Our Hills of Cambria

I had originally intended this piece to be a memorial for all those Englishmen and Englishwomen – all part of the British Raj – who lived and then died here; some of their remnants surviving in the form of plaques and tombstones adorning their graves scattered all over our land.

The trigger for such a piece happens to be a cemetery I recently visited; a quaint cemetery of a quaint church in Meghalaya. It has been the custom for me when I travel to new places (I realise this now with my latest visit), to end up visiting the old British-era churches and their grounds which often double up as the final resting places for erstwhile British subjects. When I visited Nainital so many years back, I went to St. John’s Church in the upper reaches of the hill-station, and explored the cemetery lying just beside it – interring the remains of so many English folk; men who had gloriously succumbed in battle, dutiful wives who had followed their husbands to this land, and even infants who had been cruelly snuffed out by the deadly epidemics of that age. So many headstones were crumbling and the letters on some were almost rubbed out by the ravages of the wind and the rain, but my friends and I had a strangely wonder-filled time reading out the messages describing the lives of all those people from so long ago. I continue to experience that same feeling of wonderment and an unexplainable kinship whenever I visit old churches and cemeteries, like the times spent at St Paul’s Cathedral, Kolkata, Hudson Memorial Church, Bangalore and the war cemeteries in Digboi and Guwahati.

So it was that as I looked upon a crumbling stone-brick column serving as a headstone, whose sides now housed a loud brood of sparrows, I felt that same wave of something familiar sweeping over me. I was standing on top of a low wind-swept hillock in the cemetery of the First Presbyterian Church at Nongsawlia, Lower Cherrapunjee, Meghalaya and looking down over the church in the background. The First Presbyterian Church at Nongsawlia was established in 1848 by Welsh missionaries who had undergone great hardships to travel all the way from Wales to the Khasi Hills, to spread the words of the Gospel among the local populace, also educating, teaching and guiding them in the process. A Primary School set up in 1843 by the first Welsh missionary Thomas Jones for educating the Khasi children still stands today, as does a High School established by the missionaries. As you move from Cherrapunjee town to the outlying areas of Lower Cherrapunjee, the tall bell tower with a simple cross on top is the first indication of a church you see as you round a bend. Just beside the tower, stands the unassuming First Presbyterian Church of Nongsawlia, with its grey stone walls sourced most likely from the local stone quarries (the lower portion of walls painted with simple white lime), with its Gothic-arched windows and sloping roofs of red tin.

On the other side of the road, a gate with a curved sign proclaiming ‘Presbyterian Church Nongsawlia Cemetry 1845’ leads the way to the cemetery scattered over I think, 3 small hillocks with the farthest right on the edge of a plateau and offering panoramic views of the gorges beyond. The first 2 hillocks are studded with graves adorned with headstones of departed Welsh- and Englishfolk. Many of these headstones are now half-sunken, a few further embellished with protective rings of iron grill. Some of these headstones are more like ‘head-towers’, fashioned out of stone bricks and into vertical columns much like the stone monoliths which Khasi people used to erect as memorials for their forefathers, and which dot the hilly landscape all over. The last hillock contains more recent graves of Khasi dead – some modern graves now decorated with ceramic tiles of floral patterns and covered with colourful artificial flower bouquets left behind by the grieving.

Beyond the stones and the buildings lie the stories of people who strived for something singular and whose efforts are now forever a part of the Cherrapunjee and perhaps, Khasi way of life. The Welsh missionaries, who first came to these hills bearing the words of the Lord, were supported by the honest folk of Wales impoverished themselves, who were moved sufficiently to improve the lot of peoples whom they had not even heard of or met. Still suffering under the constraints of the Napoleonic wars which had severely affected them, folks of distant Welsh towns like Anglesey and Denbigh set aside a portion of their produce or livestock as charity for the Bible Society which spearheaded the missionary drive. Possessing neither riches nor much education the Welsh people contributed with extraordinary fervor and resolve, to send forth these missionaries

The first Welsh missionaries landed at Cherrapunjee on 22nd June, 1841 and proceeded to reform many aspects of the Khasi way of life by imparting practical skills in agriculture, distilling, mining, education and religion. They also introduced the first Khasi script using Roman alphabets and enriched the lives of the local population in ways, which were far-reaching. Clothes, embroidery patterns, reading and writing, medicine, designs in crockery, using coal in limestone kilns – the Welsh missionaries worked in ways of spreading the Gospel that “joyful sound shall have reached the uttermost parts”. Subsequently, the missionaries moved to other parts of Meghalaya like Shillong, shaping positively the lives of Khasi and Jaintia people.

It is indeed heart-warming and inspiring to reflect on the stories of these people behind the crumbling headstones and weathered plaques. A little bit of the hills of Cambria will forever live on in our hills of the Khasi and Jaintia people.

Winter Garden @ 2013

Winter is a good time for flowers. For those homes with a garden, winter is a colourful season – yellows, reds, purples, whites – it is nice to see all those hues splashing and cascading in merry confusion. As I have discovered, it takes very little to get all these colours into your garden and then, into your life. Nature takes care of most of the stuff anyway; the sun happily shines its warmth and light down on the sprouting shoots, the soil nourishes the roots and as the gardener, you have to water and every now and then, do a nip and tuck on the spreading plants.

