Category: Humour

⚡️💨⛈ Gusts & Gales⚡️💨⛈

“You should write about gusts and gales! Do you like the title?” The son asked as he tried comically to keep from being veered off the garden path by the winds. He had wanted to go for a short walk to experience the winds. I told him I’d heard tales of roof tiles sliding off, and the power lines being down nearby. He looked impressed. Winds such as this , he told me, were characterized at category 2. 

“Well – in that case hold on to my hands if the winds got any stronger!” I said and he nodded solemnly.

Once out, his solemnity gave way to a wild happiness, and he whooped with the winds. “Maybe I could fly, I could run faster!”

“Or open your mouth and fill yourself with the air and start floating!” I said and he guffawed at that.

It turned out to be a marvelous walk. The trees seem to be dancing and swaying. It was mesmerizing and terrifying at the same time. When a large tree trunk is swaying with every single pine needle on it doing the same, or every single leaf wildly doing the same, it is an image that never truly leaves you. Birds veering off their path, seeking shelter in the shaking boughs of cypress trees, deer huddled under the bare branches of the oaks and other evergreens, waters in the rivers and lakes rippling with every gust of wind. Every single natural entity caught up in its movements however subtle. 

This must be a dance of the cosmos. 

Many bare branches lay broken at our feet as we stepped gingerly around the wind debris. Luckily, mankind’s sturdy homes seem to be holding up, the electric poles stood. When finally we gained the sanctity of our home, we both released our breaths: we’d been holding it in without realizing, and made for the kitchen. If ever anything demanded tea and hot cocoa this was it. 

We sipped our hot beverages in companionable silence for a few moments before reveling in the joys and trials of the windy day.

“I really liked seeing that tree shiver though. Like this!”, said the son and shook himself in a massive wave from top to bottom. His hot cocoa lurched alarmingly in his hands and I caught the cup. “Good one!” He said, and set the cup down before going on to recount how it must be to strap something to yourself and fly in these winds. We sat down to thumb through the excellent images in the Flights of Fancy by Richard Dawkins, Illustrated by Jana Lenzova.

Screen Shot 2023-02-24 at 11.41.25 AM

I wanted to fly too, and said so sheepishly. I realized it had been sometime before I had indulged in this sort of whimsy and chided myself for it. One must not work to tap into whimsy – it should be there rippling under the surface ready to tap into and draw magic from at a moment’s notice. Like children. Like they teach us to.

At night, things got even more exciting for the weather explorers. The rains had started pelting down, there was lightning and thunder, and the temperatures plummeted even further. I peeked out at the bleak scenes outside, and for some reason thought that this would be our daily life if we lived on Jupiter, and shuddered a bit at that. A bit of blue and white skies should sort out that weird feeling. (Reference:Why is our sky not green? Book: Pale Blue Dot by Carl Sagan)

I thought of the beautiful image from the previous day before the thunderous clouds rolled in. Earth held to its orbit, the planets to theirs, and the faintly visible moon to its steadfast path around the Earth. In that small image lies our constancy.

image000000

Uncharacteristic snow seem to have dusted the hills near where we live overnight and our version of winter wonderland was marvelous to behold.

img_3677

The Nature of Sleep and Time

The evening started off morosely. At least from my side. I felt the weight of time pressing in between the shoulder blades. The vague sense of limited time against the unlimited expanse of it: both aspects ebbing and flowing like tides in the narrow confines of one soul.

“Maybe I’ll cheer you up with a Tamil movie story.”, said the husband. Have I mentioned this aspect of the man before? I must’ve. The movies themselves do not interest me. The husband as narrator, however, takes it upon himself to remove this misconception of movies I have in my mind and with his usual charm and enthusiasm tries to work his magic. I am more entertained by the narrator’s enthusiasm than by the movies themselves. 

“No please! I have limited time, and do not want to waste it on some stupid movie you watched late into the night!” I said. He gave me a “summary” anyway. 👀

“This is a summary? Please! You’ve gone on and on for 10 minutes – and you’re still meandering about with laying the ground!” I said exasperated for the n-th time. “This is why I don’t listen to your stories – you take double the time the movie itself takes!”

“Okay…okay. Almost done. Getting to the climax soon.” He said and went on for another 10 minutes.

 I realized it was time for my meetings to start and made off.

“That’s twenty long minutes I’ll never get back!”, I swished mock-irritated, though his “summary” had me laughing.

Later that night, I crawled into bed ready to let my eyelids close and drift into the pleasant land of sleep when I saw the husband looking enthusiastic and energetic. 

“What now?” I moaned. “If you’re going to tell me one more Tamil movie story, I cannot be responsible for my actions. “ I said. 

He grinned, and I flopped back onto the pillow. “What the bloom? Tell me  – maybe it’ll help me sleep. Two minutes.”, I said. “120, 119…” 

“Okay – okay!” 

After a few minutes, I moaned “Why do these movies go on-and-on?” 

