Life – Page 21 – Nourish-n-Cherish

A Rosely Abode

The rose bushes were blooming all summer and every time I saw the blossoms fade, I felt a pang. How did these bouquets in stores retain their freshness for that long while my blossoms faded so quickly? There was one white rose still unfaded before the next set of blooms came in, and I stopped to admire it. I’ve always loved white roses. I leaned over to pluck the beautiful blossom, picturing the peaceful looking flower in Buddha’s hands.

Peace.

Such a nebulous quality in our lives, I mused. Also, something that one only appreciates wholly when threatened or is lost. Maybe turbulence is a necessary component of life in small doses so we appreciate sturdy peace when we do have it.

roses

I peered into the rose and saw an inner petal that looked slightly less white than the surrounding petals. Maybe it had started to brown, I said to myself and reached in gingerly to pull the petal, when I gasped and leaped back. A small albino frog leaped out at me from within the white rose petals.

I don’t know whether any of you have had albino frogs leap up at their faces, but if you haven’t, I can tell you it is quite the shock especially when you are expecting to loosen rose petals and have amphibians leaping at you instead. It is like finding crocodiles in your bath-tub.

I gasped and tried regaining my composure. All thoughts of peace forgotten – the heart hammered against the ribcage as if on a great adventure, I willed it to stop. So much for courage – a frog is all it takes. Maybe it wasn’t a good thing. I thought forlorn, as irrational thoughts came flooding in.

What is it with adrenaline and irrationality?

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Regardless of that first reaction, frogs are apparently omens of good luck, prosperity and fertility.

Later that night, as I drifted off into sleep, I couldn’t help thinking of the little frog in the white rose that I had inadvertently disturbed. What a lovely abode? Drinking nectar, snuggling into the softest petals, and resting in the fragrance of a rose. Sometimes, the gifts of nature are marvelous. I wish I had the sense to take a photograph. White frogs are rare enough. White frogs in white roses must be even rarer. As for, white frogs leaping up at writers from within white roses: well, who says that nature doesn’t have a sense of humor?

I’ve always admired bees for having their feet dusted by a thousand blossoms as Ray Bradbury says:

bee_in_rose

‘Bees do have a smell, you know, and if they don’t they should, for their feet are dusted with spices from a million flowers.’

– Ray Bradbury

Frogs or Moths?

The morning started off with a commotion in the room. “Get me a magazine!” said the daughter. She was standing on her window ledge. The English language can be woefully inadequate at times like these. What adjectives could one use to describe a goddess incarnate in shorts and tangled hair shouting like the devil?

I goggled at her: sleep addled myself and asked her what was going on. She sputtered and shuddered as she regaled the heroic tale of how she came to be in the position she was in when I was summoned into the room.

As most tales of heroism in our home started off, it was with a big moth. No lepidopterists in this house as you can see.

Apparently, one ‘huge’ moth had been flying around and after several minutes chasing after the monstrous thing, she had managed to trap the thing between the wall and the upturned waste basket. She stood there looking determined and sheepish all at once, and asked for something to slide between the wall and the waste basket.

moths_in_bedrooms

“All that evolution for using tools, and this is what we use it for!” I muttered and went to get something of sufficient size.

A few minutes later, she came smiling widely and looking very pleased with herself. She had released the gigantic thing out into the wild. (notice how the moth turned from ‘big’ to ‘huge’ to ‘gigantic’ in 3 paragraphs?)

I used the opportunity to talk to her about being less-dramatic, feeling compassionate towards our fellow beings on the planet (I have compassion when the moth is outside, not in my bedroom, Mother!), and generally learning to be calm about little things like moths in bedrooms.

She rolled her eyes.

After this, peace was restored and we went about the day. It was later that day that she got her revenge on Yours Truly. I had just driven back home on a high traffic day, and noticed a rather large white rose in our garden. I’ve always loved white roses – they have a pristine look before they start drying up. I leaned over to pluck the beautiful blossom, picturing the peaceful looking flower in the Buddha statue’s hands.

frogs_in_roses

I was still looking shocked and spooked when the daughter came to the door. She asked me a few questions and I croaked a thing or two in reply. Getting nothing intelligible out of me, she ushered me into the house. I ran to the bathroom to wash my hands. I had just touched a frog, had said frog jump out at me, and had leaped away with the agility that the frog was proud of.

