Song of the Summer

In the rising heat of the season, you dream of the monsoons, the waterbodies that give you comfort and tall glasses of cool and tasty drinks that offer you solace. You read up old lores on how the ancient Indian musician Tansen made rain with his raga Megh Malhar and the power of music to bring about change in nature. And, there you are lost watching a video online of an Indian musician sitting under a banyan tree singing this raga and in ten minutes, it starts raining all of a sudden. 

On the way back from work, you look with longing at the river nearby and long to immerse yourself in its soothing waters till you no longer remember the sizzling heat of summer. In the orchards, you watch how the waterspouts drizzle the plants to prevent them from turning wan. And, you long to play in the water like you did in a long lost childhood near the River Green. 

The fruit heaps on the wayside shop beckon you with their fragrances-guavas, watermelons, lime and mangoes. When you look at these and think of the cool fruit juices that you can make with crushed ice and some mint leaves. Yet, sometimes when no fruits are available, usually resort to your traditional summer drink of buttermilk that you enjoy making at home mixing the right amounts of buttermilk, shallots ginger, curry leaves, jeera powder and salt. And, you wonder how some simple ingredients available at home can create a magical drink that makes you forget the woes of this scorching season. In the lazy evenings, you smear yourself with turmeric and sandalwood in a routine to beat the heat. The sun shows on your face and in the exposed parts of your body way too much and the paste cools you down and helps you sleep better.

In this summer tedium, one longs for the beats of the monsoon,the warm smell of rising earth during the first rain, the lazy mornings when one sleeps in when you don't have to go anywhere and just like that in this between time of twilight, when the lamps are lit for prayer and prayers chanted in the temples, one dreams of home, of being one with you and one longs for the comforts of cool water and refreshing drinks.

#summer

Kindness

Minimalism

Today was a special day as I got an exposure to the mall culture. I loved wandering at the lovely things on sale and thought of buying many though prevented myself after looking at the price and the lack of usefulness. The reason for this change can be attributed to the fact that I stay in a rural area and the needs have become limited to the essentials. 

The place I stay for the last few years has a beach that I visit occasionally. Whenever I feel like it, I rush to the seashore to get a breath of fresh air. So, I thought I can get happiness out of shopping but nothing can beat the happiness of the sea breeze and the fading light of the setting sun. 

I was reading of minimalism and the need to reduce unnecessary shopping but didn't think that I will start putting it to practice some day. It is good to buy cute objects and household items on a shopping trip but do I need it, that is what I ask. Anyway, I bought two coasters with a cute motif on them as a reminder of my shopping trip. 

Purple Riot

The purple riot began
and took root slowly.

Who would have thought,
who would have known?

In the rearview mirror
it looks like spring again.

The beauty of this world 
In the songs that never cease.

One day, sitting nearby,
feeling the full purple riot—

the deep desire in your eyes
that sang to me all night,

the hand that almost reached,
the purple riot in your heart.

Soul Food

What comforts your soul, when it is weary with life and cannot go on, what brings you back to the centre when you feel drained of your vital energy, are words written by some strange wise person living in some place and time.

Like a young person perusing loveletters, one reads words of comfort from an unknown hand from an unknown land as if they were written just for your eyes. You feel sustained by their wisdom and they make sense like pieces in a jigsaw coming together. It feels like an unreal experience where the hand of Providence set them right before your eyes to nourish your strength and you feel grateful that you didn't give up this time either. 

Recompense

For every word of harshness that you hear,
There is equally a word of love somewhere.
For the darkest hours of the wakeful night,
At the end of which is a beautiful dawn.

For the loss of innocence of childhood,
There is the growing maturity of years.
For the loss of a life near river green,
There is lot more sunshine to equal.

For the trenches that this life fell into
There are the new scales that it climbs.
For the years lost in search of dreams,
There are these words on a virtual page.

Which brings in daily, strange comfort,
For every friend lost, that of strangers.

Daily

It has always been my dream to wander the world with you- go places, find beauty in nature and in simple things and live life to the fullest. What I have always wanted is to wake up early and watch the streaks of dawn across the sky and then snuggle you to wakefulness. 

The other dream has been to visit my native place near the River Green and watch the snakeboats glide in the river during Onam. Once in a while, to get soaked in its waters like in a lost childhood near the River. Also, to go a graveyard with my people in it to see the graves that have lost their names in renovation and forgetfulness. 

May be to find love once again in life, the beauty lost with time and the lost art of smiling many times daily like an innocent child does. May be to wear a spot of sindhoor on my forehead like a newly wed woman with pride in her acquired happiness.  

Food

Grand Rising

I have always carried you in my heart, safe from the prying eyes of the world and even after all these years, I find it surprising that you still remember me in the words you write. When I read your words, a springtime of happy memories flash before my eyes and feel transported to a different time when the heart was lighter and the steps sprightly. 

 

In your words, I read your need to store each and every fond word, every strange fantasy and strangest turn of phrase that I may have said. In them, I see myself attain a beauty that I never knew was mine, a strength that I have recognized only in the latter years. 

 

Sometimes, I wonder whether you will be truly happy cherishing a fond memory which is gone from this world. When I leave this world, I may close my eyes and be gone from this world in an instant. You might wait for me to respond to your voice then find out that the breath had left this mortal body. You might try to call out loud and retrieve my soul from the other world. 

 

In the days that follow, I will have a grand rising in another world. I will appear as the tiny sprout of grass on the ground you tread, or as waves that rise to meet your feet, or the air that blows around you or the raindrops that caress you with tender love. Everyday, I will be sending you letters in sky writing, as clouds that bring you rain and nourishment. And, I will be waiting for you to greet me, good morning!

Beauty

Rain Ragas

Beneath the banyan tree, a woman sat singing ragas—her voice supple and resonant, carrying songs that beckoned the monsoon. The land lay parched, the sky bare of promise, and people draped in thin cottons gathered beneath the scorching sun, their brown skins burnished by heat.

Her ragas rippled through the blazing afternoon, offered to the gods of sky and wind. As the notes rose and fell, the people remembered summers when the earth had been mercifully drenched—when rain arrived unannounced, generous, redemptive. Children lingered by the dried temple pond, imagining the cool days when they splashed in its waters, rested in the shade of rocks, or sat laughing with mango juice staining their hands and faces.

The singer sang on—songs of longing and praise.

Oh rain,
long-awaited boon of the heavens,
bringer of joy to the earth and solace to its people.
Come with thunder and lightning,
soak our brown skins with delight.

I invoke you in the name of the barren soil,
the emptied rivers and lakes,
the animals and birds,
the silent trees and the waiting people.

The songs spoke of relief—of blazing afternoons softened by the first drops, of warm earth releasing its ancient scent, of trees adorned like brides in fresh jewels. For the rain, incense was burned and prayers chanted; for the rain, hopes endured. The land and its people waited.

Then, suddenly, the wind stirred.

Trees swayed under its urgency, and grey clouds rose, bruising the sky with the promise of release. The air thickened. The first drops fell—tentative, then assured—and soon the rain poured down in abundance. Thunder cracked. Lightning split the heavens.

The drought had ended.

The city rejoiced as rain washed over open hands and uplifted faces. Children danced and screamed with delight as water drenched their bodies, laughter ringing through the downpour. The earth drank deeply. The people surrendered joyfully.

And beneath the banyan tree, soaked and smiling, the singer continued—still humming the strains of Megh Malhar.

Wants

little things

flowers

Needs

Love

Magic

Buttercup

Books

Magic