“Almost done. Almost done!” Said the husband and launched into a description of a fight between two knuckle heads who should’ve been home reading about the finer points of living instead.

15 minutes later, I flopped onto the pillow, and realized that the night-time story was far from relaxing. Adrenaline based fighting – humph! 

So, I settled in to read instead. I picked up Flights of Fancy by Richard Dawkins and read about our dreams of flying. 

I was reading about indigo buntings and their sense of direction. The little indigo buntings enthrall me. Tiny little creatures with a wing span of 7 inches flitting fast between their nest building and early morning swooping. Electric blue swift against their backgrounds. Their tiny wingspans made me think of the beautiful pelicans I had seen just a few days ago while out on a walk. Large birds with 7 ft wing spans – taking to the skies with a majestic power, and gliding through the waters with elegance and grace. Both states natural and both states equally alluring. 

Both the pelicans and the buntings had my admiration, and I am often refreshed after spotting them somewhere on my walks. 

pelicans

“Shall I tell you about this book?” I said.

I knew I had him trapped. If I listened to two movie summaries in as many hours, he could listen to what one book said. He gave me a look that conceded he was trapped, and I laughed. I started and within 3 seconds, I heard the man snoring. Snoring! 

How long must those 3 seconds have felt for him? I shelved the book and let the man drift into his dreams amused. Maybe I should learn to fall asleep like that: Right when he is telling me a movie summary.

We, The People; On This, Our Earth

One evening, the son and I were milling around the kitchen making dinner. It was one of those rare evenings for no reason. Like a short pause between tides. The winter months fading and yawning before waking into energetic spring. The son was working on a school project on Egypt on the dining table while I pottered around with the onions and spices chattering of this and that. 

These are some of my favorite times. 

Finally, the curry simmering on the stove, I went and sat by him at the dining table peering into his notes for the project. 

He had done a sincere job, researching diligently and writing more notes than was required. That made me proud of him and I said so. He smiled and then it turned into a grin, and asked, “Shall we watch TV today then? Just today – you know as a gift?” The little rascal!

I threw my head back and laughed, almost ready to yield. What else was there to do? It was rainy and dark outside. School work done, just the two of us at home. But I caught myself in time. Somehow, it did not feel like a good time to zone out in front of the Television. This rare, quixotic feeling of solitude in each other’s company. So, I shook my head and said no. I saw the twinge of disappointment in his face anticipating indulgence just a moment ago, and said, “How about we read something interesting and funny out to each other?” I said pointing to The Thrifty Guide to Medieval Times – A Handbook for Time Travelers – By Jonathan W Stokes.

He agreed enthusiastically – and I loved him for it. A petulant fuss would’ve ruined the evening. This carefree acceptance of an alternate plan was amazing.

I started reading about Doctors in Medieval Europe and we both shuddered a bit. The book was written in a manner that was just enough gruesome and just enough brevity to stave off utter misery, and a good deal of humor where you least expect it. So, we had a good time rotating dismay, shock, horror and laughter in turns. 

On our recent trip to Europe, there was many a time when the mind wandered back a few centuries to Medieval Europe. While we stood there admiring the relics and artifacts saved from those truly Dark Ages, I remember thinking how we were able to passively look at the best of the Dark Ages through a museum visitor’s lens. Setting aside the utter misery of the times. Art truly did pull humankind through those times if only by a shred. 

I remember a passionate History teacher from our school days who told us about the Dark Ages, Crusades, the endless years of disease and religious warfare. As children these were disturbing. But they were also distant echoes from the past in a geography barely imaginable by school children in the South of India at the time. Many of us had never traveled past our own country or state. 

But as life went on, I understood more and more of the horrifying acts of evil that humankind is capable of: the Dark Ages become a euphemism for unspeakable things. We had heard of witch hunting but when one finds out that Pope Innocent was responsible for making it a bloody sport and sent 1000’s of innocent women to their shrieking deaths, what excuse is there really for religion or piety or righteousness?

A Handbook for Time Travelers – By Jonathan W Stokes

medieval_times

Over the next few evenings, we followed a similar routine. We read about 

  • Jeanne de Clisson – the French pirate nicknamed the Lioness of Brittany, who you definitely want to steer clear of, if invited to dinner at her place.
  • The brutality of Genghis Khan – there truly are no words, though there are thousands of words written about him.
  • Marco Polo and his explorations that gave many people a breath of fresh adventure and unheard of places – a little bit of magic in their otherwise terrible lives. 
  • The ferocity of Attila the Hun
  • The deadly female fighters of the Middle Ages
    • Blance of Castile, Queen of France
    • Countess Pertonilla of Leicester
    • Nicola de la Haye
    • Empress Matilda
    • Melisende, Queen of Jerusalem
    • The Order of the Hatchet 

It sometimes takes books such as these to journey to another horrible time and space in order to appreciate what we have now. I was grateful for that. 