I had gone along with chrysanthemums and petunias last year for winter. The results I was able to see encouraged me to take on a more ambitious winter project this time. So, I went around consulting garden aficionados, collected young plants, took care with the potting mix and watered and prayed. Nearly 2 months after I had planted the first tiny plant, colours slowly started appearing in my garden. First it was the chrysanthemums who shyly opened their radiant faces to the sunlight; the gay petunias imperiously followed and pretty soon, there were blooms of all colours and shapes. The hesitant pansies started blooming and it is a real joy when the pansy petals with the loved face-like dark prints appear. The zagged-edged dianthuses were not to be left behind and they too joined in the general bedlam of colours. The verbenas too opened their little bell-shaped petals with great willingness. Finally, it was the turn of the big boys – the dahlias with their impressive girth and humongous multi-layer petals.

When I see all the richness around me, I look up at the big gardener above and give him a hearty 'thank you'. I forgot to mention the most important tool that the gardener has in his paraphernalia, and that is…love!

(All images shown here are from my own garden; so nothing borrowed J. )

Grandparents & Grandkids

Once there was an old man. You could say that he had a natural predisposition towards crankiness. He did not get along with most grown-ups but he had a granddaughter who stayed along with her parents in the house of her grandparents. And this granddaughter was the apple of her grandpa’s eyes.

Both grandfather and granddaughter would spend every available moment together playing, singing or going out for walks. At that time, the granddaughter could not have been more than 3 years old and she had just started playschool. Every morning before going off to school, she would rush over to her grandparents’ room, coax her grandfather out of bed and get him a glass of water. After she returned, both the old man and the young granddaughter would play their own peculiar games. One of the games was pretend-fishing, the duo would spread out pages of old newspapers on the living room floor; and then both grandfather and granddaughter would take out cane sticks with threads attached and pretend that the scattered paper was indeed fish, and proceed fishing. They would pretend to put their fish in a bag so that they could carry their catch home. Another game was bashing stuff; the old man would take out old cups of china, clay pots and other odds and ends of breakable stuff, and lay it out before the young kid like a veritable spread. The granddaughter would then pick up any object that caught her fancy and go thunk-thunk, disintegrating and scattering little bits of broken stuff all over the living room. All this noise and mess would anger the grandmother who would loudly admonish the frolicking duo. The grandfather would then reply, “She’s just a kid; she’s supposed to break things, It’s OK.”

One day while having his customary morning glass of water offered by the granddaughter, the old man was pointing out a lizard on the wall. He was talking to his granddaughter about the lizard and its life (what it ate, how he could grow back its tail even if it fell off, etc.) and walking towards the lizard, looking up and still holding his glass of water. He struck the arm of a chair and fell down on the floor. He took a nasty fall and the family took him to a hospital. The old man never returned home.

Sometime later the garlanded portrait of the old man was put up on a bureau in the grandparents’ old room. Every morning brought an inexplicable puddle of water on the bureau-top just beneath the portrait till the family found out what was causing it. You see, every morning before leaving off for school, the young granddaughter would still fill out a glass of water, stand up on a chair and hold it to her grandfather’s portrait. She would put the glass to her grandfather’s lips in the portrait and try to make him drink.

CineM Review: Life of Pi (2012)

An Allegory Grand

‘Life of Pi’ takes you along on a heady plunge into the limitless world of a young boy named Pi, a boy so precocious, so innocent and at times, so brave that you are left pleasantly confounded. Inspired by a book which may be thought of as ‘unfilmable’, this is less of a story about a stranded boy and a tiger; it is more of a fantastic journey into the workings of the mind of Pi. Yann Martel who wrote the original book, bases his story on fantasy, intrigue and ultimately, belief – Pi’s quirky childhood, the chequered environs around which he grew up, the calming, rational influence of his father and mother (so unusual for most parents), the ultimate tragedy of the stricken ship and the subsequent odyssey of a boy and a tiger on a lifeboat essentially provide us with a glimpse. In Pi’s case, that glimpse transcended onto a stark gaze into the microcosm of his entire universe. This idea is beautifully shown in a scene where the legend of Yashoda (Krishna’s mother) seeing the entire brahmaand (universe) inside the open mouth of the boy Krishna is played out along parallel lines when Pi mimicking the tiger’s action, looks down over the boat’s side into the infinite depths of the sea.

The heart of the story is the feat of Pi surviving 227 days at sea on a boat with a powerful and mystical tiger. The interesting prologue showing Pi’s family, Pi’s upbringing and the fateful voyage are all temporal signposts leading to that epic heart where a boy and a beast find themselves bereft, unsure but unshakable inheritors of the primordial urge to survive. A deep distrust between the two gradually turns into a grudging recognition of each other, which ultimately forms into an unspoken mutual love and respect. This inventive ballet between brain and sinew, the eternal dance between will and elements is played out with the immense sea as the narrative frame, with Ang Lee expertly evoking the loneliness and unpredictability of the unbroken blue.

The hallmark of this film is great aesthetic beauty; the richness of its visual appeal reminds me of Terrence Malick’s ‘Days of Heaven’ where man and nature have been photographed in such deep impact and intensity which I have not seen anywhere. Just like the sprawling and wind-swept prairie in ‘Days of Heaven’ which serves as that one constant point of view, the often-treacherous sea remaining always counter to Pi’s ingenuous narration, does justice to that same role here.

Ang Lee is well-known for making 'Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon’ (2000) and ‘Brokeback Mountain’ (2005) – both films explore the same strain of loss, the ageless search for security and joy. While the former set in feudal China uses imaginative martial arts technique against a backdrop of desert, mountain forests and bamboo groves, the latter offers us a very private view framed by mist-filled mountains and grassy glades into the unlikely lives of two cowboys. Lee brings those same poetic sensibilities here to illustrate and accentuate the sensory appeal of the story. However where his previous two masterpieces had a raw and intimate feel to the events and the characters, his latest offering has a plastic (for want of a better word) tone. The director’s desire to create that picture-perfect and at times, sterile imagery (eschewing animal actions involving blood and gore, not filming portions of the book which might have been deemed ‘mature’) seems to be a concerted attempt to find an universal audience.

