The World – Page 14 – Nourish-n-Cherish

🌈Irisophiles?🌈

February is really the month of Love. Not just because of Valentine’s Day, but the rainbows!

February has been the month of rainbows – at least here in the Bay Area. Even if we know the Science behind rainbows, they are special. We’d glance outside, and see the sun peeking out after the rains, and I’d run to see if the magic is there. That in itself is surely magical.

While there are many words to describe the love of sunsets, clouds, starry skies, the sun, the moon, eclipses, forests, rain, thunder and lightning, there isn’t really a word to describe the love of rainbows. No one word to capture the soaring of the heart when it spots the multi colored ring of the Earth’s horizons. The squealing of the young and the old as they charge outside to catch the magical light of this beautiful universe. Imagining how marvelous it must look to hummingbirds and those who can see a larger spectrum of light.

Rainbow Tales

Of course rainbows have enamored humankind for centuries.

🌈I can’t help thinking of the silly fable about the fox marrying the crow and throwing the garland up in the sky, and that is how a rainbow is formed, every time we spot one.

👰Greek myths have a goddess, Iris, who is both a messenger of the gods and a personification of the rainbow. In Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson series, the demigods are able to use drachmas to communicate with the gods through a rainbow.

🍀The Irish, of course, have a quirky tale about finding gold at the end of the rainbow.

That is why I was this surprised at not being able to easily find a word for a lover of rainbows in a world filled with them.

Should we call ourselves Irisophiles?

🌇Opacarophile: lover of sunset

🎨Chromatophile – a lover of colors

⚡Ceraunophile – a lover of thunder and lightning

🌩️Nephophile – a lover of clouds

☀️Heliophile – a lover of the sun

🌜Selenophile – a lover of the moon

🤽Limnophile – a lover of lakes

🕯️Photophile – a lover of natural light

🌧️Pluviophile – a lover of rain

🌊Thalassophile -a lover of the sea and oceans

🌳Nemophile – a lover of forests

💛Xanthophile – a lover of the color yellow

Here are a list of words to engage any nature-o-philes:

Words for lover of Nature and Weather

What do you think? Should the lover of rainbows be called an Irisophile. Or what other words would you suggest?

🐲Imagine Dragons 🐉

There are sections of the book, Novelist as a Vocation by Haruki Murakami that I enjoyed. I did think he was self-deprecating, and unwilling to take a little credit for his successes as a writer though. While being published and being received favorably are a function of luck to a certain degree, there is the fact that a consistent writer has to keep themselves out there. They need to remain vulnerable and suffer acutely all the emotions that their characters do with a passion. It is a tough vocation, and not always a lucrative one.

“Writing novels is, to my way of thinking, basically a very uncool enterprise.”
Haruki Murakami, Novelist as a Vocation

He goes on to tell the story he read as a child in which two men go to see and understand why Mt Fujiyama is revered thus, and what was special about it. The smarter of the two men apparently sized the mountain from various vantage points and decided he knew enough about it, and went on his way. Efficient, Fujiyama seen, and admired.

The other one, apparently, went on to climb the mountain by foot, agonizingly conquering the mountain. “Finally, he has understood it or perhaps grasped its essence at a less conscious level.”

Murakami equates the latter with a writer. In other words, the harder route. He calls the endeavor of novel writing as sometimes being thankless, other times laborious, and at times a strenuous job.

I think I agree with all of the above. Every good novel I read has me in awe. For it takes a different kind of empathy and a wholly different kind of perseverance to imagine a world, make sense of the characters, imagine what each of them will do, how they would react to a situation and so much more.

So, when I finished reading When Women Were Dragons – By Kelly Barnhill, I took the story with me everywhere. I read the author’s note scribbled at the end. The vote of thanks piece. The credits when people leave the cinema theatre. I read this because of the enormous respect I have for a piece of creative work – fiction or non-fiction – and the universe that helped create the book that I had just enjoyed.

I am sharing a bit of Kelly Barnhill’s note here:

“And, thank you to my wonderful family – … -who have to live with a person often hijacked by her own imagination, and wounded by the world. The work of storytelling requires a person to remain in a state of brutal vulnerability and punishing empathy. We feel everything. It tears us apart. We could not do this work without people in our lives to love us unceasingly, and to put us back together. “
Kelly Barnhill (Acknowledgement) When Women Were Dragons

The depths and capacity for creative work continues to astound me – blessed is an intellect that can imagine, and blessed indeed is a culture that promotes growth through imagination.