It also reminded me of the children’s book, Meanwhile Back on Earth . . .: Finding Our Place Through Time and Space

back_on_earth_cover

  • 1000 years ago – when there was a conflict between x and y
  • 500 years ago – war between rats and zebras
  • 100 years ago – war between everyone

The history of our planet in conflict. It makes for sobering reading, but along with Oliver Jeffers’ artwork, a required reading too.

back_on_earth_2back_on_earth

“Nice to see what all we did in spite of all the fighting huh?” , said the son, pointing to his project on Egypt, and pulling me back from my thoughts. He had written about the culture, ways of life and the many achievements of the ancient Egyptian civilization, and I nodded. We truly are a species worth studying. The sheer potential for good. The very qualities of good fanning our bad:  ambition for instance. 

How do we constantly remind ourselves that we are remarkable in our creative quests, and not use it for anything destructive? But don’t they go hand-in-hand? I peered at the dancing Nataraja statue in the home symbolizing just that, and felt very humble indeed. Nothing new. We are all just discovering and learning. Just figuring out how to belong on our Earth.

The Heart As a Compass 🧭

My heart is a compass – By Deborah Marcero

Screen Shot 2023-02-07 at 6.40.40 PM

Here is a book that spoke to the very depths of the child in me. I am sure many of us have spent time with just this sort of activity, and may be not with such fantastic results to show for it. 

I distinctly remember :

 ❅ ❄️❆  Drawing snowflakes of every shape I could fathom ever since I learnt that every snowflake was different. Considering I had never seen snow, that seems like a pretty bold endeavor, but that right there is the charm of childhood and imagination. I am not sure if I would like to find those pages of doodles now – the memory of those warm afternoons is more beautiful than anything I could’ve conjured up. 

🍃🍀🍁The shapes of all the different leaves. The leaves themselves dried and carefully preserved within the pages of books. All that remains now is the memory of this precious activity and of course the inestimable happiness of afternoons spent drawing the beautiful shapes into notebooks, after the glorious wind swept mornings collecting them.

🌷🌺🪷The nosegay bouquet of wildflowers plopped into brass vases that spotted the house. How could one not look at that and remember the ladybugs clinging to the leaves, the spider webs wet with dew, the scents of eucalyptus that decades later can still send one back to the beautiful countrysides scented with the fresh rain against the eucalyptus trees?

It is always a marvel to me how our mental maps form around these seemingly innocuous objects. The raspberry bushes by the little cave, the eucalyptus trails by the deserted bridge. If only, we had the foresight to etch these into little maps like the lovely little girl in My Heart is a Compass does. What a treasure that would have been?

The book starts off with a young girl wanting to show her most precious innovative unique possession for show-and-tell. But what is it?

Could it be a trip to the stars?

Or a dive into the wonders of the ocean?

Or a marvelous hike through the enchanted forests?

Screen Shot 2023-02-07 at 6.41.01 PM

Pic from her preview on Amazon

By the end of the book, Rose wants to showcase the very best things in life for her friends to see. So she comes up with a marvelous map with the most wondrous her imagination can come up with. (Which can be the most beautiful or the most terrifying, and in this beautiful book is nothing but intriguing and promising)

I set the book down and wondered again why that beautiful feeling of childhood curiosity and the tendency to look at the world as a magical mystical place wanes with time. The imaginary overtaken by reality, knowledge overtaking intuition, logical vs emotional. Our heart is a compass, and in an ideal world should lead us towards happiness. 

In the long journey of life, if only there was a tonic to never lose that wonder, but constantly add to it, how marvelous the adventure of living would be!

🐺Moony 🌷, 🐀Wormtail ❄️, 🐕‍🦺Padfoot 🍁 & 🦌Prongs 🍀 

I have been reality shifting into the magical and mugglical realms in January. It all started one rainy day as I sat quietly with the daughter. The soft glow of her lampshade gave everything a mellow look, faint music was humming somewhere in the background, and the rains were pattering outside. Her room was looking neat and lived in: her bookshelves gleamed from use, her paintbrushes scattered ever so artistically on her desk, a half done painting drying by the wall.   I sat with her, my head on her shoulders as I leaned over at her bookshelf. She was in a quiet mood, but chatting with me politely (I made the most use of this rare window – before she found something else, anything else more interesting than her mother).

“Really! The book titles you have my dear. Summer I Turned Pretty!”

She chuckled.

“And what is this here? All The Young Dudes?” I said laughing and rolling my eyes in mock exasperation. 

“Ooh! Actually ma! You’ll like that series. You should read them all.” , she said pointing to the neatly stacked books. There were 3 of them. 

“I am a bit past all this summer romance stuff, my dear – Summer I Turned Pretty must be a really nice book no doubt.”

“No – no! This is more to your liking actually. I’ve told you about this before. It is a fan fiction.”

I made a clucking noise which she rose above with a raised eyebrow as reaction. 

“This is the story of the Marauders – told from Remus Lupin’s point of view. Starts from the time Remus is 5 and goes till Sirius’s death actually.”