Post his extraordinary odyssey, Pi presents us with a riddle as old as the world itself – should we only take in and believe the facile facts of man and his actions, or can we get inspired by something which goes beyond what we simply are or what we ended up doing?

I find it inspiring to mention here the story of a young aviator who died when he was only 19 years old. John Magee was an American fighter pilot who died in a mid-air collision during World War 2. He was also a poet and 4 months before his tragic death in December 1941, he had composed a sonnet titled ‘High Flight’. The inspiration of this poem lies behind the sorties on his Spitfire fighter-plane when he would climb up and soar into the clouds. The sonnet has been reproduced here.

"High Flight"

 Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

 And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

 Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

 of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things

 You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung

 High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,

 I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung

 My eager craft through footless halls of air....

 Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue

 I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace.

 Where never lark, or even eagle flew —

 And, while with silent lifting mind I have trod

 The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

 - Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

I have also reproduced a portion from the film ‘The Snow Walker’ where one of the characters brings to mind the grace-filled words of the poem in a memorial service. I am sure that Pi too, flung in the midst of that immense blue sea and in his puny boat must have felt that same feeling of oneness with God and with life itself. The film is a celebration of that same feeling.

CineM’s Verdict:

Armour of Love: From Nippon to Assam

Weaving is deeply rooted in Assamese culture; in fact, it was customary for every Assamese household at one time to possess atleast one spinning wheel and a loom. Elaborate silk panels woven in Assam depicting typical cultural motifs and religious symbolisms have ended up in museums and monasteries worldwide. Weaving was not restricted to a particular caste nor was it restricted to household with means – every woman and girl irrespective of caste or economic standing spun and wove their own cloth. Dexterity in weaving was one of the prime sought-after qualities in girls of marriageable age in earlier days.

One of the customs among Assamese womenfolk was the preparation of armour made out of – you could never guess it – Cotton! During times of war, diligent wives would gin, card, spin and weave cotton to fashion a piece of cloth (all within a single night) and present it to their menfolk in the morning as they set out for the battlefield. This piece of cloth was known as a ‘kobos kapur’ literally translating into ‘armour cloth’; the men proudly wearing it as a belief that it granted invincibility to the wearer. This custom is all the more heart-affecting cos the Assamese army in the days of the Ahom rulers was hardly composed of warriors. Instead, the Assamese soldier was actually a ‘paik’ – a civilian beholden to the local feudal lord or the Ahom king called up to military duty in times of war. So, when these farmers or woodcutters or fishermen or otherwise peaceable folk went out to war clad in homespun armour made out of just cotton, their courage and sense of duty becomes all the more admirable.

Scientifically, there is a basis to armour spun out of soft fibres like cotton. The soft body armour functions just like a very strong net. The interwoven strands of greatly slender and elongated cotton disperse the energy emanating from the point of impact over a wide area, thus reducing injury from abrasions.

One can see a striking parallel in a far-more warlike land like erstwhile Imperial Nippon governed by the strict Bushido code of war. When Japanese warriors of the Imperial army set out to war, it was the custom of their womenfolk to present them with pieces of cotton cloth to be worn as vests, belts, headbands or caps. This cloth was called the ‘Senninbari’ (or 'the thousand person stitches') – a strip of cloth with a thousand stitches, each sewed by a different woman and lovingly presented to the warrior to protect him. During the Second World War, mothers and sisters and wives would stand near the local train station or temple or store and hold out their senninbari to passing-by women so that they could sew in that one stitch. Oftentimes the senninbari was lined with a few strand of hair of the woman or studded with coins as additional amulets.

Whether it is Nippon or Assam or anyplace else, it is the devotion and love of the women of the land manifested in heartfelt simple ways, sometimes even in fragile homemade pieces of cloth which I am sure in ways unfathomable, somehow lend a different spirit to the wearer.

‘Can I have a glass of Barfi, please?’

Having sat through the nearly 3 hours of the sweet choco-drop that is Barfi!, we came out of the multiplex. It was the late night show and by the time we came out, it was almost midnight. My throat was parched. The food and drinks counter at the plex had long closed; I went over to the restroom in the hope of atleast rinsing my dry mouth with some fresh water. Alas, the faucet was unwilling to part with even a single drop! The housekeeping guy (helpfully) informed that the water had run out and maintenance would not run up any more water till the next morning.

So, bracing myself for an extended thirsty spell till I reached home, I desultorily started down the dark stairs. In the ground floor of the shopping complex where the plex is located, there’s an outlet of ‘Pizza Hut’ which had an important-looking big sign of ‘CLOSED’ dangling from its door handle. Through the glass façade, I saw that everything inside was dark; there was a single light still on in what I suspected, was the galley cabinet. Against the urgent voice inside which was chiding me with ‘Roon, you’re hopeless! Can’t you see they’re closed?’ I started towards the glass door. It was locked (what did I expect?!), but as I was rattling the handle ineffectually, I saw someone inside. It was a young guy, dressed in a waiter’s outfit, and looking at me quizzically. Having recently observed Ranbir’s pantomimes in Barfi! I immediately raised a cupped hand to my lips, making a drinking motion.