🌿Loud Walks in Quiet Places🌿

Walks : Loud & Quiet

There are quiet walks and there are loud walks in quiet places.

Henry David Thoreau called it, “Taking the village with you.” or something to that effect. What he meant, I think, was that we took the problems occupying our minds and held onto them tightly, and a trifle obstinately, thereby making it harder for nature to soothe and calm. Really! The human mind is a strange thing. Sometimes, nothing sticks, and other times, nothing slides.

“I am alarmed when it happens that I have walked a mile into the woods bodily, without getting there in spirit.”
― Henry David Thoreau, Walking

These walks are trying at best. I found myself fiddling with poetry to try and distract the mind from the village, and the people in it. It was a feeble attempt, and one that requires far more concentration to be approved by Bard/Gemini maybe, but it’ll do. It would have to do.

Poetry: Balm to the Soul

Was poetry not the balm to the soul?

The trees are trying

The waters are waving


The swans are soothing

The squirrels are scampering


The deer are divine

The eagles are evocative


The vultures are volatile

The pelicans are pure


Yet the spirit

Remains dispirited


Some days are trying

For your mind is wavering

Just as I had managed to get nature to work its magic, I was summoned back to reality by three loud gentlemen discussing the virtues of housing all their data in the cloud, and how that reduced their costs. I found myself calculating storage costs and estimating budgets.

I looked resolutely at the clouds overhead and said loudly, “Nope – look at the real clouds!”. I may have startled a little wren foraging for food in the bushes nearby, and it took flight in an alarming manner after throwing me a reproachful glance.

Oh well!

Nature did do its work!

But, I found, on getting into the car, nature had done its work. It may have had to try harder and send a few more butterflies my way, but it did. I was much refreshed in mind and spirit, clearer in what I needed done.

I chuckled remembering Thoreau’s quote on Walking, and spending at least 4 hours a day in nature – a luxury most of us can seldom afford, but we can afford smaller bursts of it:

“I think that I cannot preserve my health and spirits, unless I spend four hours a day at least—and it is commonly more than that—sauntering through the woods and over the hills and fields, absolutely free from all worldly engagements.”

🐲When Women Were Dragons 🐉

Intriguing beginnings:

There are powerful beginnings and there are intriguing beginnings to stories. It has been a while since I saw a beginning as brilliant as the one in the book, When Women Were Dragons – By Kelly Barnhill.

women_dragons

Dragoning

Dragoning is the term that seemed to be used when some women turned permanently into dragons and left their human life aside – taking off to wherever dragons live. For those left behind, the phenomenon is bizarre, frightening, traumatic, and quite often fatal.

This is how the book starts:

“Greetings, Mother- I do not have much time. This change (this wondrous, wondrous change) is at the very moment upon me.

…

I married a man who was petulant, volatile, weak-willed, and morally vile.

…

But there were no babies, were there? My husband’s beatings saw to that. Tooth and claw. The downtrodden becomes the bearer of a heavenly, righteous flame.

…

I shall not miss you Mother. Perhaps I won’t even remember you. Does a flower remember its life as a seed? Does a phoenix recall itself as it burns anew? You will not see me again. I shall be but a shadow streaking across the sky-fleeting, speeding, and utterly gone.

– From a letter written by Marya Tilman, a housewife from Lincoln Nebraska, and the earliest scientifically confirmed case of spontaneous dragoning within the United States prior to the Mass Dragoning of 1955-also known as the Day of Missing Mothers”

I am midway through the book, and the story soars with the dragons – fiery tempests in teacups and how the placid bore it within themselves.

The book’s narrative voice is brilliant. Seamlessly moving between dragoning as a phenomenon and when it was first observed, slowly moving onto research of dragoning and its funding removed, to the whole topic becoming a taboo.

Society isn’t really mysterious once you understand the original intent. Cruel maybe, but not as mysterious. For instance, in this world, drawing or mentioning dragons could get children in serious trouble. Those who had lost a mother or a sister or a friend to dragoning don’t ever want to hear anything to do with it. They ignore it so it may never happen again. The news forgets to mention it, and society plows on.

For those looking for dystopian fiction or just a jolt from our current state, When Women Became Dragons, is worth a read.

A disruption of ducks

There is a curious rhythm to the days after our India trip. The usual things still occupy our time – school, work, projects, commutes, the changing landscapes of nature, and all the rest of it. Maybe it is the throes of a winter season, or the fact that after the intense ceremonies of the beginning of the month, the quiet is disconcerting, but we felt on edge.