I sat up intrigued. 

That did sound fascinating and I remembered the queer angle of the story she had mentioned that had me thoroughly intrigued. I had never thought of the story from that aspect before, but once I did, it made more and more sense. Harry Potter & The Prisoner of Azkaban is one of my absolute favorites. I cannot believe the tragic story of the best friends who were brave, loyal, funny, and kind ripped apart by one of them who betrayed them resulting in Harry Potter becoming an orphan and their world torn apart. Such a senseless thing to happen to good upstanding sensible people.

Marauders Map

1024px-The_Marauder's_Map_(opened)

By Karen Roe from Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk, UK – The Making of Harry Potter 29-05-2012, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=30618966

The daughter looked at me smiling – she knew she had me in her little palms now. She had caught that gleam of interest, and she caught on. “Only one condition though…” I moaned. 

“No – no conditions. I’ll read it … just…”

“Nope! You read it but not like you usually read books. No reading 10 of them at a time. Just read this and keep going for a 100 pages. Start tonight after a shower, tuck yourself into bed and keep going. That’s it. It is a slow book, but well worth it.”

So I did. 

I usually find Januarys depressing. The fun and camaraderie of the holiday season is over. The streets look bleak: the winter trees are all bare in their abscission (shedding all winter leaves is called abscission I was delighted to learn from TheMarginalian.Org), the holiday lights are taken down, and corporates are back to work in full swing setting goals and metrics and performance targets with an energy that is entirely divorced from the languid winter scene around us. So, if I had to get through this time, why not start with a trip to Hogwarts I thought to myself. 

🐺, 🐀 , 🐕‍🦺   🦌 I solemnly swear I am up to no good! 🐺, 🐀 , 🐕‍🦺   🦌

I chuckled and started reading.

I have been astounded. I love J K Rowling’s writing of the magical world, and started reading with some trepidation (JK Rowling is the Queen of Magic). But as I keep reading, I was enthralled. I was immersed and the week-end was spent in the most marvelous company of the smart, humorous, talented marauders in the magical world. The characterization of @MsKingBean89 was even better than J K Rowling’s, and I seem to agree with the Slate’s review of All the Young Dudes – The Harry Potter series seems like a spin off from this magnificent work of art. It enhances the world so beautifully. 

It is not available for purchase as it is fan fiction. But it is available to read online at:   All The Young Dudes – by @MsKingBean89 

If you are a Harry Potter fan, I strongly recommend this fan fiction. Some parts don’t entirely mesh with my mind’s version of Remus Lupin, but I found myself loving @MsKingBean89’s version all the more for it. It is beautifully written, characterization done slowly but surely. A charm of a book.  It is also 500,000 words long spread over 188 chapters, so it is quite a trip into Hogsmeade.

There was a research paper that suggested that ardent readers of the Harry Potter series were more open -minded and inclusive. This narrative ties into that seamlessly. I felt a warmth that comes from reading well rounded characters. Afterwards, I found another great treasure: the audiobook recording by Fleur Uploads of the entire series. 

@MsKingBean89, FleurUploads, and of course J K Rowling – thank you once again for this marvelous world. 

May the magic in us never fade.

🐺, 🐀 , 🐕‍🦺   🦌 Mischief Managed! 🐺, 🐀 , 🐕‍🦺   🦌

P.S: I really wish I knew who @MsKingBean89 was just so I could read their subsequent books.

The Fullness of a Bare Winter Scene

The past few weeks in California have been a pluviophile’s heaven. The atmospheric rivers bringing moisture to a state hardened by drought is very welcome.

I spent hours listening to the music of the rain, enjoying the gurgle of the water-butts, and the suction-like sound of the rain waters receding into the drains. We made paper boats and watched them gently sway along with the waters, we released driftwood stuck near drains, we empathized with fauna and realized what fragile creatures we are. These are the images of a happy childhood, and they warmed my soul as I shared these pleasures with the son.

rainriver

Out on a walk in the pouring rain one day, I felt at peace with the Earth around me. There were scarcely any humans about, and this in itself was refreshing. Without the banter of words, the language of Earth was so soothing. 

The river near our home has a name that invites teasing given the amount of water that usually flows in there. It is called the Niles river.

When one nears its banks, there is a sign warning folks against swimming, diving and fishing in the river. Only for almost the entire time we have been acquainted with the river, it has hardly boasted a flow enough to sustain more than a few paddling ducks and geese. Mostly the deer graze inside the riverbed, and its bed is home to many creatures: foxes, raccoons, deer, cats, water rats, squirrels and of course a whole multitude of birds: geese, avocets, gulls, grebes, ducks, herons, egrets. The trees nearby are home to California bluejays, thrushes, blackbirds, woodpeckers, hawks, owls and turkey vultures. 