I must have made myself very clear (a la the perfect mime artist!!) cos the guy came up to the door, graciously opening it. I came up with an urgent-sounding ‘Do you have some water?’ and he bade me in. I went up to the galley counter, observed as he took out a tall glass in which Pizza Hut typically serves mocktails and other drinks, put it under a water jar, and poured out a heavenly-looking glassful of sparkling water. He came up to the counter holding the glass and asked, “Sir, would you like some ice?” ICE!! I was delightfully stumped, mumbled out a ‘No thanks, this’ll do perfectly”, and gulped down the glassful in two shakes of a duck’s tail. He took the now-empty glass and was starting to pour out another one. I declined and thanked him effusively for his kind generosity.

Simple joys abound – one just has to look around, maybe rattle a few doors…. and yes, go to the movies!

[This post has been tagged under the 'The Confetti Girl Series']

The story of another ‘Jake’

My friend and I had gone to a road-side restaurant by the city. In fact, it was the second visit to that place for my friend and my first. One word about my friend – he has a wonderful love for animals and films. Once there, he started asking after a mongrel dog which stays by the dhaba’s lot. My friend told me, “You have got to see him and understand the sheer willpower he has.” I asked him why and he responded, “This dog drags himself along the ground cos his hind legs don’t work. His hind legs are paralysed.” So you see, the dog is a cripple. The dhaba’s staff informed us that the dog was away and might be coming back later.

We saved some chicken pieces from our lunch. When we went out to the lot’s entry gate, we saw a dusty brown-coloured dog walking and alternately, hopping towards us. It was the crippled dog but now, instead of dragging himself all along the path, he was walking and hopping. My friend said,” Last time when I saw him, his hind legs were completely useless; he was just lying on the ground. But now look at him - he is learning to use his hind legs by hopping on them!” We gave him the chicken pieces and the dhaba’s staff graciously put out some more food and water in two bowls. We discovered that even the dhaba’s staff was taken in by the dog’s spirit; they made arrangements to feed him whenever he returned to the lot from his daily wanderings.

In the car while we were coming back, my friend turned to me and said,” That is one brave dog. Let’s call him Jake.” I glanced at him quizzically for a moment, then understood and smiled.

[It is in James Cameron’s ‘Avatar’ where we see the first ‘Jake’ (Jake Sully) who though paraplegic finds the strength to fight for a people and prevail.” You may be out, but you never lose the attitude.”]

The Mushroom as an Essential Ingredient of Magic!

It has been raining here quite a bit now and the ground has been sprouting all sorts of greens. Yesterday I saw a mushroom – entirely white in colour and as cute as a button. I plucked it to show my mother. When she saw it, she exclaimed, ’Bang-shaati’. I must explain here that in Assamese, the mushroom is called ‘bang-shaati’ or ‘bang- shota’, the word itself being a conjoint of ‘bang’ meaning ‘frog/toad’ and ‘shaati/shota’ meaning an ‘umbrella’. Therefore, the Assamese word for mushroom - ‘bang-shaati’ – literally means the umbrella of a frog. I tried to imagine a frog sheltering from the rain under the classic umbrella-like top of a mushroom, and surprisingly, that image came to my mind quite easily. As a kid, I remember how I used to collect mushrooms and play with them.

It is fun when you can recall buried-down remembrances from back when one is a kid; somehow the discovery of the tiny, delightful thoughts of a child who was you once, appeal instantly to the adult you are now. I discovered upon subsequent research that I was certainly not the only one who had fantasies about that cap-and-stem form. Tales involving the mushroom are rooted in myriad cultures and folktales.

The mushroom is sometimes called the toadstool – another reference to how the merry frog and the staid mushroom form an instant alliance, atleast in the mind. In German folklore and old fairy tales, toads are often depicted sitting on mushrooms and catching, with their tongues, the flies that are said to be drawn to that fleshy fungi. And surprisingly, it was just as easy for me to imagine a solemn frog planting its small behind on a mushroom to catch a breather, and catch some flies as well!

As I was searching for more tales, a long-forgotten wisp of an idea from childhood materialized suddenly. When I was a kid, I used to think that the mushroom was some kind of a house; of course, being small, it made logical sense to my kiddie mind that the people living in them must be tiny too!  And to my secret delight, I discovered that again I was not the only one who had the ‘mushroom-house’ idea. The mushroom has been frequently depicted in fairy tales as being an essential part of the gnomes’ identity. Gnomes wheel them around (I don’t know why!), live in them, use them as convenient props and otherwise, make a great fuss about this wonder of the fungi world. In the film ‘The Smurfs’ (2011), the legendary elf-like smurfs are shown living in their own wonder village with a clear, flowing stream and a charming wooden bridge over it, wild lavender blooming all around… and of course, houses made out of mushrooms with colourful yellow, red, orange tops! Other mythical creatures like fairies also conveniently rest under and perch upon wild mushrooms, when they are I guess, tired from all the fluttering around.

Thank God for mushrooms, frogs, gnomes, fairies and ....for imagination!

Looking beyond the colours!

Is animation a film genre or a film technique? In the mind of course, animations are films where the scenes are created by the artist’s hand or the computer.  As the slew of animations past and present amply prove, animated films do not have a fixed stable of settings, neither do they have a predominant mood nor do they follow fixed thematic patterns. Animations today harmoniously nests in a space where they borrow and develop upon elements quintessentially associated with other genres. So, we have a western-style ‘Rango’, a war-themed ‘Grave of the Fireflies’, a sci-fi ‘The Iron Giant’, a fantasy-filled ‘Spirited Away’, the political commentary ‘Persepolis’, a dramatic ‘Mary and Max’, and the list goes on and on.

Defining animated films as those meant for children entertainment is both marginal and erroneous. With major animated productions in recent years with epic settings and advanced technology (notably 3D), animations are no longer the realm of the kids or the kids-at-heart. From the ‘realistic animations’ of Hollywood to the anime toons of Japan to “claymation” techniques, animation films are entertaining and like so many have proved, make for great cinema.

