Dusk

Dusk descends on the village of Falmer by half-past four every evening. The sun slips into the horizon inconspicuously, making a brief appearance before it sets. It stays blissfully wrapped up in the clouds almost all day, peeping out occasionally like a celebrity who drives past in a car with tinted windows, offering the briefest of tantalising glimpses. The hills in the distance are rapidly enveloped in an all-encompassing blue shroud, inseparable from cloud or tree. A tinkle against the window-panes tells me that it is raining- again- and a sudden barrage of loud clicks on the glass indicates the first hailstorm of the season; tiny bits of ice, nothing dramatic, melting almost as soon as they fall on the window-ledge. The slanting lines on the clear glass disappear almost as soon as they fall, but I can rest assured I’ll never be deprived of rain here. The girl who eagerly sought opportunities back home to get drenched in the rain is easily pleased here.

It has been a little difficult to get used to the idea of little sunshine or daylight; but the romantic appeal of windy mornings, grey skies and clouds looming over rolling hills easily scores over the relentless, sticky heat of tropical coastal towns (atleast for the moment). Added to it is the possibility of snow. I look up at the sky hopefully, not knowing if the large, dismal cloud overhead will dissolve in a shower of softly-falling, ethereal flakes, or simply melt into nothingness. I scan the horizon, and any unusually-coloured cloud rouses my suspicion. Half the fun, as they say, lies in anticipating things.

The blue darkness often reminds me of the Himalayas in Sikkim, and our drive up through treacherous, narrow mountain roads into the tiny village of Lachung. The slight chill that crept over me as I saw the towering forms of the mountains press close upon us was dispelled by hot, milky tea and a simple, delicious meal; right amidst the hills that I considered intimidating, I was being treated to some of the best hospitality I’d ever experienced, by people whose smiling eyes belied the extremely hard lives they lived. Dawn put an end to any lingering doubts I might have had, as the sun rose in a riot of colour at five in the morning, lighting up the snow-capped peaks and making me realise that I was in one of the most beautiful corners of the planet. Little wonder then, a few hours later when we had to set off, I couldn’t bear to leave, and felt that I had some sort of inexplicable connection with the mountains- that I wasn‘t seeing the last of them yet. The Himalayas do that to you, bring you down on your knees in veneration, hypnotise and seduce you.

England, on the other hand, is winning me over slowly but surely (not that, of course, I had any doubts it would, thanks to the Bronte sisters). The trees at Falmer have now been stripped of every single leaf, bare arms reaching upwards, silhouetted starkly in the light cast by the streetlamps that are on almost all day. Past midnight, a single star climbs up into the sky and shines softly through the branches, sometimes accompanied by a thinly-veiled moon. It has become a ritual of sorts for me to look for them, make sure they are safely up there, before I snuggle into bed. Can I confess that I feel a little disappointed when they play truant? I still have the trees for company though, and that’s a comfort.

I‘m quite sure of what I‘ve been fearing and dreading: I’ve lost my heart to this little village, and I’m not relishing the prospect of leaving it. It is perhaps too early to worry about pangs of separation, but I sometimes hope that it’ll temper my ecstasy and make me level-headed; not that there is much hope of my being entirely practical, because you have to be born grown up not to appreciate the little delights that are thrown at you even when you’re in your most unsuspecting, indifferent state. That I live in an English village with pastures and brick houses, am buffeted by cold winds on rainy mornings when I walk to university, and am likely to have one of my wildest hopes turn into reality very soon, should be proof enough that dreams come true. It would be rather silly, then, to try and ruin my enjoyment of things with caution; I’ll only have to choose carefully what I want to wish for, and it’s a dilemma I can live with.

Birds and Butterflies

The past week has been one of the most relaxing and fulfilling since I returned home in March.

The monsoon has set in- in a way- and waking up to grey skies is a major delight of my life. There is something promising about rainy mornings; the birds seem more active than they usually are, too, and butterflies run riot in the overgrown, weed-infested garden.

The heavy rains have rejuvenated the earth, and their abundance is in evidence all around this 53-year-old house. What I know from hearsay is that it was constructed for the British employees of the steel plant, and they wanted plenty of space in and around their houses. So our kitchen comes with a pantry attached to it, and opens on to a large courtyard generously shaded by neem, guava and mango trees.

Last morning, wiping sleep out of my eyes at a not-too-respectable hour, I was surprised to see a pair of woodpeckers hopping on our slightly mossy wall; one of them then flew noisily away into the jackfruit trees next door, while the other balanced itself comfortably on the wall, then realising that damp cement wasn't exactly to its taste, hastened into the branches of the neem tree overhead. You could spend hours watching the birds and butterflies at play. There are the birds with black-and-white plumage that alight on gates and electric wires, but hardly stay still for a couple of moments. The parrots seem to have abandoned us for the present, but other birds come and go, a flash of colour, a rustle and a chirp being all that I register in the tiny fractions of time for which they present themselves in a clear, unobstructed fashion.