I love our gentle stream that calls itself a river. But the past few weeks thanks to an uncharacteristic atmospheric river that bears moisture into the dry state of California, it had swollen into a respectable river and I found myself standing and gazing longingly at the waters moving towards the bay. The ducks seem to be enjoying themselves getting in with the drifts and floating along swiftly and then flying back several feet just to be able to do it all over again.

The deer seemed to be having a tougher time of it all. They are the ones who enjoyed the river-bed the most, and the swollen waters meant that their natural feeding grounds were no longer available for them. That afternoon in the pouring rain, the deer were on the trail since the riverbed they usually take refuge in was filled with water, and my heart went out to them. Luckily for them, the trail that is usually filed with humans was near empty. Like the children say, not everyone is kook-enough to walk in this storm. Slowly, but purposefully, I gave them the space on the trail so they may go towards a patch of greens nearby. The pouring rains did not seem to bother the creatures as much as it bothered us humans. 

deer_in_rain

All this musing brought back into sharp focus what nitpicking creatures we are. We are scared to step out without umbrellas, raincoats, shoes and socks. We need our body temperatures just within this particular narrow range (97 F (36.1 C) and 99 F (37.2 C) ). We need our food prepared just so, and our lives orchestrated just so, and in spite of it all, have managed to create lives that are just so-so. (It has been so long since I used this term) 

The trees around us with their bare branches (abscission as shedding leaves is known) still remind us that the wintering season is not over. This is still the time to rejuvenate ourselves and trim down our commitments so we may sprout forth in glory during spring. But human beings seem to march to a different rhythm – a rhythm driven by financial earnings reports, calendars, the vague baying drum of stock market indices that demand more, a sadistic and almost schadenfeudic clamoring for layoffs, incessant profits etc. 

A month into the new year, the world has marched on from one grim news to another.

My mind harked back to the statue in Athens. The busy man statue in Athens, created by artist Costas Varotsos , it is a fitting statue for our times.

Screen Shot 2023-01-28 at 10.48.51 AM

Our lives have become more like the running man depicted in Athens. Despite all the world philosophers practically giving the secret to happy living away for free (Buddha, Plato, Socrates) , we manage to avoid the difficult work of being at peace with ourselves and choose the easy world of busy work(including yours truly).

A rain droplet trickled on to my nose. I came back to the fullness of a bare winter surrounding me and I took in a deep gasp of air to savor these moments. 

deer_trail

Omafeit – Amsterdam Fietsen (Bikes)

After that hectic trip to Europe, we came back happy and content with all the marvelous experiences we had the opportunity to take in, and also intensely happy to be back to our suburban heaven in California. It was a beautiful rainy day when we landed and the day after, an even more beautiful sunny day. So, off the son & I went on a bike ride through the beautiful trails by the swollen creek that we can now call a river. It was as we were happily talking to each other and biking that we took to discussing the bikes of Amsterdam. The beautiful, haphazard bikes by the canal.

bikes

There are images, and there are special ones. The ones that you have no time to take, but remain imprinted on your brain. The whizzing fleeting ones that sear themselves in some cozy part of the brain, associating with some feeling or aroma or words. The mystical ones.

“Remember that man with his kid on his shoulders riding the bike?”

“Oh- and that lady who had a cabin baggage sized suitcase hanging from her handlebar as she biked off to catch her train or plane!”

“Oh – that grandpa with his suit and lovely grand-daughter sitting in a basket seat in the front dressed like a princess tootling off for a Christmas service or lunch somewhere!”

biking_amsterdam

While walking by the canal in Amsterdam on Christmas Eve can be an experience in itself, it doesn’t quite prepare you for the chaotic beauty that is Amsterdam. I’ve heard folks talk about Amsterdam not being like other European cities. I’ve seen pictures of bikes by the canal on social media. But I was truly taken aback by the sheer joy and the haphazard manner in which the bikes were strewn against the canal as folks went about their business. There was a hustle and bustle, a gaiety, a chaotic joy to the whole atmosphere that was wholly unique to Amsterdam. It seemed like everything was possible with a bike. What an empowering sensation that must be! 

We were besotted by the warmth and quirks of the locals, and fellow gawkers such as ourselves alike.

The markets! The open air market near LinderGracht was a charm. Nowhere had I seen such a jolly throng of folks.About the only orderly thing is the statue of Dutch writer and educator Theo Thijssen, teaching one of his pupils.  The son & I chuckled as we made our way on a cold morning walk the next day and saw a bike propped against the statue as if the student was in a rush to get to his master, and had to get there on bike and dash it by the statue.

bike_market

This was Christmas morning, and many folks seemed to be making their way to church or for a meal with friends and family on their bikes, and we wished them all a merry Christmas as they biked past. The fact that they all waved back, returned the greeting or said something clever and witty tickled us to no end.

“You know I understand now what my colleagues meant when they said they missed the biking of Amsterdam when they moved to the US!”, said the husband as he watched a father and son whiz past us to somewhere. The baby sat safe and content in the front basket, while the father biked him to where he needed to be, while the wind whipped their faces with holiday cheer. “This is a whole different level of mobility and swift action.” 