A few minutes later, the daughter breezily walked into the room and said, “Okay – I’ve held off long enough to let the frog shock wear off a bit, but I can’t hold off anymore. Here goes! Proud, are we? Huh?! After giving me a nice big lecture for the moth in my bedroom this morning, you can’t even croak a word out when faced with a poor, measly frog, huh?”

“Yes – but a frog and a moth are not the same. The frog leaped at me!” I said.

“My moth flew at me. Your point, Mother?” said she, ever the astute debater.

A Problem of Niblings

We were out gallivanting around town with the young nephews and nieces.

“Crows scare me! The way they come and all squawk together.”, said one.

“What? Why? “ said the other. “I love crows – ravens specifically. They are so cool, and in almost all the books, they spy and report back to their evil warlords!”

“Butterflies and moths on the other hand!” , said another with a shudder, and I chuckled to myself. I loved butterflies – no use upsetting them by letting them in on the secret.

I left them to it and admired the bottle shaped tree in the park and wondered how it had acquired that particular shape.

After a while, my attention was diverted back to the conversation.

The niece was affronted. I tried ignoring her, and walked on at a brisk pace. We were out a-walking and I refused to be side-tracked by such ‘trivial upsets’ as I told her. She gasped and pressed on.

“But there should be a word for it. I mean you can club sons and daughters and call them children, so why not have one word for nieces and nephews in the plural?”

How she finds something to be affronted about is a blog piece unto itself. For it usually is not the meaty stuff one gets one’s back up about. It is usually something like this.

This time it was because there was no collective nouns for nieces and nephews together. I tried nodding and waiting for the moment to pass. But she harped on, “Don’t you agree? I mean if not a word, at least a collective noun!”

“Who said there isn’t? It is a Problem of nieces and nephews! “ I said my face deadpan.

“Really?”, she asked momentarily disconcerted.

“Yeah! Just like it is a murder of crows. It is a problem of nieces and nephews.” I said and she nodded seriously, before catching her uncle chuckle at her. I threw my head back and laughed loudly at her affronted face, and she was forced to join in and concede that it was a good one.

Luckily, the internet can be relied upon to come up with words for just these sort of things. They are niblings. Derived from siblings, niblings refer to a collection of nieces and nephews.

The Sounds of Cricket

India has always been host to the resounding sound of cricket. The game and the insect. Television crews lose no time in covering the game non-stop, while the sound of crickets in the hills don’t seem to warrant coverage. Though, there is just as much excitement there if you ask me.

We had gotten away from the immediate hustle and bustle of the city, and were thus allowed the luxury of listening to the sounds of nature. We shushed each other with rather more vigor and noise than was necessary and finally, the room quieted down. The sun was setting outside. Combined with the excellent company, the warm conversations reminiscing some of our pleasant times together, the beautiful light filtering into the room, and the thrumming of crickets all around us, it all made for a surreal calm setting. I could imagine what people meant when they said ‘ports from the storm’ in that setting.

I had no idea how many crickets would be required to produce a racket like that, and filed the question away for another time. That is the sort of the thing that the son would find amusing to find out. In the meanwhile, my friend was telling me about she noticed that at 7 o’clock sharp, the sound of crickets just died down. This was curious. So it wasn’t at sun-down. It was a few minutes past sun-down.

The act of producing the sound is called stridulation, it meant that the thrum buffeting us in the hills was the sound of vibrant life finding a way to thrive in its environs. Much as the hum of entertaintment in the form of games, music and televised stories in our cities is a sign of thriving life of humans.

The sounds of a species do have a story to tell – though I envisioned this line of thought quickly devolving to burps and farts, and wisely held my tongue. Just as my friend said, the clock ticked from 6:59 p.m. to 7:00 p.m. and the sounds instantly died down. An eerie quiet filling the void in its space.

Later that night, after we had played a game of cards and quietened down for the night, a few minutes after lights were out, the sounds of our whispered conversations, the giggles of the children, and the admonishments of the older folks all died out. Just as sudden and just as deafeningly as the crickets earlier that evening.

I smiled, and clearly exhausted drifted off to sleep myself, the lack of sound a cocoon for which I was grateful.

Do Active Menaces Travel or Vacation?

She shook her head, as though explaining things to a dim-witted troll.

“We are on vacation – yes. In the sense, that you’ve taken time off and we are traveling. But we are not vacationing, we are traveling.”, said the daughter. It was during our trip to Alberta, Canada. We had been enjoying the joy and grandeur of the Rocky mountains, and trying to see as many lakes and blues in the waters and hikes as possible. The long summer days combined with the splendor of the Rocky Mountains make for pleasurable days – even if physically tiring ones after 3 days of non-stop activity, and that was the reason for the conv.