The butterflies, surprisingly, are easier to keep track of. I know of five different varieties in our garden, by colour: pale green, yellow, a lovely violet (whose wings are black-and-white when closed in the act of sucking nectar), a brilliant black-and-blue, and black-and-orange. Perhaps some of them have grown used to my presence- they don't fly away in a hurry, and sometimes even stay still as I steady the stem of the gently rocking flower they're working on. Watching their little limbs grip the flower, their wings slide slowly as they suck nectar, is breathtaking- they're a marvel of biology and nature. The rains have been a real blessing: wildflowers have sprung out of nowhere, mauve, magenta and yellow, and the butterflies visibly have a tough time picking their hosts. The wet earth has also disgorged some not-so-attractive worms, caterpillars and abnormally large toads, but I'll save them for another time.

Mucking about in the garden, watching butterflies and trying to take pictures of them, has reminded me how little I know of lepidopterology or photography. I apparently have a lot to do over the coming week, and I'm looking forward to it. I just hope the rains are on my side!

Many-Coloured Splendours: Gangtok

The driver arms himself with a sackful of potatoes from Lachung and off we go, back to Gangtok. I look at the mountains, now hidden in the thick cloudy mist, that I feel like I’ve known forever. I cannot tear myself away from them, but leave I must.

Dusk falls in an hour or two after we set off, and the driver negotiates the tortuous slopes of the Himalayas in near-darkness. The Seven Sisters Waterfall, vibrant with human voices added to its relentless gush on our upward climb, now has nature’s night music for accompaniment. The tea stalls are shut, their proprietors walking about briskly in the cold air, and the prayer flags are no longer visible. For all we know, we could be driving down a road never traversed- and we still wouldn’t realise it.

The jeep halts suddenly and a torchlight is flashed through the windows. The tension inside is palpable- but then the man holding the torch grins broadly, says something in his language to his friends, and our driver steps out for a laugh with them. A collective sigh of relief is heard, confused questions are asked, and once again, a little weary, we’re on our way to the capital.

The fairy-lights of the city come into view, spread across vast Himalayan slopes. It stretches out into the distance, wide and endless, even as we dip into one trough and emerge onto another crest. Dropped off at the “bus-stop” where all the jeeps to and from major towns in the region converge, we make our way up a steep, moss-covered flight of steps- there are narrow stairways connecting one street to another all around town- to Mall Road. It is past eight o’clock and the last of the souvenir shops are preparing to wind up their business for the day. A teacher in a red cardigan over her synthetic saree shepherds her girls down a narrow lane to a hotel hidden in its recesses; a schoolmaster asks his restless students to line up so he can conduct a headcount. We find a vegetarian restaurant and finish dinner quickly. There is one dream yet to be fulfilled.

I go to the balcony in the morning to be confronted by a strikingly beautiful view- where clouds have swirled for three days now, mountain peaks now stand out in snow-covered glory, their peaks softly tinged by the first rays of the sun. The sky has been washed clean and is deliciously blue- our last day in Sikkim is one of the finest the town has seen in a while.

We take a taxi to Tashi Viewpoint, and our garrulous driver sets off at breakneck speed, anxious that we should make it there before the sun comes out or the weather stops behaving. All through his hurry, however, he talks rapidly, his left hand gesturing and waving as he frequently takes it off the wheel to establish a point. He is a practicing Hindu, he says, but was born in a Buddhist family, where the norm was to give one child away, male or female, to the monastery. His elder brother is a monk. He points to the shiny prayer wheel on his dashboard, a ubiquitous presence in cars in the region, and talks of its powers- about how it must be blown on by a monk before its effectiveness can be made visible. He shows us his house, and the school where his son studies. All along the way, we see children trudging up to school, some reluctantly, others nonchalantly; a little boy opens a bottle of mango juice and pours some into his younger sister’s mouth, giggling at a secret joke they share meanwhile.

We make our way up to Tashi Viewpoint, and from there, magnificently rising into the clear skies, I see the Kanchenjunga, the third-highest peak in the world. It is in fact a series of five peaks, and they spread out gloriously on this cool, crisp morning, unencumbered by their burden of clouds. A tour guide tells us of people who have been visiting for days for a glimpse of the mountain, but returned crestfallen each time, defeated by the weather- we should consider ourselves extremely lucky to have been blessed with such brilliant skies. And so I do- every inch of these ancient mountains teems with life, and to be able to see them in their full splendour, bathed in sunshine, is to have an imprint etched in my memory, one to pull out of the closet every time the question of the purpose of life nudges and haunts me.

