Madhu the muse

Today I discovered that our neighbour's children have made up a song for the Bhaloo

Madhu Madhu

Kaisi Madhu?

Madhu Madhu

Pyari Madhu!

I agree.

Chapatis and Ikedori

I shun anything like a manicured garden. Mian and I have a lived-in, comfy garden. We have food for us, for the animals, and the bees, for most of the year. There are much-awaited seasonal events like the first irises, the sweet william, the first frost, and of course the great narrative of the fruit trees.

None of these have been planned. Nature has her plans, we bow our heads and receive her gifts.

And that is why it is odd that I have a great admiration for Japanese gardening. This love was sparked by a lyrical book, 'The Garden of Evening Mists'. In it, one of my favourite passages is  where the protagonist bends down to sip water from a ladle, from a small stone filled with water. As she sips, she raises her eyes and sees a mountain that would have remained hidden otherwise.

This effect is a planned one, using the concepts of ikedori/shakkei- to 'borrow' the outer landscape into the garden and aware- sense of haunting about the ephemeral nature of things. I am charmed by these concepts, but know I lack the skill or the inclination to adopt them.

But I underestimated how  generous Nature is.

I was making chapatis today for the Bhaloo who has begun to refuse rice. As I was bent over the rolling pin, I chanced to look up. And just below  the eaves, where I would not have seen it had I not been rolling that chapati, I saw this:

Serendipity, Nature- thank you.

Remembering love

A working meeting of friends is a great way to remember a loved one, I thought. I was there for an all-India gathering of people, on the day one of their leaders had died. I listened as people walked up to the mike, reported on the work they had done, mentioned their plans and ended with 'Inquilab zindabad'. In all those talks was a mention of B and how she had suggested this, and encouraged that.

I felt their love, but it was when her husband spoke that tears stung my eyes. He was calm; there was no catch in his voice, no tears. It was what he said.

'Our friends were right when they said they could not capture all of B's personality. There were so many facets to her. I was lucky enough to be in a position to study her closely, I always kept trying to understand more of her. Everyday I would see a new side to her.'

'I still consult her when I am trying to do something. It is a habit hard to get out of. I relied on her so much for advice, for inspiration.'

'For the last 10 years, I have been living with the shadow of her death over me. But not her. She absolutely was not afraid of death. At the same time,she had not given up. She wanted to live. She loved her life.'

He went on, smiling as he talked of her. He laughed sometimes, was stern sometimes, as he gave instances how she had acted and how we should now.

And that is what I want for myself. That someday, Mian remember me with this love and affection. With tenderness and admiration. That he continue to 'consult his comrade because he's gotten into the habit of it'.

But for that, I need to become someone worthy of it. I need to be wise, and patient, and strong, and uncomplaining, and passionate, and committed, and fun, and so much more. Time to get to it
'

Free Stuff

Yesterday my sister sent me a message. A 16year old girl committed suicide. She could not afford a bus pass (for school, I should assume), her farmer father had a debt of Rs.12 lakh.
There is so much behind those flat sentences. The despair, the denying of self, the hopelessness. I recognise that the bus pass is  not why that child killed herself, but it was the trigger. And how much  must it have cost? Not more than a thousand rupees, certainly. How easy it is for some to satisfy a need of that magnitude. I was uncomfortably aware of this as I settled down in my fancy 3AC berth. The journey I was on was costing me about 6000 Rupees; without sacrificing much comfort, I could have done it for a  sixth of the price.
And I was to be made even more uncomfortable during the night.
Around 10 pm, some people entered the compartment, perched on a berth where a man was already sleeping and began talking loudly. They were paid meeting attendees, employed by political parties to turn up at meetings and demonstrations. They spoke of  criss-crossing the region, of sleeping in trains.
And soon I realised that they did not purchase tickets.
Now I understand travelling ticketless when desparate. I understand needing to get home, and not having the means  to do so.
I do not understand these men. They were 'too good' to travel in the general compartment. But they could enter an AC compartment and occupy someone elses berth. They were too poor to buy  tickets. But  they were comfortable abusing the TC and laughing at him. They would not drink the water from the station, but they figured out where water bottles are stored on the train and stole some. Not that they would call it stealing of course. They were entitled to do all this, they were convinced.
And near my destination, a child was dead.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Nothing makes a garden happier than the sound of hardworking bees. And that is why Mian and I have wanted a hive for a  long, long time. And just this spring, when I was out travelling, I got a phonecall from G.
"Some people turned up at our house with bees. What should I tell them?"
"Don't let them leave!" I yelped. "Whatever you have to do, just get those bees into our hive."
And he did.