A man's destiny that is truly wonderful

Moloy: The Forest Man

When I saw the animated short film ‘The Man Who Planted Trees’ a year back, I liked the film for its minimalistic pastel-sketching look (so minimal that you can see the lines and curves forming the pictures) and needless to say, the profound idea, so simple in its conception yet utterly jaw-dropping for anyone who pauses to consider undertaking it. The man I praise now has I am sure, never seen this film or heard of its protagonist, Elzéard Bouffier but what he has done and is still doing, may be the subject of a film named ‘The Man Who Planted Trees - II’; only this film would not be fiction but the biography of a real-living person.

The film based upon a short story, is about Bouffier, a solitary shepherd who over the course of 40 years, plants trees of all kinds, and brings back prosperity and a reason for living to an entire tract of desolate region in the French Alps. The man I am basing this piece on, is a simple villager named Jadav Payeng, who over the course of almost 3 decades has brought back greenery and life to a barren stretch of land in Assam. Whereas the achievement ascribed to Bouffier was just fiction, what Payeng has achieved exists very much for anyone to see.

A particular geographical feature of the Brahmaputra Valley in Assam is the sandbar, a tract of land of river sand which gets created whenever the water level of the river goes down in winter. Short grasses grow in these barren, exposed bits of land till the time monsoon steps in again and the river reclaims what once belonged to him. Once in a while, the river may change its course slightly and leave behind sandbars which are not reclaimed. The hero of this piece, Payeng (affectionately called ‘Moloy’) singled out one such sandbar 3 decades back and started planting bamboo trees in the barren land. He planted the trees by himself on land which was not his (it belongs to the Forest Deptt.) using his hands and maybe, a shovel. He nurtured the tender plants (on land which as the authorities informed him, was barren and not suitable for growing anything except bamboo), and the first forest sprang up - a bamboo thicket.   

I suppose it was at this point (the first tentative success) that Moloy must have thought of having a full-fledged forest with different trees and animals in it as well. So, he extended the purview of his vision, planted seeds of different trees this time around, transported red ants into his forest (as someone informed him, red ants positively affect the acidic properties of the soil) getting stung by them, stood guard over the first saplings as they grew up, and his single-minded passion has now resulted in a man-made forest cover stretching over nearly a 1000 hectares which animals like elephants, tigers, deer, rhinos and others like snakes, different birds have made their home. His efforts have been recognised by the authorities who have started aiding him now, and what he has accomplished is slowly becoming known to people. The Chief Minister of Assam has bestowed Moloy with the well-earned moniker ‘The Forest Man’ and the Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU) has honoured him on this year’s 'Earth Day'.

It was in Feb this year that I got an opportunity to see a short programme where Moloy was being interviewed in the midst of his forest. I remember being stuck by a few points about this person and I shall attempt to present these here to drive home the enormity of what he had undertaken and achieved.

> Even as he started out, Moloy was very clear about his motivations. The idea always has been to bring greenery and life to a land where previously, there was nothing. The idea never was and still is not, to somehow benefit personally from this transformation. Moloy’s only income comes from a few cows which are looked after by his son and elder brother cos he himself is always working in the forest; I guess the wants of a man as simple as he is, are very few – so meagre that  even a few pints of milk from his cows suffice.

> To prevent poachers and tree-fellers, Moloy himself guards his forest. Armed with only a lantern and a stick, Moloy sleeps alone in the forest night. He says that even the animals of the forest take him as their own. On being asked by the interviewer about the danger of snakes, Moloy replied simply that they do him no harm; in fact, on many occasions, snakes slither over his body as he lies in the forest at night, never harming him.

> On more than a couple of occasions, Moloy had confronted gangs of tree-fellers who had come into his forest at night. Himself armed with just a stick, he says that he had challenged the trespassers armed with axes, that they would have to kill him before they could harm his beloved trees. They had backed down in the face of such dauntlessness.

> Towards the end of the interview, the interviewer asked Moloy as to who would defend the forest once he was gone. Moloy’s reply was deceptively child-like; he said,” This forest I have planted belongs to the people of the world. The oxygen that the forest releases is being breathed in by the people of the world. This forest and its inhabitants will be cherished and looked after by the people after I am gone.”

Huh?! Hearing this response, I thought to myself, “How little this person knows – he believes that his little forest in a former sandbank in Assam benefits entire humanity.” Then I realized my folly. Somehow the thinking of this (almost) illiterate goes beyond just ‘me’ and ‘mine’ and he is able to preoccupy himself with the good of all mankind! It was my thinking which I found regressive and self-occupied.

All along in this piece, I have referred to the forest as ‘Moloy’s forest’ (which is what the local people call it interestingly), though a forest can hardly be created by man alone, and the ownership of such a forest of course, is never man’s prerogative. But somehow I feel as do the locals, that it is only right.

I have adapted the title for this piece from a line in the story ‘The Man Who Planted Trees’ and the short clip from the film towards the end where narrator lauds the efforts of Bouffier, provides the context.

Spring’s Here

Assam heralds spring with the month of ‘Bohag’; as per the Assamese almanac, 1st day of Spring falls on Apr 14th this year. Nature of course, follows its own primordial clock cocking a snook at man-made numerals. So, we already have green buds stretching their tender necks out on trees, the violet-white ‘kopou’ flower (an orchid whose blooming is traditionally associated with Spring’s coming), and the cuckoo shrilly calling out (another omen for Spring’s onset) in the nippy mornings.