Like the hedgehog, we found ourselves peeking out of our hidey holes to see if life is normal, and finding that it is, were somewhat taken aback. Do you mean to say that we must plan to prune the roses?

Oh well, all right. If you insist, I suppose.

One morning, the son and I finding ourselves at a loose end decided to take a bike ride to dissipate some of this energy.

“Amma! Look – I just saw a hedgehog peep out.”

“Oh nice! It is close to February, so it must be checking.”

“I didn’t see if it saw its shadow though – we were going too fast!” said the son.

It was a lovely day – the feel of wind against our cheeks, the gentle cumulus clouds overhead, and the bay hosting a large variety of birds. We stood there taking in the beautiful sights when hundreds of birds took flight all at once, and then, as though nothing had happened, flocked back to their original place a few moments later. The son and I had a number of ideas as to what caused the disturbance, each more juvenile and silly than the next, but left us cackling all the same.

No one could deny the beautiful shared experience of the disruption – the birds heaving in one smooth cacophony and the humans ashore fumbling quickly to capture the sudden movements and failing miserably.

It reminded me of the book I was reading the previous day, On Duck Pond – By Jane Yolen Pictures by Bob Marstall.

on_duck_pond

As I walked by the old Duck Pond

Its stillness as the morning dawned

Was shattered by a raucous call:

A quack of ducks both large and small …


An understanding quickly dawned:

We’d shared a shock, and now a bond

And I was feeling very fond,

Of everyone on old Duck Pond.

As always the day out in nature surrounded by the fabulous clouds, the sun’s rays, the beautiful lights of the ocean, the stories the son and I swapped on our ride, the birds, first signs of spring in the wildflowers by the bay, had weaved its magic, and we returned home refreshed in mind and spirits.

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P.S: A group of ducks, as Jane Yolen mentions in her book, are known by a number of names:

A raft of ducks

A paddling of ducks

A badelynge of ducks

Also, bunch, grace, gang or team.

🐳 Whale Grandma or Toucan Grandma? 🦜

I showed the son a text message capturing a conversation between his cousin and his grandfather, Balu Thaatha. Balu Thaatha has the unique capacity to morph into a 5/10/20/60/80 year old depending on his audience’s mental acuities and potential for mischief making and taking.

“I found your Hero pen – therefore, I am a hero.”

“Thaatha! You are just a zero, not a hero!”

I felt for the old man.

“Serves Thaatha right!” said the son rolling his eyes.

“Why?! Poor man is not a zero! Though without zero, civilization will be a zero.” I mused and the son laughed.

“True! True! I meant – serves him right to be at the receiving end of this. He thinks he is Dr Seuss amma. He told me the other day that if I eat jhangri, I will not be angry, as when you are hungry you get angry! What even is Jhangri?” said the fellow.

“Diabetes in squiggles!” I said and the pair of us guffawed.

Later that day, we were going through the book, Grandude – by Paul McCartney. The Beatles star is quite obviously a fun and dedicated grand-father (grandude) and his book outlines the adventures he has with his grandchildren in their quest to find their grandmother, nan-dude.

We fell to discussing the son’s own wonderful grandfathers again: Raju Thaatha & Balu Thaatha. Both loving in their own ways, and exhibiting a pick-and-choose of characteristics between them: sincere, playful, caring, hearty, engaging, mischievous, witty, booming, quiet, talkative, reserved, humourous, erudite, and so many more.

“You will be a wonderful grandma – like a pirate grandma or a nan-dude!”, the son assured me.

I glowed – and said, “Really? Would I be a ninja grandma or a butterfly grandma?”

“Yes – and also a toucan grandma, and a whale grandma, and a tree grandma. You will be a fun grandma. Don’t worry – I have confidence in you. “ said the son. He was licking an ice cream with obvious relish, and no doubt the fact that he was allowed ice cream on a cold day by his indulgent mother colored his opinion of me.

“Marvelous books, isn’t it? Really – I am glad there are books outlining the special grandparents-grandchildren bond. I wonder whether there are good songs, and dances showing that.”

“I am sure there are. Just need to look.” he said stoic as ever.

We were discussing the books:

My Grandma’s a Ninja – by Todd Tarpley (Author), Danny Chatzikonstantinou (Illustrator)

Grandude’s Green Submarine – by Paul McCartney (Author), Kathryn Durst (Illustrator)

Both books are such joys to thumb through. Light-hearted and joyous, they highlight the beautiful bonds between grandchildren and grandparents.