Busy bees

Kumauni beehives are very different from the wooden boxes you see elsewhere. Those are too cold for the bees in winter, and the mountain sense of hospitality necessitates that they live in the house with you. The beehive here is  a small alcove constructed  into the exterior wall. From the outside, it has a small hole for access. The 'back' of the hive, the part that is in the house, has a wooden board that can be removed to access the honey.

The 'front' of the hive,which the bees use.

The 'back' of the hive,opening into our bedroom

For me, the honey is secondary. I get a tremendous amount of pleasure hearing the loud busy buzz over my salvia, my buckwheat, my flowering parsley. Garden planning is now centred around extending the flowering season for the bees.

'Don't worry about them', says Ratanda, bee whisperer and guardian of mountain lore. "They go all the way upto the forests in the Himalayas." In fact, he told me, the Queen refuses to eat till one of  the  drones feed her a bit of ice from the high peaks.

He came by a few days ago to inspect the bees before the winter, purely out of regard for them. We had long discussions about what to do if the hive was  overflowing. As it turns out, we were a little optimistic.

The inside of the bee cabin, with a very modest hive.

"Nobody works these days" Ratanda muttered. Not sure if  he meant the bees or me.

Ratan (in the cap) and G- two hardworking people

Cluck!

I have been up at five every morning at home for the last six months or so.
The reason? We have a rooster.

His job is to till the garden and take care of his hens. The hens' job is  to lay eggs and till the garden.

Atleast, that's what Mian  and I thought till we realised their entertainment value. Having never had chickens before, I had no idea they have  so much personality.
The rooster for example. I have never seen him eat a grub he finds. Instead, he will call one of the hens (usually his favourite- the dark one- I am afraid) and give it to her. When a dog attacked, he fought it till the  hens got away. He's a good guy.
The hens are affectionate, in a chickeny way. They all (rooster included) come when I call. If they see me with something in my hand, they race over in a chicken waddle. They are supposed to live in a chicken tractor, but  post monsoon I've been letting them forage. There's so much lush  growth all over, it must be chicken heaven.
But no, they will come to where I am. Usually, this means the porch. Which means I either have to continually shoo them away or put up with chicken poop. They steal food from Madhu Bhaloo's porch. When she is sitting there.
But bless her, she's risen to the chicken guarding. When they give the alarm cluck, she's there before I am. She shoos her friends away from the coop. She's got a job, my Madhu.

The questions you might have:
Eggs? Yes indeed! two a day of the orangiest, yummiest eggs you ever saw. And yes, there  IS a difference between fresh farm eggs and battery eggs.
Meat? that was the original plan. And we intend to stick to it. Mian and I have been meat-eaters all our lives. It seems dishonest to say 'not these'.

Five years

And this little gang of cousins is all grown up now.  Well, almost.
Not too old to not be seduced by the magic of Harry Potter and his friends.
Here they are, 5 years after I last saw them.

Exploring castles together.

Beach date

"It was such an unexpected and lovely day; I just had to make the most of  it" said D."So we got into the car and went down to the beach together."
This attitude, of 'making the most' of  an available day and taking your love out for a date is a wonderful trait in anyone. But perhaps a little more so in D's case.
D's love is the lady I had written about earlier. The lady with the lovely smile and with the advanced dementia. D did not consider it a lovely day because of the  weather, but because she was awake and 'present'.
So he got her dressed, into her wheelchair, out of it and into the car, into the wheelchair again,and to an accessible boardwalk where the two of  them sat quietly looking at  the sea. After a couple of hours, he repeated the whole process in reverse.
When we met them a week later, he spoke with great happiness of the lovely day they had. We spoke  with her, "D told us you went to the beach. Did you have a good time?" Her face lit up. She nodded once, twice. Reached for his hand and stroked it.
These two have so much to teach me.

What is my core?