A dozen geese squawking overhead flicked me back from Christmas time in Amsterdam to a cold January day in California in a jiffy. Who said we haven’t invented time travel and wormholes?

“Isn’t it so much easier to bike here on the trail though?” said the son as another biker courteously informed us that he was approaching us on the left, and sped past us with a wave of his hand as moved out of his way.

I agreed. 

ca_bike

While it was enchanting to watch all these bikers wiggle their way through the crowds, it takes a certain debonair attitude I think to be able to bike suavely in Amsterdam, and for that they had our admiration. We amateurs were safer on a biking trail for now. 

Pluvial Pleasures

It had been one of those week-ends that started off with a weather report that issued a Hydrological warning.

The son & I exchanged looks. In the wake of a spelling bee at the son’s school, the word gave us no amount of pleasure. It must be exciting being a lexicologist.

Water bodies could swell? A torrent of moisture could swoop in? What magical things could a hydrological warning bring in its wake? Atmospheric rivers? Our own stream-like river could swell into a proper river?

river

“Hmm – maybe we should check out the riverbed nearby. And for good measure, I think I also shall take a bike ride and check out the dried out lake beds from a few weeks ago”, I said. 

The children shook their heads. 

“This! This is why people call you a nature kook, amma!” , said the son.

The daughter took a stronger stance:“No going biking in the rain Mother!”

“If you are going biking, try to be back by 3 p.m. – that’s when the rains are supposed to start. So, don’t go off all over the place, and forget the time. Watch the clock and get back!”, said the husband. 

Now there was a man who knew a lost cause when he saw one.

Accordingly, off I went. I whistled as I biked along the sparkling Earth. The birds stopped their squabbling and looked to see how an asthmathic milk-cooker took to biking (in my mind, I was whistling ‘These are a few of my favorite things’ song), and I smiled back at them. Wasted of course. Hydrological warning or not, geese do not smile, the wrens are joyous but don’t care much about you, the pelicans are barely curious. The wood ducks – they stop enough to see where you are going.This musing got me thinking about one little curious bird that we had seen on an off-roading adventure with the brother. I’d like to name the little thing, Birdingger Coothwart.

He (the brother I mean, not the bird) had jaunted us off to a hilltop somewhere south of Bangalore, and the world was soaking in freshly squeezed north-east monsoons. 

Now, there was a hydrological warning if ever there was one. Lakes overflowed, rivers leaped, streams gurgled, rivulets flowed, and the rains lashed down.

This little bird, no bigger than a wren, with a bright green and beige plumage followed the car. We had first noticed it as it swooped joyously over the tree-tops while his x cylinder, 4 tyre all-wheel drive terrain vehicle with XD pumps or whatever-it-is the nephew tells me about slowly muddled its way down the steep muddy grade. 

“Going down is harder than going up see?” , said the brother, and we nodded. None of us could drive that thing down that hill anyway, so what was the point in knowing how fast it could go, and long as it went?

The little birdie, however, wanted to know. It dived alongside the car peeking to see what kind of animal it was, and how it rumbled along on the road. Was it because this little one, whose flight range was probably far from the bustling city of Bangalore did not get many combustion engine visitors or was it because it craved the company of its occupants? Seeing that rhinoceroses were scant in this part of India, and there were no elephants in the vicinity the car must’ve been one of the largest moving things it had seen. 

As one can imagine, I had taken a dozen useless photographs with little luck. Ornithologists and bird photographers have my immense respect – for I got a great many pictures of boughs, (zoomed in, not zoomed in), tree trunks, branches, and even bushes, but not one of the little bird. I am not even aware of the kind of bird it is. Usually, I rely on Google’s image recognition software to help me with bird names (Those ML/AI engineers have no idea how much joy their little model brings me). But even Google draws a blank if you don’t have a picture. Maybe wildlife photographers in Bannerghetta region could help me out. At one point, seeing how persistent I was, the brother stopped the car and tumbled out himself to try to get a picture, but the bird had had enough. It was one thing to see a great big animal rumbling along peacefully, quite another to see other animals come out from this one, and it flew off. However, we caught sight of the little thing just a few hundred meters later. I swear there was a laughter in its flight, and I would like to be a bird like Birdingger Coothwart one day: joyous, free-spirited, curious, and prudent within limits.

These beautiful musings bought me to the dried lake beds on the opposite side of the Earth, and I was happy to see that the rains had at least filled one of the lake beds. 

vintage_point

I cycled back home, keeping a sharp eye on the clock, and I must say, had I not stopped to take that brilliant photograph of that tree, I might’ve made it before the rains started. As it was, I made it to the neighborhood and the sharp, pelting droplets as they plopped all over me really made admire those who predict the weather. I mean they said 3 p.m. the rains would come and one could’ve set their clock by their predictions. 