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“My friends are wondering why I can’t pick up any calls from 6 in the morning till 10 at night, and I am telling them it is because we aren’t in any place with connectivity, and they wonder what I am talking about!” she said wringing her hands as teenagers tend to do when trying to explain things to parents.

“But, don’t they go on vacations?” , I’d asked in response to which I got the spiel on traveling vs vacationing.

“Most people, when they go on vacations, stick to the place they booked – a resort maybe, and stay there. With excellent pools, televisions and the like. Not that I am complaining – I like the way we travel. I like seeing the places, hiking and having a wonderful time. Just saying that what we do is traveling, and what they do is vacationing!”

“Hmm!” I said thoughtfully, “But these days, we do add a day of rest, or a day we have a late start here and there don’t we?”

“Yes and those days are appreciated Mother, believe me! But it is not vacationing. When you vacation, you spend all the days everyday doing nothing.”

I nodded. It did sound nice. I’d like to try something like that. Though I am not sure the husband would be able to take it. He is a do-er, and would by the end of day two have me climbing palm trees in the nearby oasis. I said so, and the man laughed – guffawed actually, chuffed at this, though it clearly wasn’t meant as a compliment. Sigh.

The daughter, meanwhile, gave me a diagnostic glance up and down, and said, “Yes! Yes! We all know pops is like that, but you are an active menace too. ”

I drew myself up haughtily. An active menace?

“I mean did we really have to do all the hikes near Lake Louise on one day? 30,000 steps Mother. Some of my friends don’t do that much in a week!”

“Aren’t you proud though, my dear? Aren’t your spirits refreshed and rejuvenated?” I asked.

She took a moment to answer. A faraway look in her eyes as if contemplating the joys of traveling, and said, “I like it. I like traveling and I like our trips filled with places to see, hikes to do, and all that. Just making you realize that vacationers have different expectations. “

I conceded: “Fair point. “

Rainbow Colored

I picked up two books on separate trips to the library and enjoyed reading them. The first was a book of fairy tales retold in the African diaspora: Crowned. A book of fairy tales is always enjoyable, and one that has a good smattering of classic fairy tales combined with some myths from the African heartlands are a joy.

The children shown as the princesses and princes are the best. The costume designs and makeup are exemplary, as are the re-imaginings of their origins. Most books illustrate Cinderella and Snow White as fair-skinned princesses, and it is refreshing to see these pictures.

The second book was: The Dark Fantastic – By Ebony Elizabeth Thomas

Race and the Imagination from Harry Potter to the Hunger Games

The Dark Fantastic is a book of essays exploring the absence of color in fantasy. The author starts off the book with Vernon Dursley’s famous saying in Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: “There is no magic.”.

She then goes on to explain her upbringing in working-class Detroit in the 1970s.

“The existential concerns of our family, neighbors, and city left little room for Neverlands, Middle-Earths, or Fantasias. In order to survive, I had to face reality. “

A few sentences on, though the author states:

“In the realm of the fantastic, I found meaning, safety, catharsis - and hope, Though it eluded me, I needed magic.”

I identified with this statement of needing magic. Humanity’s need for magic is evident in our myths and epics from thousands of years ago.

Was there a flying carpet? A pushpak vimana?
Are there heavens and hells?

Yet, for thousands of years, we have told ourselves increasingly fantastical stories to keep our spirits alive, and our imaginations intact.

“I like nonsense. It wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living.” Dr Seuss.

A common thread emerging from lack of diversity in books, is that children don’t see enough of themselves in the books. I lay the books down musing on this. I, like many in my generation, grew up surrounded by the fairy tales of snowy white princesses, and the fantasy worlds of Enid Blyton. Yet, I don’t think I ever wondered whether I would be able to climb up the Magic Faraway Tree to have adventures, or swish away on the Wishing Chair to magical places. The protagonists were all British children, but it did not seem to make the slightest difference to a middle class brown skinned Indian child. Maybe I was just lucky that it never occurred to me. But did it occur to my friends? If it did, I am not sure we discussed it.

That sort of limitation in thinking only came as we grew up and saw for ourselves the inequity of opportunities. I am grateful, of course, to see a book in which a child refers to their mother as ‘Amma’ as we do at home. (Why is my Hair Curly – by Lakshmi Iyer)

Or see that picnics can involve rotis and potato curry, and not just sandwiches. But I am more grateful for the reach of fairy tales. They provided a much-needed element of magic and hope.