The thing I fear most for myself is dementia. More than illness, more than poverty, more than death even. It is dementia. The absolute incapacitation, the dependence, the being trapped in myself. And so far, I have told myself that it is because I don't want to be a burden to those that love me. I don't want to suck their lives into my care. I don't want them to pay the price of having loved what I once was.

But  now I am asking myself if that is what motivates my fear.

I know a woman with dementia. She once was a woman who sang and danced and charmed everyone who came into her life. Now, like the Cheshire Cat, she has faded away till all that is left is her smile. But what a smile that is! A smile for everyone sees and a warm clasp of the hand. Mian and I can spend  hours holding hands with this  warm woman and reflecting her smile.

I know other people suffering from this too. And no, dementia does not transform everyone into smiling beings. Mostly it is paranoia that presents itself; sometimes anger, sometimes regrets.

Maybe this  is what scares me. If I were to fade away, how sure can I be that the last thing that is left of me is a smile?

Jaane do

I was travelling in Bihar with a man I respect greatly. He was telling me about a man HE respects.

"He's had a hard deal. His only son is mentally disabled and cannot work. So the old man has to support him."
I commiserated.
And then my host went on to explain that he wanted to introduce me to this gentleman, but he was out of station.
"He has gone to visit his grandchildren. They are in boarding school."
I expressed regret at missing my opportunity, and then did a doubletake.
"Grandchildren? But I thought the son was the only child?"
"Yes"
And then, forgive my inquisitiveness, the question slipped out.
"Was the bride informed before the wedding?"
In answer I got an irritated flicking of the wrist and the phrase "Woh jaane do. Let that go."

And I did this time around. But that got me thinking of how very often I'd heard that phrase or its many variants.

Let it go. Why do you need to ask such things? Let it go. This is  not one of your fancy books, real life is like this only. Let it go. You are too western. Let it go. How did you become so negative? Let it go.
I am tired now.It is time we stopped letting it go.

I hate being ill.

Not just for the discomfort of having a cough, but for all that it entails. For the last four days, I've had an epic cough. The dry, racking cough that has you bent over and trying desperately to bring up that something that makes your lungs feel like stone. The cough that  makes your ribs ache, the blood vessels in your head stand out and your eyes to turn bloodshot. The cough that has you continually smelling of Vicks Vaporub and ginger powder. THAT cough.
Now, I could have lived with that if it were not for the timing. After two weeks of being apart, Mian and I had planned to meet for half a day. After that, the next 'together' time is the middle of March. And so, this was a supposed to be a fun day-nudge nudge, wink wink. Hah. Read the first paragraph again.
It's not just this day, of course. Before he left, I had tonsilitis. If not my throat, it 's my back. I want to be his sunshine, not his patient! Bless him, HE is eternally patient and kind and understanding. But that is not the situation I want. Is that too much to ask? I hate this.
And doctors don't understand when you tell them you'll come to them for a treatment next week, but right now you want a mask for your symptoms. Grump  Grump  Hack.

Snow at home

We were all worrying about drought this winter. The middle of December and not a drop of rain. The oats were looking sad, and the roses were wilting despite my best efforts. And then one evening, clouds gathered. Saturday morning, we woke to heavy snowfall. That was a cold, cold day and Mian and I sat huddled in front of the bukhari.
Sunday, we woke to Paradise.

View across the valley

Lemon leaves and snow

Pine forest

Fruit orchard and pond

My 'office'. Now too cold to work in

Our lemon tree and neighbours

Front yard

More front yard. there are roses under there somewhere!

More landscape

We might not have had electricity. But we had our bukhari, and each other, and it was paradise..

The garden in winter

We had our first frost yesterday. It's still light, just enough to make the parsley pretty but not enough to kill it.

but the frost covers went up over the lavender. A deep mulch and a hut should keep off the worst of the frost. I hope.

 

Yesterday G and I noticed that our  rye is being chomped. And today I caught the culprits- two flocks of maybe 20 birds. The chap who looks like he's wearing a bandit mask is the White-crested Laughing Thrush, his partner is the White-throated Laughing Thrush. Thieves, both. 

When it's this cold, we are glad for anything that looks warm. Like the persimmon tree.

And this is the time to bottle sunshine for late winter.

Jars of lemon marmalade. Lemons from our tree, the recipes here and here.