Hmm. In one bike ride, I’d wanted to be a bird, a whistler, an ornithologist, a wildlife photographer, a botanist, and a climatologist (or whoever predicts the weather). A day’s work done, I piled into the house. Birdingger Coothwart may not have craved tea, but I did after those vigorous musings, and the fresh, cold air against my face. 

Αεροδρόμιο / Luchthaven / Airport

Though I do not remember much of the book now, I do remember having a revelation of sorts while reading the book Airport by Arthur Hailey decades ago. The book itself was written in the 1960’s, and I read it in the 1990’s probably. As a child I had never been to an airport. The rare times that we got to see a flight overhead, we all craned our necks with wonder. There was an awe to it all. I grew up in a place so small that it is hardly ever depicted in maps, nestled in the forests and hills – the nearest airport was a tiny functional but not busy one (then) over a 100 miles away) . So, we hardly saw flights overhead.  Even after all these years, there still is an awe when I see a flight overhead. Every now and then, when I have finished up the day’s work and I am able to sit outside gazing at the stars, I watch fascinated if a flight flies overhead. 

flight

I seem to have meandered into flights when I wanted to talk about airports. Anyway.

The past few months saw us lounging around airports more than we usually do. Strange as it is, airports are also the places of packed emotions, evoking longing and belonging in equal measure. Even 200 years ago, mankind could never have imagined a future in which air travel was not just possible, but also affordable for many. It is no wonder then that airports have always enthralled me. 

Every time, I peered out at the folks working behind the scenes so we could arrive and leave the places we were supposed to, when we were supposed to, I felt like sending them a little salute. The baggage tags, the runways, the meal preferences, the entertainment options while onboard, the staff ensuring that all that baggage is sent on its way, the technicians and airlines who ensure that the flights are properly staffed and functional, the immigration staff, the janitors, the software and machinery ensuring all of this works.

Looking around at the passengers, I noticed many who looked askance at the baggage carousel. But the whooshing sound when the carousel starts to spin and magically spewing passengers checked-in baggage is like an applause. For all the things that must’ve happened to make sure your baggage comes out where it supposed to. 

Where this sense of awe around airports flagged a bit was at the security check lines. The process seems to be getting lengthier, lengthier :This time, we had to take out all cosmetics and creams, and send then through separate security checks, apart from shoes, jackets, belts and all the regular paraphernalia. 

Which brings me to the topic of cosmetics.

As we walked past the brightly lit duty free shopping areas, I found myself having pedestrian thoughts, more than philosophical ones. I often feel that way in  commercial shopping areas. Why do this many companies seem to think that cosmetics are absolute essentials to buy before boarding that 16-hour flight?  Invariably by the time you land in your airport and are ready to face the immigration officer who points a golf ball sized camera at your face, I feel sorry for the officer who has to interact with us – grumpy frumpy curled up masses stretching their limbs while plodding in a line, trying to straightening their hair before heading to the immigration officer’s booth.

As I flew past the shops, my eyes often scoured for the one luxury that has become increasingly hard to find in our digital world – bookstores. Why do we dedicate so many shops and products to non-intellectual aspects of our personality, and so few to books? I reveled in the bookstores – taking pictures of books in all the different European languages and buying a book or two as my baggage could accommodate.

greek_books

I am not sure how airports evolved over the past 50 years, but the larger airports have made indoor marvels of these hubs of activity. The Amsterdam Schipol Airport had a clock that had us all looking at it open jawed as the man behind the mechanical marvel worked his way through the day showing us the time. We sat there wondering how they managed to do this. We came up with programmatic techniques, and other possibilities. We completely missed out the simplest one of somebody performing this 24 hour video that played on loop. 

Ha! Simple and elegant – the best designs always are.

The Doha airport in Qatar was spruced up for the World Cup no doubt, but still having an interior looking like an orchard in the middle of the dessert.

The Santorini airport in Greece was small and befitting a tiny island tucked away in the Aegean Sea. The Athens airport had some of the best books on Greek mythology (or maybe I had the most time in this airport to browse). 

As I descended in the San Francisco airport, I felt the flutter of welcome in my bones – welcome home! The baggage carousel whirred and our bags came tumbling out after traveling halfway around the world. I am glad we are able to feel  the gratitude of coming home.

I shall miss the bookstores, but relish home.

Perspectives in Art

We were on a long-ish hike from Fira to Oia in the island of Thera (now known as Santorini) 

It was not a very long one – a 7 mile hike spotted with fantastic views of the surrounding islands, sweeping views of the calm Aegean Sea and vista points of the island of Santorini itself. When done after a full continental breakfast, (the kind given by Santorini hotels), and with an interesting conversation on the side, it is easily done. Around the 3 mile mark, when we had left the busy white buildings on Santorini behind us and were walking gingerly up the slopes towards the narrow cliffs overlooking the Aegean Sea, I asked the daughter her thoughts on art. I continue to be amazed by her artistic abilities, seeing …well how her parents draw. The previous evening, while we had all taken a hundred pictures of a gorgeous sunset, she had sat sketching the area while enjoying the sunset. 