As children, the inhibitions of things like race, creed and color are not there. I fondly remember the picture drawn by the son in kindergarten when his teacher had told all children to have more colored people in their illustrations. He had drawn all their faces rainbow-colored 🙂

Sword & Drumstick Warriors

As I watched the man-child and the child who yearns to be a man battle with their latest acquisition, I couldn’t help laughing. The pair of them had mysteriously disappeared at the Arts and Craft Fair and came back clutching a sword. A Sword! The son looked chuffed, and the father sheepish, but there was no denying that the sword would long play heroic roles in imaginating battles in the home.

Some things just need to be.

They were swishing themselves hoarse around the dinner table, when the daughter and I exchanged glances. Hers exasperated, mine indulgent.

“We should’ve bought two swords!” said the husband. He was brandishing a very seedy looking drumstick instead of a sword, while the son revelled in his sword.

“I need shorts with belt buckles so I can stash the sword cover!”

“Scabbard.” I said.

“Huh?” he said with a nifty jump from the top of the sofa to the carpet beyond.

“That’s where you put the sword away – a scabbard.”

“What you need is a belt to hold up those pants – scrawny little fellow!” she turned towards me, “Why would you let this fellow buy a sword, as if he doesn’t jump and swish around enough!” she huffed.

sword-drumstick

I couldn’t help thinking of the book I’d read recently, Bertie’s Guide to Life and Mothers – By Alexander McCall Smith.

It is a gentle book about some folks who live at 44 Scotland Street. Humorous and lilting – it makes for pleasant reading. I think the writing could’ve been crisper in parts and the book could’ve tied the plot-lines up a bit better. But I cannot deny that I enjoyed his portrayal of Bertie’s mother. Poor Bertie Pollock is gearing up for his 7th birthday, though he would like to gallop straight to his 18th, just so he could have his own life. What he wants more than anything else is a Swiss Army Knife, but Bertie’s mother is appalled at the violence inducing toys that boys these days play with, and instead gifts him with a UN Peacekeeping set & a figurine (not G.I.Joe, just Jo) instead. Poor Bertie is appalled.

Quote:

 "Will I get any presents?" he asked. Irene smiled. "Of course you will, Bertie."

"I'd like a Swiss Army penknife," he half- whispered. "Or a fishing rod."

Irene said nothing.

"Other boys have these things," Bertie pleaded. Irene pursed her lips. "Other boys? Do you mean Tofu?" 

Bertie nodded miserably.

"Well the less said about him the better," said Irene. She sighed. Why did men and little boys too-have to hanker after weapons when they already had their . . . She shook her head in exasperation. What was the point of all this effort if, after years of striving to protect Bertie from gender stereotypes, he came up with a request for a knife? It was a question of the number of chromosomes, she thought: therein lay the core of the problem.

Don’t we all know someone like that? Well intentioned, spouting psychological theories, and ensuring that their children’s choices are the most scientifically determined ones, only to find that they comically clash with the innate nature of the child in question.

I looked at the daughter who was obviously waiting for an answer. While I did agree with her, I told her, “Ah! Boys will be boys and a plastic sword does not a warrior make!”

“Yes! But it does a headache give!” said the smart-quipper.

Some people don’t need swords to slash.

The Humanity of Humans

It has been a month since we visited Banff in Canada. On the flight back, my mind buzzed with the possible posts to write about the place.

The wonderful conversation we had with one of the locals in a coffee shop before we started off on our long drive to Jasper was one such. These are some of my favorite moments while traveling. Usually, we are on a tourist loop, and meet fellow tourists from different parts of the world, which is just as enjoyable. (The Elephant Keeper) But interacting with people who live and experience the very place that we go to, to make our magical memories is something else.

Living in a tourist attractive spot has its disadvantages. (We pay in terms of parking permits for instance. ) But it also has gifts galore. Knowing that what you get everyday is something people plan and take time out to enjoy is a gratitude pill hidden in plain sight.

On those days when the routine banality of life throws us a particularly unstimulating day, it is marvelous to take an evening walk along a lake that people literally get on planes, trains and automobiles to get to. To know that within one drive over the week-end, we get to a world famous spot is mind-boggling even if we do take these things for granted a bit.

That day, as we spoke to Jack in the coffee shop, we asked him what it was like living in Banff. He smiled, tentatively, wanting to be polite at first, but then went on to talk about how much he enjoys winter sports in the Canadian Rockies. One couldn’t help smiling listening to that thrill of adrenaline I am sure he feels as he skis down those steep mountains. You could hear the gush of the arctic winds in the rush of his voice.