In which Madhu and Chicu try to be smooth.

It began when the normally laughing-faced Madhu bounded up with something hidden in her mouth and lay down with her back to me. She covered her mouth with her paws and silently played with whatever was in her mouth. It was clearly A Very Big Secret.

'Whatcha got there, little one?' I asked from my chair.'What did you find?'

'Oh look!' She turned around with her usual laughing mouth and showed me the disreputable bone she'd found.So much for Keeping A Secret.

Turns out, I know where she got that from. A little after the bone incident, this happened.

I melted our food processor bowl.

Don't ask how, these things happen regrettably too often in my life. Mian must be told, but I would be smooth about it, I decided. And so I sent him a chatty text message about how much we love each other, above all material things. I got a reply in a few seconds. 'I love you too, what broke?'

Smooth, Chicu. Very smooth.

Madhu and I are lucky we have such forgiving families. She got to keep her bone, and I am getting a new processor bowl.

Back home!

It takes a certain level of idiocy to begin a photo-laden post the very day I get back to the land of slow internet. But I am so excited to be home!
The pup and I are back together. She has filled out now with a dome-shaped head and shaggy neck and fluffy tail. No longer will I be able to call her 'Bandar Poonch'.

These flowers are the last to die out in the winter. I have been plotting to have their fiery beauty in my garden for a while. And now, they are here.

This does not look like much, I admit. But this rose bears ittar-scented flowers the colour of dried blood. In a few years, this  will be a seductive blanket over our dying apricot tree.

This mustard plant self-seeded into the compost bed I was preparing for my Edward rose. And now just two giant leaves give me dinner

 The cobea is taking over the house! and I could not be happier.

Why would I not be happy with so much beauty?

A field of radishes. I don't see us running out any time soon

 I have wanted this sight in my garden since we first moved in. And now it is here.The salvia is not only a visual and tactile treat,but attracts bees all day long. Am so happy.

Glorious, glorious winter peas. What more can I say?

Ripening lemons and deep blue sky. Two of my favourite things in winter.

Call it a flower tunnel, call it a pollen gauntlet. I have wanted to see this since we moved in.

And just to remind me that I have not died and gone to heaven..the reality check. Rats!

Stolen Day

This is something we have had on our walls for a while:

 

And last month, we did!

I needed to visit Lucknow, and discovered that I was there in that impossibly romantic city for one entire Sunday.
I texted Mian, 'Can I suggest a mad thing?' And he said yes, yes.

So Mian and I found ourselves sharing a berth (RAC, we were) in a non air-conditioned train and as giddily happy about it as a runaway couple. And in a sense, we were. We were both playing truant from work and had unanimously agreed on a no-computer day.

Aminabad, where we spent much of our time

And it was perfect. The hotel reception accused us of being an 'illicit  couple' which normally would have made me angry, but this time just added to the delicious 'runawayedness' of it  all.

Colour  and sparkles- matched our mood perfectly

After that, all that day there was cuddling and exploring the city, and shopping and eating and lots and lots of laughing. What a wonderful day.

Mian had a tough journey both ways. In the first, he stayed sitting up so I could lie down and sleep, and was stranded on the railway station for hours because his train was late. But he gave the best possible gift to his  wife.

Not us, but us all the same

Thank you, Mian.

* all photos by Mian. Thank you again.

Varanasi and points of view

 Varanasi. That's where Mian and I are now, and on the left is the view  from our balcony. See the splash of blue on the horizon? not the sky, the bit below that. That's the Ganga.

I should feel lucky to be here now. It is after all an old, old city on the banks of the Ganga. And even though I am not religious, atleast my traveling pulse should quicken at the thought of exploring this place. But it doesn't.

On the contrary, despite spending a decent amount of time here over the last two years, I still do not feel comfortable on my own here. I don't  go out onto the ghats, don't eat street food, and infact, rarely go out. 'Does anyone say anything?' asks Mian often. 'Did you see something?'

No. It is not that. And it is difficult to explain, especially to Mian. He sees Varanasi the way I would like to. He appreciates the architecture, bonds with the people, and is moved by the music.