The spring festival of Assam (Bihu) traditionally celebrated as an ode to the season and the fertility and regeneration of all nature, is replete with references to the natural world. So, Bihu songs contain words like ‘phool’ (flowers), ‘kuli’ (the cuckoo bird), ‘kopou phool’ (the orchid – foxtail), ‘bhumura’ (the bee), ‘nodi’ (the river), and of course, those extolling love and romance. So we have among bihu songs, dedicated categories of songs just for l’amour – ‘Joranaam’ (a kind of competitive teasing) where bands of boys and girls attempt to sing the other out through retorts and friendly insults, ‘Prem-peeriti morom-bhalpua naam’ (songs exploring love and affection). There are other types too, some based on history, others about the pangs of separations and still others which are just silly and contain ‘nonsense lyrics’ but nevertheless heart-warming. There is a colloquial quality to Bihu songs which is difficult to find pretty much anywhere else, and with a simple and unpretentious character which stays with you for awhile.

Sample this Bihu couplet:

hahe hoi tumare pukhurit parimgoi, paro hoi tumar salot sorimgoi;

ghame hoi xumamgoi, makhi hoi suma dim galot

[English Translation]: I shall be a swan and swim in your pond, I shall be a pigeon and sit on your roof; 

I shall be perspiration and shall enter in your body; I shall be a fly and kiss your cheeks.

Even as I am writing this, I hear a cuckoo calling out persistently somewhere outside. Yes, all the signs are here – Spring has come visiting!!

Name’s Winter, Heart’s Sunny

Her name is Winter. She is a dolphin. When she was around 2 months old, Winter got entangled in a crab trap. Post rescue, Winter’s tail had to be amputated. Anyone who has ever seen a dolphin rejoices in the fluid, powerful strokes with which the creature swims (or rather, plays!). Well, Winter could neither do fluid nor powerful. What she did do was this – she created a special place in a few people’s hearts who set about the task of getting her to swim. A team of experts assembled to design and create a prosthetic tail for Winter (around 50 – 60 “test” tails & a newer, improved prototype is being developed) moulded around the amputated stump with a special gel which is now known as Winter’s Gel. Dedicated trainers worked tirelessly to help Winter swim with her new tail. And they succeeded.

Winter stays in Clearwater Marine Aquarium, Florida where she is a star attraction. Winter’s gritty tale of loss and redemption has already served to infuse hope and strength in several people, particularly those who themselves have amputated limbs and are now using prosthetics. Winter’s Gel has been used successfully by injured veterans and amputees to reduce the pain of their prosthetics. It is a testament to Winter’s courage and the love and skill of the experts who work with her, that their efforts have today impacted many people’s lives in a positive way. Below is a short clipping from the end credits of Dolphin’s Tale (2011) where Winter stars as herself, showing how people intuitively seek and receive Winter’s reassurance.

It is in ‘Scent of a Woman’ (1992) where Al Pacino’s character speaks out, “But there is nothing like the sight of an amputated spirit. There's no prosthetic for that.” These words are I guess, true for most people but for atleast 1 dolphin happily swimming away in a giant pool in Florida, an amputated tail has not led to an amputated life!

Nature Ground Cover Inc. – over & above!

The carpet must be one of the oldest home decoration thingy that’s there – indeed the oldest one dates from BC and was found preserved in ice! Before nylon, polyester, acryclic and other synthetic blends came along, carpets were made from wool, hair, cotton, silk and even metal. And there have been amazingly elaborate and huge carpets woven by the hands of men. Perhaps the earliest idea of something like a carpet came to man from observing nature’s own ground cover.

A day-long trip outside the city drove home this point for me.

Carpet#1 – Simalu – The large crimson blooms of the ‘Simalu’ flower paint the sky red in the months Jan – Mar; as evident from the pic, they also do a good job of colouring the ground beneath a deep red. Interestingly the pods in the flower exude a cotton which has traditionally been used for filling pillows and cushions. It is said that when in full bloom, there are very few flowering trees than can compare with the simalu.

Carpet#2 – Looks like an indigenous cockscomb – The pic might give an impression that the plant has actually been cultivated as a crop cos the ground cover is so intense. Truth is, it grows wild but grows in such a close-cropped fashion as to be almost mistaken for a cultivated swatch. It was growing adjacent to a garden patch where garlic was being grown. The tall green stalks and up-thrust, featherlike spikes of tiny red blossoms of the plant do an effective job of carpeting the ground.

Carpet #3 – Indistinguishable pink moss-like plant – The pic was taken in a field which had been left fallow for the season. As my guide informed, this plant grows profusely for a very short time in fallow fields (it evidently needs the full heat of the wintry sun cos if you notice in the pic, it doesn’t grow under or near the harvested paddy stalks) before disappearing just as mysteriously as it arrived. 

What the Moon has to Offer

The Sun gets a lot of respect and love in man’s society and rightly so, cos it gives everyone life. But why should that make the Moon feel any lesser? The Sun and its personification as a God has its roots in many civilizations (ancient Egyptians worshipped the Sun God ‘Re’, the Hindu holy book ‘Rig Veda’ calls the sun the “God among the gods, the highest light”) . In contrast, the moon is not held in the same reverential light and is largely overlooked today. Certainly, the Moon too had its share of worshippers and its own symbolisms in ancient cultures; for instance, the Babylonians regarded the moon as the chief of the 2 luminaries (sun & moon). But what does the moon have to offer now?