⌘ The Essence of Life ⌘

The Fabric of the Indian household

One of my half written posts from one of my earlier trips to India touches upon the heroines of the Indian upper middle-class household – the cooks and maids. The fabric of the Indian household is maintained through a network of maids – 3 or 4 of them, who swish through the house at various points in time, professionally taking care of the household chores, and keeping a human touch to those who crave for it. I know the aged parents looked forward to a few words with them: a smile, a question, or a comment.

As much as I savored the solitude, and quiet of nature back home in the United States, I understood the tug and pull of humanity in the fast-paced life of the Indian subcontinent, as well. You were never truly alone, even for a few hours, in India. There were maids, delivery men, sweepers, cleaners, neighbors in close proximity, cooks, who were all as much part of one’s routine as the immediate family themselves.

“Did Appa like the avial?” the cook would ask as she entered the house, to which the father-in-law would reply cheekily that it was nothing compared to his sister’s avial. We all know, there is no point talking when his sister’s avial is raised, and she does too. “Ask your sister to make it then – look at him!” she’ll say looking to the mother-in-law for support and she would jump in with glee.

Stimulus🧘🏼‍♀️ 🪷 Pause 🧘🏼‍♀️ 🪷Response

“Life in India is so fast and hectic, isn’t it? “ . We were discussing the fast and furious pace of India with friends. We were each reminiscing our respective trips to India – both made under difficult circumstances, and we were both glad to be back home in the United States.

I nodded fervently, and said wistfully, “Yes – at least during the time I was there, the concept of solitude was rarely acknowledged.”

“Solitude?” And we all laughed. It was true – the populace, and the ways of life make slowing down much harder than usual. It isn’t made any easier with the speed of communications and transportation in cities. The very essence of vibrance that is a huge advantage and a beauty to the civilization was also a disadvantage.

There are times when I have marveled at how the Indian way of life came up with practices such as meditation and yoga, but then I also realize that it was there that it could have developed, for it was required to build still pockets of serene moments into one’s life. in fact, the concepts are nothing short of brilliant. The pause between breaths is essential to be mindful of, when it may be all you can get in terms of mindfulness. The breath becomes the prana in very significant ways. The pause, when rarely taken, becomes harder to practice, and yet the pause becomes that tiny moment of choice in our agency of life.

There are so many aspects to the Philosophy of Being (I am amused it has such a strictly medical sounding name: Ontology)

Keeping ontological explanations aside, if The Nature of Being comes down to simple techniques of breath, fluidity and movement, it makes the simplicity behind it all brilliant.

For many years I had thought of this quote, attributed to Victor Frankl in Man’s Search for Meaning:

“Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space lies our freedom and our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our happiness.”

-Quote widely attributed to Viktor Frankl, Author of Man’s Search for Meaning, but not sure: Between Stimulus & Response

Back home, I savored the morning air, as I stepped out for a brisk walk embracing the nippy air. I felt like I could finally hear myself think, and I had a beautiful walk weighing and thinking of such topics as courage, resilience, choices, decision-making etc in the context of our work and personal lives. How one helps us evolve in another sphere, and how we are as human-beings are nothing more than the function of life’s ebbs and flows.

The Whole 9 Yards

The whole 9 yards

We lost my father-in-law (henceforth referred to as Appa) earlier this month. He had a wonderful life, was loving and was loved by almost everyone who knew him.

When we reached home and awaited the body from the mortuary, bizarre things began happening. We were supposed to be sending the father-in-law’s soul to a different realm, but I found myself transported to a different realm instead.

Suddenly, one is surrounded by a society that morphs into layers of irrational. I was overpowered by a mob of conservatives who draped me in a 9 yards saree before I could breathe.

For reasons beyond me, the society of people I was born into, sets great store by a garment that is wholly undeserving of the praise bestowed on it. It is the 9 yards saree. I abhor the garment for several reasons: apart from the casteism it symbolizes, it is also an extremely uncomfortable garment.

The 9 yards saree makes one look like a roadroller, impedes motion, and rouses an instinct in all females who see you to ‘fix’ the saree. One thinks, the folding pleat behind the legs is too long, another thinks the tugging back is too long. So, they all attempt to fix it — all completely well-intentioned of course. Only this gives you a strange sense of being disrobed – for like one of these sailors knots, if you pull one place, the whole thing can unravel. One time, an aunt, tugged something while I was descending the stairs and I almost fell headlong down the stairs. After the initial flare of annoyance, I started to laugh trying to envision myself like a rolled up carpet at the bottom of the stairs, and all good hands trying to extricate me from a 9 yard mess.