I , on the other hand, feel persecuted by the trash and the feral cows and the buffaloes. To me, the trash and the cows are not just inconveniences in themselves, but a result of what I dislike about Brahminical society. The cows for example. Hindus consider themselves to be vastly superior to other folks because they do not eat beef. They respect the Gau Mata, the mother cow. But the waste collection system in the prosperous, upper middle-class area that I live in failed because the residents refused to pay the charges. Instead, they drop the trash (including vegetable and fruit peel) on the road, tied in a plastic bag. The cows that they are 'too kind' to put down are starving and eat the trash, plastic and all. The result? Intestinal obstruction and death. To me, that is far worse than raising cattle for meat. And this is just one of the instances that make me cringe.

But I am writing this not to talk about Varanasi, but about myself. There was a time when like Mian, I could see the beauty in everything. Now I feel asif I am losing that. I see the ugly side to everything rather than the beauty. And both are present, of course. It is a matter of looking. I don't like this change. The ability to extract every drop of gladness from life has been what has kept me going always, it has almost been a definition of what chicu is. And now that seems to be going.

How do I tackle this? What do I do?

Am I too happy?

A house in Parmawala, Bijnor district

Razia's husband died a few years ago. Her father-in-law is blind, her eldest daughter still a teenager. She also has a grandmother and two young children. Razia has had to learn how to maximise her resources to keep her family going. She rents land at Rs.10,000 a year, but stays away from planting high-risk, high-investment vegetables like the rest of the village. Instead, she went to the block agricultural office and got some eucalyptus seeds for free. She has now started a nursery of these and will sell them in a year's time to the other farmers in the village. Razia applies her brains as well as her strength to her work. If the dam authorities do not release water till her saplings are sturdy enough,if the rains come in time, next year might just see them not having to borrow food. That seems to be poor reward for all her effort and ingenuity.

She was the strongest person I met last week. The others seemed utterly  beaten down by all the challenges they faced. And who can blame them? An unimaginable lack of options and resources, all their  efforts laid waste by god-like dam authorities, and the burden of generations of malnutrition and illiteracy.

I came home tired yesterday and crept into Mian's arms. There I usually find comfort, but not last night. I lay for a long time listening to his breathing, with the reassuring weight of his arm across me, and I was terrified.

Mian and I, we are truly blessed. Our home, our family, our friends, our work, each other. I come back from visits like these and am scared that this is  too much to have. Is there something like being too happy? too rich? And I know this is silly of me, but last night all the old tales of the jealousy of gods kept coming into my head.
I am scared.

Those people

I was travelling along the Ramganga for the last week. And I discovered I was walking in a lost land.
At it's simplest, this was a land of lost skills. Look at the fan I've shown here. Not a particle of the materials used in its manufacture have been purchased for the purpose. The wool and cloth are remnants from clothes-making efforts. The wood- well, that's to be picked up on the road. The base for the central panel is made of the plastic sacks used for packing grains. A wonderful use of materials that would normally have been thrown away in many households, including mine.
But this is also a land of lost people.
Immediately after that visit, I found myself shivering because of the air-conditioning in a conference room. In that room filled with bureaucrats and scientists, the topic of discussion was 'those people'. 'Those people' encroach on river banks, I was told. 'They' complain all the time about diminishing returns from agriculture, but do not have the gumption to select an alternative. 'They' protest when dams release flood water. 'Those people' should learn that development is inevitable. 'Those people' do not understand progress.
And that drove me and my colleague to alternate between anger and despair. For us, 'those' messy, uncooperative, uncool people have names.
Munni Devi is a widow, so is her daughter. They are sharecroppers on a bit of land where they grow cucumbers and gourds and scratch out a pitiful living. Very soon, that land will be submerged by Progress. They are terrified by what will happen next. I am terrified that Munni's daughter will take the only option that is left to her.
Parmawala does not have a flood warning system. Om Prakash's son died in a sudden release this year. He had gone to strip the leaves from the sugarcane field where the family has farmed for generations. The son died, the fields were destroyed. The family received no compensation. They  were after all, quite literally in the path of progress.
Agwaanpur does have a flood warning system- the masjid issues a loudspeaker warning. But one of them said, 'We can leave, but do you think our fields can get up and run away?' Seed costs 7,000 Rs a kilo. One farmer told me that he sowed seeds three times this year. And lost his harvest anyway.
Those people always complain.