It was a recent poem I read which set this wheel in motion. The poem was a beautiful collection of simple thoughts and vivid imagery. This poem titled ‘My rendezvous with Mr Moon’ brought back school memories where I loved simple, elegant poems like ‘Sea-Fever’ by John Masefield, ‘Stopping by woods on a Snowy Evening’ by Robert Frost, and so many others. In that dewy-eyed and simple-minded world, a poem did not require much effort to understand; there was no complicated use of metaphors and allegories. What you read was just what it was. This poem showcases a little conversation between the moon and what I think, is a hopeful young girl. In response to the earlier question of what the moon has to offer, it provides us hope, the coming of a new dawn and a perennial sense of refuge (just as the sun does, but the moon gives us all these in its characteristic mellow, silvery glow). I have reproduced the poem here, a graceful piece by a lady named Paromita Bordoloi. The moon speaks to the girl in a wonderfully sage, tender and understanding manner, much as a parent would speak to a child, I am sure. I read the lines as more of a story and that is what I think it is – a tale of love and wisdom.

My rendezvous with Mr Moon

I was getting a little impatient with Mr Moon                                                 

Since I remember, it forever hung in the old oak tree

With the same name engraved on its face

Last night I quietly climbed up the tree and released Mr Moon from the branches

Mr Moon was not very happy with my act

It was too used to hang in the same position; it became lazy

When I pointed out that it was becoming FAT too; it showed a little dissatisfaction with a small grunt

In silence it pulled its muffler closer and said in a grumpy voice, “It’s too cold you see.”

Now that Mr Moon was displaced from its home, it had to travel to find another.

I said with a little guilt, “Buddy, will you write to me?”

Mr Moon with the same old wise smile whispered to me, “Friend, I am illiterate.”

With my cynical eyes, I asked, “Then how come you have a name written on your face?”

Mr Moon sat beside me and laid its bald head on my shoulder, it said,

“It’s a secret that I have carried for centuries; actually I have no name engraved on my face,

Just that Mr Cupid plays a trick of enveloping the lovers’ eyes with their beloved’s name

And every time they see me, they saw their beloved’s name.”

Mr Moon was packing the last bunch of stars in its satchel,

I bade it goodbye with a kiss on its forehead.

Just before taking the reins of the Unicorn, Mr Moon revealed me a secret

“Mr Time was tired last night and while it was resting in one of the branches it told me that there will be a new name engraved in me the next time I meet you that will stay with you forever,

Mr Time was sorry that you had to wait so long.”

Thus saying, Mr Moon flew off on the unicorn to find the new name for me.

I smiled as I saw the empty branch and suddenly I found myself waiting for its return.

Princess Petunia!

The petunia is easily one of the most colourful garden flowers around. Months back when I was planning my winter garden, the petunia was on top of my ‘grow-well’ list. I saw all those wonderful pics of the flower on the net, and frankly I would become greedy seeing all those colours. I told myself, ‘I want this flower bad’ and bought close to 50 seedlings out which only about half have survived. But the ones that have survived and are now blooming and the colour they splash around, make all the effort worthwhile.

For me certainly, the petunia arrived late to the party. It started blooming in other people’s gardens in Jan itself but it made me wait till mid-Feb. And just like many good things that come late, the petunia is easily the show-stealer. Take a look for yourself. 

Where is the grass??!

Some time back I went to a party where they had impressive floral decorations. The halls were decked with bouquets of what looked like carnations and chrysanthemums, and other flowers I could not identify. On closer look, the flowers turned out to be perfectly formed… and fake. As I was squinted at one particularly gorgeous bunch, I saw a bee buzzing busily (see what I did here??!) around the flowers. Fake blossoms and a very real (and I suspect, really let down) bee. Well, that bee was not the only one who got fooled by perfect imitations of natural stuff. Take a look below!

A Newton Moment

We all know the story of Sir Isaac Newton resting under an apple tree when a merry fruit goes boink and lands on his head; a happy incident culminating in what is now known as Newton’s Laws of Gravity. I can appreciate now basis my own experience a couple of evenings ago, about how falling fruits tend to get people’s minds working on overdrive, leading to observations galore.

It was the evening of Maha Shivratri (literally meaning ‘the great night of Shiva’) – a Hindu festival celebrated annually in reverence of Lord Shiva, the Hindu God of Transformation or Destruction. This year Shivratri was celebrated on 20th Feb.  I was out strolling that particular evening with a friend through one of the leafier avenues of the city when we hear a loud thunk and see what appears to be a robust, round-shaped thingy lying on the ground. I pick it up, my friend remarks that it is a bael fruit (or wood apple, a type of marmelos). The skin of this fruit is green and speckled with yellow marks and a few indentations from the fall. I keep the fruit cos it gives off a nice rosy, citrusy aroma and bring it back from our walk, not ascribing any other thought to it other than perhaps, keeping it in my room for its rich aroma. I had never eaten the fruit raw though I had tasted its drink a few times.

I had just reached the lane in front of our house when I see my brother Sunny outside and give the bael to him, when things start happening quickly. You see, the bael is considered the favourite fruit of Lord Shiva, and its leaves are an integral part of Shivratri rituals, as per The Holy Book of Shiva, the Shiv Purana. Devotees offer the fruit to the Lord that day, partaking of a bit of the offering as a Divinely-invested gift (prasad) of Shiva. On any other day, the bael falling onto my path would have been a simple good fortune to taste free fruit, but on that day which was ‘the great night of Shiva’, it was positively receiving Divine Benediction – a feat for which the Lord himself intervened. 

A few neighbours gathered around Sunny, all agog with the now-famous story of how the Bael transported itself by some Divine will, down for its devotees. The bael was smashed on the ground just like a coconut, and its aromatic, pulpy fruit bits instantly consumed as prasad by the eager throng. I too tasted the raw fruit for the first time. The bael never even reached the house; so much for my plans of using it as a room freshener!