IMG_2314therathera_2

“So can you really identify the artist based on the stroke of the paintbrush or something like that?” I asked.

“I can identify a few of them – definitely not all of them obviously. “

“Well – yeah! People study art for years and entire lifetimes. “

“The thing is, with art, everybody starts off with learning the techniques of realism, but as they keep growing as artists, they also develop a unique style. That’s what I am working on – developing a style. I don’t yet know mine, but I am trying.” , she said.

I looked at her with a new perspective. This child always doodling in her room was working on developing a style. It humbled me to see that I had not even appreciated or seen most of her work. Sometimes, she showed us. Most times, she did not, for as she claims, she wasn’t proud if it. 

I could understand this, but did want to see more of her work and said so.

She shrugged with her brand of nonchalance , and I recognized the style. She laughed at this.

“See? With writing or language, almost everybody comes with a style. That’s why it is easy to spot plagiarism. Everyone’s perspective is unique. The way we see the world, the way we use our words, the way we laugh, almost all of that has a unique perspective, but it isn’t that easy to develop your unique style in art.” , said she.

I made some agreeable noises at this, but demurred. Was language really that easy to find a style to? “I felt like I had spent years trying to ‘develop my voice’ as famous writers say, and it is still evolving, which is why it is interesting too. For it makes the development of the craft enjoyable. But I don’t think we are each ‘born’ with a style.”

 “True True – Writing does get better with practice and work. “ she said. 

“But okay – let’s try this: we were in Delphi yesterday. If you were to write about your trip to Delphi, what would you write about?”

I thought about the glorious day at Delphi. Nestled in the Parnassus mountains, the home of the muses, this was where the Temple of Apollo was built. Apollo was the Greek God for light, poetry, and the patron of the arts. It was also the place the ancient Greeks went to, in order to have their futures prophesied to them. The Oracles of Delphi spotted literature the world over (Sybil Trelawny of Harry Potter Divination fame was named after a Pythia of Delphi called Sybill). Almost every story from the ancient times had a prophesy to run the show. As our bus left the city of Athens behind and ascended the Parnassus mountains, I wondered whether I would like to know my future. What if I did not like what was foretold in my future? Many did not. But their destinies were met even as they tried hard to fight it. Would I like to be guided by some vague prophesy even if I’d like to know how everything will turn out alright in the end? And what if it didn’t turn out alright? I don’t think I’d want to be miserable about it all. 

“Hmm…many many ways in which I could write it. But I think I would like to go at it from the perspective of how we got to visit the Temple of the God of Light on the winter solstice, on the shortest day of the year. Think about it: It was forecasted to be an intensely cold and rainy day high up in the mountains with limited visibility. I was worried we would not be able to able to enjoy the place as much it is was that cold and rainy. Indoor museums are alright, but high up in the mountains? And yet, it turned out to be a glorious day with ample sunshine. We got to enjoy the Parnassus mountains where the Oracles of Delphi gave out predictions and prophesies in directly opposite conditions from what was predicted. I loved the irony of that. So may be we are lucky and the trip to Delphi itself was a blessing in a way. “

delphi_2delphi_3delphi

“Okay see – that’s what I mean.We went to the same place, had the same tour guide explain stuff to us, and enjoyed the same day. But if I write about it, I would write from the perspective of seeing the cats at Delphi. How they roamed among the tourists, came to some of us, and how it all felt magical. There was that woman who made me mad – because she shoo-ed away the cat from me, and then ordered me to take a picture of her. If it were unto me, I would have taken the picture of the cat instead! “ 

I laughed. “Did you take a picture of the cat?” She is entirely capable of that. 

“No! “ she said with some regret, “But, just imagine how it must be from a cat’s point of view seeing so many people.”

“What about you truffle bumps? How would you write about Delphi?” She said pulling her brother into conversation. He was trudging along ahead of us in the mountain path.

“I’d write a story about how I was fighting some bad guys who were coming at me. They were there: hidden in the ruins of Delphi, and how I defeated them with the myths of Apollo to help me.”, said the son flexing his arm where there were supposed to be muscles. 

“He and his super villains. Huh Hmm. But do you see what I mean? We already have a unique perspective with our almost identical experiences. So, yes, writing is unique to most people. But since art starts off with classical realism as the basis, we need to work harder at developing that style and perspective I suppose.” 

We were 2/3rd of the way done and we turned around to see the distance covered. This hike is unique that way – it shows us the meandering coastline and the beautiful buildings we passed on the way – all in one panoramic view. We took a few pictures here and the daughter peered out to see how much farther we had to go.

santorini_3

“Gosh – this is so far away, I left this piece of the jutting island out when I was sketching yesterday!”

“Lighten up! We can have a good coffee and a wonderful meal once we get back.” 

“I wonder what the myths of Santorini are.” I said to break them out of brooding over the remaining distance, and we passed the time discussing myths instead. 

santorini