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As our chat meandered, his wry sense of humor surfaced, and he asked us where we were from, and how we met etc. We told him about our arranged marriage and his reaction was as swift a time-travel capsule as ever there was. I was whisked twenty years into the past when our colleagues gawked at us the same way. He smiled and said what many showed us in their looks all those years ago. “Hmm…yet you folks seem to be alright!”

The husband and I threw our heads back and laughed exchanging a quick look of understanding between us, while the children rolled their eyes.

As we sat there, swapping stories, and the days of our lives, I was reminded of how the world is always trying to show us how we are different from one another, but really, we are no different from one another (trying to find the exact quote with little luck). The humanity of our being human is never more evident than in the simplest of things like enjoying a relaxed cup of coffee before starting the week-end.

Dinosaurian Thoughts

“You look excited!” said the children eyeing me suspiciously. I identified that wary look and chuckled. Usually it means an additional hike or a walk, or something done ‘together – as a family!’.

I could feel the eye-roll coming on.

As a teenager, the daughter has a reputation to maintain, and as her loyal side-kick, her brother is torn between wanting to humor his mother and learn how to become the cool teen.

“Relax! I am just waiting to start a new book tonight. It is about the era of the dinosaurs!” I said with a grand sweep of my hands featuring the landscape that just a few million years ago could’ve been home to tyrannosauraus rexes or brontosauruses.

“Looking at the animals here, my bet would be on the runts of the species!” said the husband.

“We do have the great descendants of the velociraptors here in plenty!” I said eyeing the birds in the riverbed.

That led to an interesting discussion on dinosaurs, and how the dinosaur bones could probably have been the inspiration behind the legends of dragons. While paleontology as a discipline of study and research may be relatively recent, digging and unearthing relics of the past isn’t and neither is human imagination. From there, we somehow landed up discussing the best designs for helmets and body armors while fighting dragons and dinosaurs, and had a good time anyway.

dinosaur

Later that night, glad to have a night free of late night meetings, I swished away to sit by the window sill taking in the full moon rising outside and pondering on the lives of dinosaurs of long ago perceiving the moonlight, and the millions of years in which mammals have been fascinated by the same.

It turns out the book I had in my hand was not one on dinosaurs but on the history of mammalian life from the shadows of the dinosaurs. Oh well!

Book: The Rise and Reign of the Mammals – A New History – From the Shadown of the Dinosaurs to Us

By Steve Brusatte (Author of BestSelling The Rise and Fall of the Dinosaurs)

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Honestly, book covers these days are the most illuminating ( award-winning, best selling, top researching, nominated for best selling lists!)

Nevertheless, I had a quiet few moments reading before a call interrupted the quiet of the night, and I had to set the book aside.

The Dinosaurs seem to have gone millions of years without needing any of these to live their quiet lives on Earth.

Does anyone miss snail post?

The Egg That Got Back Up!

Every now and then, a children’s book arrives that makes one sit up and relish the simple genius of it.

“After the Fall : how Humpty Dumpty got back up again” is one such. Written by Dan Santat, it went on to win the Booklegger Award.

humpty_dumpty

We all know Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall

We all know Humpty Dumpty had a great fall

But ….

Do We all know that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men

Did put Humpty Dumpty together again?

The book starts off with the ‘Great Fall’ that poor Humpty Dumpty is famous for.

But something happened to the Humpty Dumpty who was put together again. He developed acrophobia (a fear of heights)

The illustration accompanying this is brilliant. Notice the cereal boxes in the bottom shelf? Bo-rings, Cardboard, Grown-Up Food, Bland

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Compared to the all-so smile inducing Choco Duck, Rainbow Bites and Pirate Crunch occupying the higher shelves.

But one day, Humpty Dumpty is inspired – if not to fly himself, at least to design a paper plane that can fly like his dreams.

But accidents happen as Humpty Dumpty knows, and how Humpty Dumpty overcomes his fear of heights to morph into The Egg Who Got Back Up and realized far more than he had ever expected is a story that will leave you inspired and smiling.

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A sublime change, and a very relatable tale of living: living with fear, and living with hope, and living with the faint possibility of overcoming our fears is what the book is all about. And isn’t that enough?

Isn’t that all we all yearn for in our lives?

That hope that we can overcome our own selves and go on to inspire ourselves beyond our wildest dreams?

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