This story is a typical tale of how we seek and receive assurances (purely symbolic, I mean) from the external environment. A fruit, an animal, a happy coincidence – everything is grist to our assurance-seeking nature. I have earlier explored this theme in one of my previous posts When Keys get Stuck. That evening though, I was just basking in the glow of being “one of God’s favoured”, the "deliverer of Divine Prasad". You understand I am sure, that I was just living up my own Newton Moment.

Looking at God’s Garden

Nature's Bouquet: Dianthus radiant in the centre,
Phlox in the top left & right ,
Petunia smiling shyly in bottom left

Winter for me as for many others I suspect, is a season associated with late mornings, snug quilts, piping bowls of hot soup and outings to the countryside. This winter however, has been different. The season has acquired a different meaning for me now – it is now also the season for chrysanthemums, dahlias, petunias, marigolds, dianthus, pansies and so many other pretty flower varieties that thrive in our short winter.

During my trips to florists to buy (mostly) roses and gladiolus, I had always admired the sunny faces of the blooms, the hint of fragrance in the air and the natural cheerfulness which a nice bouquet almost always induces.  Looking at them, I asked myself ‘How difficult will it be to grow my own flowers?’ Starting from January last year, I tried my hand at growing flowers and got my answer. Growing flowers is not an easy task but when the flowers bloom (for all too short a time, it always seems), one is rewarded.

Below are some pics of my winter blooms.

A Short Tale of Love & Devotion

Real-life pics of Hachiko

A man brings in a two-month old puppy. Showered with love and care, the puppy grows – and the bond between man and dog develops. Each morning the man leaves for the city to work; the dog accompanies his master to the local railway station every morning to see him off and then again, comes in the evening when the master returns, welcoming his master by the station turnstile and walking home alongwith him. The familiar sight of the man and his dog setting out for the station in the morning and returning home together at night, warms people’s hearts. One day the man suffers a stroke at work and dies; the dog dutifully waits for him by the station at 4 o’ clock in the evening. And does so for the next 9 years and 10 months till it breathes its last on the streets.

The story of ‘Hachiko – the Akita’ is a magnificent tale of the boundless love and loyalty that exists, inspiring books and 2 movies. Hachiko’s story inspired a nation through the turmoil and vicissitudes of a war. For how much time did man and dog actually live together, I hear you say? 18 months.

Wiki's Stub on Hachiko

Short piece on the real-life Hachiko

A Heart Purple

With living spaces shrinking for man and wild animals, both are becoming increasingly violent and their spreading conflicts are turning progressively ugly. The loser in most cases is the wild animal. So when I read the newspaper front page on 27^th July, I was dumbfounded.

The usage of the phrase ‘into the lion’s mouth’ is merely connotative of knowingly and willfully doing something dangerous, like approaching a feared person, especially in order to ask a favour. The literal usage of ‘into the lion’s mouth’ has now been exemplified by a man, who undertook this dangerous task not to entertain an audience (à la the lion trainer in a traveling circus) but to save the beast’s life.

The Centre of Wildlife Rehabilitation & Conservation (CWRC) based out of Kaziranga is committed towards the protection of wild animals; they rescue and rehabilitate animals who come into conflict with man in shared habitats. On 26^th July, a team from CWRC set out for a village near Kaziranga on hearing reports that a leopard had been trapped. The team comprised of veterinarian Abhijit Bhawal, Raju Kutu and Tarun Gogoi (both animal keepers). The female leopard had attacked a villager earlier in the day, and was now facing imminent death at the hands of the agitated villagers. Armed with sharp weapons, the mob converged at the spot and surrounded the leopard in a vegetable field, but it managed to outwit the mob momentarily by jumping into a drain. The CWRC team equipped with a tranquiliser gun and a net, attempted to tranquilise the animal when it was inside the drain but the visibility was too poor to take a shot.

The leopard jumped out of the drain and took shelter inside a bamboo grove with the mob hot on its trail. Tarun ran along with the villagers to the spot where the leopard was taking shelter, trying to persuade them not to attack it. When the mob did not pay heed to his pleas, Tarun jumped on the leopard and held it tightly to save it from being beaten up. By the time Abhijit and Raju arrived on the spot and netted the leopard, Tarun’s right hand upto his forearm was inside its mouth. On seeing the netted down leopard, the villagers calmed down and the team extricated Tarun’s mauled arm from the big cat’s mouth. Injuries to both Tarun and the leopard were not severe – Tarun was hospitalized and subsequently discharged; the leopard was tranquilised and shifted to CWRC, undergoing treatment for a minor injury. Even as I am writing this post, the rescued and rehabilitated leopard must be going through its paces back in the wild.

Tarun aiding another big cat

Speaking to the media after the fateful incident, Dr. Abhijit who was in the CWRC team that day says this of with Tarun says, “He had put his hand inside its mouth to protect his face and head. Had it not been for Tarun’s courageous effort, the leopard would have been beaten to a pulp by the irate mob.” In recognition of this extraordinary act of selflessness and superlative courage, a NGO engaged in wildlife activism, Nature’s Beckon has instituted the ‘Green Salute Award’ and presented it to Tarun Gogoi.

I wonder what citation has been presented to Tarun in the Green Salute Award but there is a very poignant commendation which is commonly used in awarding military Medals/ Decorations/ etc., especially a line which goes something like this – “….Awarded For Extraordinary Heroism above and beyond the call of duty”. What Tarun has done, the qualities that he displayed in saving the leopard in that bamboo grove that 26^th July, his sense of what he probably thinks is ‘wildlife conservation’ goes beyond any touchstone elucidated, expected and exhibited.

Appended  below is a news clipping of the incident;  it does not show actual footage of the rescue but is informative.