy eyed. I was totally at a loss
to decipher that look; I have seen really, really thirsty people
look like that after a very welcome round of beers. I guess
in Mr.Froggie's case it was a bit more than just beers -- maybe
he was enjoying the orgasmic bliss of a private spa pool or he
was dreaming of being kissed by a princess....

So that was June. From then till end of November -- till around
a week back, to be exact -- I haven't seen Mr. Froggie or bothered
much about the puddle, but crossed it again and again and seen
it bigger and deeper than it ever was last year.

Meanwhile, 5 months passed.

In these five months, I got wet more times than I can remember,
fell sick three times (a record of sorts for me) and even as I
write this, am recovering from a very severe and debilitating fever.

In these five months, I have once again realized that the
monsoons have a magically regenerative touch (and intoxicate
frogs and human beings alike) and there is no nook or cranny
of even a concrete city that the rains cannot reach. Its a
bit overwhelming to see the tops of dead and boringly staid
walls grow green with moss, and to see a profusion of butterflies
and bees, millions and millions of them, the former coming when
the monsoons are at their peak, the latter when the waters
start "standing". Its overwhelming to ride on Tank Bund and
see streamers of butterflies flutter-flying aimlessly, blithe
and unconcerned, flowers in flight. Its fun being on the Bullet
on the highways seeing a dragonfly headed for your face and
managing to dodge it at the last minute.

It's believed that the rains slacken after Ganesh Chaturthi.
But that didn't happen this time around. It's also believed
that September 30th is officially the last day of the Monsoons.
This year, I was soaked to the underwear on September 30th in
riding home through a shortcut through the bastis that flank
Hasmathpet Lake, but the same happened a week after.

Nobody (not the least, me) minds the rains, but
5 months of it is freakish, no?

But then, last Tuesday I got a sign that the Monsoons
are done and finished.

And it had to do with a sighting of Mr. Froggie.

I am on the cycle (you know where, don't you?) and I come
across THE puddle. Or rather, I come across a very well muscled
and (really swift) seven footer of a snake, ( flecked with gravel
red) shouldering its way into the grasses besides the dirt track.
With Mr. Froggie in its jaws. Its over before I can brake the
cycle and I see that the puddle is no more than 2 inches of water
and mostly wet gravel sludge.

That was one very big and fat looking snake too, evidently
intent on feeding full and hibernating.

And snakes hibernate in the winters, don't they?

Which means as of last Tuesday, the monsoons have ended and
its winter here now :-)

That ends a really bountiful monsoon, one that has left the
quarries full of water and a profusion of life still sprouting
from the rain-soaked Deccan.

RIP, Mr. Froggie!