I have never liked it – but as luck would have it, society is enamored by it.

As I moved numbly to see the mortal remains of my dear father-in-law, about 50 different women and 10 men told me that the important thing to remember is that I wear this particular 9 yards saree everyday – to be washed, dried and worn again for the next 13 days. “Remember – the same saree only.”

I stared at them too speechless to say anything. Could they not see I was grieving – why was this same-9-yard-everyday thing so important?

It made no sense – until you realized that religion loves giving dictums for everything starting from how a woman should dress to how she should grieve. This one was apparently to ensure that we did not accidentally attempt to feel good by dressing well.

I’ll let you all roll your eyes at that one.

Dear Appa

A few years ago, when we had moved into our new home, everyone was pressurizing me to wear a 9 yards saree for the house warming ceremony. I was sipping my tea looking glum one evening after another aunt insisted that it was a critical garment for the success of the ceremony. Appa asked me “Yenna ma?” (What is it, ma?) in his typical calm voice sensing my disquiet.

I told him that I didn’t like the 9 yards saree but everyone wanted me to wear it.

He looked at me and said, “Don’t wear it!”

I looked up, and saw him looking at me sincerely. He continued, “This ceremony is supposed to ensure that you are happy in your new home – wear something that you will be happy in!”

I didn’t wear a 9 yards saree that day. I wore something I was comfortable in. When I came down the stairs, he saw me and gave me a glorious smile.

Dear Society, Can you change?

I thought of this little interaction every day that I was miserable in the 9 yards saree during his long drawn out death ceremonies that everyone insisted had to be done in 9 yards (for the departed soul you know?)

saree_potter

(Saree Potter – caption by the brother)

Actually, this seemed to be a theme through many of the ceremonies. There were a lot of things that I am sure Appa would not even have considered – but religion seemed to dictate it all necessary to his soul. There were hours of mantrams and ceremonies everyday that we little understood.

What I would have liked is for people to let us know the little and big ways in which he impacted them. For it was apparent, that he was loved by everyone who had the fortune of interacting with him. He was a dedicated brother, brother-in-law, husband, father, father-in-law, uncle, grandfather, and friend. As it was, there was precious time left for personal anecdotes and reflections after the long-drawn out ceremonies that Appa, when alive, had little patience for.

“Man is kind enough when he is not excited by religion.”

– Mark Twain

The Most Wonderful Week of the Year!

“This is my favorite week of the year!”, I crooned to the son, and sang, “The most wonderful week of the year!” all out of tune, complete with the wrong lyrics etc, and he gave me an exasperated look. The children can never understand how I can consistently get lyrics wrong.

We were out walking after lunch. Our gait was leisurely which is to say mine was; he was leaping and prancing like a superhero taming a reindeer on magic mushrooms, while making sounds like a steam engine swooshing and whishing.

“Why?” he stopped to ask.

I gestured around us vaguely. The sun was shining, the white fluffy clouds were drifting, the earth was fresh after the rains the previous night, ducks were swimming, gulls were flying overhead, and the humans on the trail were pleasant and happy. We wished each other happy holidays and sniffed in the fresh air. What was not to like?

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Last week was even better!

“Yeah – but why this week – last week was even better! We went to see…” he started, and I nodded. It had been a wonderful week – we had been traveling. The memory of lights and stars shone alongside family, friends, nephews, nieces, and aunts. We ate glorious foods prepared with love by extended family, played marvelous games, and took delicious sips of tea.

“Yes – last week was wonderful, but I mean – I like this week every year. The week between Christmas and New Years. The week when we all seem to be off together, waiting for the year to wind down and getting ready for the new year.”

“I prefer summer!” he said, and I gave him an amused look.

“Summer vacations and school going children. We don’t get that sort of luxury do we? “ I asked him, and he laughed.

“No! I like this week, and am going to enjoy it. Maybe go and eat a snack, write a post, read a book, and do anything at all the mind fancies!” I said, and skipped a bit as we turned homewards.

The Feeling

There’s nostalgia, relief, expectation, hope, optimism, a sense of wrapping up, mingled with the feeling of opening in to the new year. There must be a word for that feeling. Do caterpillars feel that way in their cocoon? No – that is too powerful, after all our metamorphoses are not half as dramatic.

“So, what’s your post about?” he asked pulling me away from my thoughts, and we discussed caterpillars, wars, words, and other inconsequential things. The birds chirped outside, and the teapot gurgled inside.

All was well. Happy New Year to all of you!

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Last week was even better!

The Feeling

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