Our final stop in Sikkim will be the Tibetan Buddhist monastery at Ranka, an offshoot of the one at Rumtek, the monastery at the heart of the Karmapa controversy. We are delayed by an altercation between the drivers of two vehicles which have brushed against each other, taking the entire thoroughfare ransom- our cab-driver gets out to talk to them and manages to placate them. “Men from my village,” he explains, as he gets back in and drives us up the road that sweeps into the monastery gates.

A long line of dark prayer-wheels greets us. We are told to touch them, one by one, before we go up the flight of steps to the monastery. It is a graceful, red-roofed structure with a spacious courtyard, at the end of which is a brightly-painted wall. We greet the two monks seated near the door and they invite us in. We are directed up the steps to the large hall where Buddha, serene and beautiful in His golden form, flanked by other deities, looks upon humanity benevolently. The profound silence seeps is overwhelming, and I think of this quiet temple, tucked away in picturesque pockets of the Himalayas, cut off from the bustle of the world below. The corridors are lined with closed rooms, warmed by the mild sunrays that slant into them. Young monks learn their lessons, talking to one another in hushed tones, smiling, giggling- but there is also an air of grown-up wisdom about them, perhaps endowed by the discipline and the maroon robes. We can hear lessons in English from a classroom window- a disembodied voice talks of rising early and sleeping early, and a group of boys repeats after it. Behind the monastery, the ground slopes up further to another building that we see monks walking up to, going uphill effortlessly. Tall trees canopy the sky- what a beautiful place this is in which to learn and live- it must be so much easier to be good here than in the unholy machinations of the plains! The older monks tell us the monastery is twenty years old, and follows the principles of Mahayana Buddhism- differing from the Theravada form of Buddhism that is practised widely in Singapore, where I had my first tryst with the religion. We request them to light a butter lamp for us, because the lama is not around, and they agree to do so.

We slip into the souvenir shop, where, as we look around, we have a conversation with a Tibetan man who used to be a monk, but now helps out around the monastery and teaches children. He explains some of the characters on the scrolls in the shop and asks us about our stay in Sikkim. He is genuinely pleased when we tell him how much peace we’ve found here, and shakes hands with us as we leave.

This also marks the end of a fulfilling journey, my first visit to a tiny bit of the little-explored Northeastern parts of the country- and nearly a month on, the hangover has still not subsided. The Himalayas still populate my dreams, rising grandly into the clouds and blue skies, some with sunshine and shadow chasing each other on their green slopes, others coarse from erosion and showing off snow-speckled surfaces. The river Teesta, meanwhile, flows silkily through the valleys, fed forever by the melting ice, pure and crystal-clear. This, after all, is what will remain when we have managed to self-destruct with all our callousness- rigid testimony to the history of millennia.

The Edge of the World

At half-past five in the morning, the sun is making ready to climb into the sky, and there is enough light by which to watch the mountains take on their distinctive shapes, after the single continuous blur they seemed to have been in the darkness last night.

As I stand on the narrow staircase of the guest house, I see snow for the very first time- and oh, what an exalting feeling it is. That very moment, knowing I am in a nondescript village deep in the Himalayas, eyes resting on snow-capped mountain peaks, I feel as if there is nothing more I’ll ever need to ask life for. In a while, the brilliant white snow will seem to rise from the peaks in a drift of smoke, the clouds weaving themselves gently about the mountain-tops like the train of an unusually long bridal gown. Now, though, the mountains stand proudly stark, save for their only adornment of a fine layer of snow. The sun lightens the sky gradually and casts a sheer golden web over the mountains; as we nurse our glasses of tea, we watch the spectacular play of light on the mountains, the snow now glinting with an added fire.

We are driven off to the Yumthang Valley. A lady in blue looks out from her verandah and I wave to her- she inclines her head and smiles prettily. This has to be said about the people of Sikkim- they are very warm and friendly, right from the boys working at the small hotels and tea shops to the young monks studying at the monastery- they give away their smiles and laughter readily. They are well-informed and talk without inhibition on various subjects. When asked if Sikkim had always received enough attention for development and growth, the proprietor of a tea shop tells us how the government has redoubled its efforts at building and maintaining roads and other infrastructure in Sikkim, “jabse China chhedne laga” (ever since China started messing with us). We meet a local who, when told we are from Tamil Nadu, tells us about his son who studies engineering in Chennai. Taxi drivers give us lessons in Geography, discuss religion, family and politics. The laidback pace of life sucks you in, but you know that underneath the seeming placidity, there is a great deal going on, healthy ambitions ripening.

Further up through the mountains we travel, jolting over rugged, sometimes non-existent roads, we pass signs for rhododendron trails and bump over pebbles on the beds of transparent little streams. More snow-clad peaks come into view, gleaming iridescently as the sun gets stronger, despite which, a chill lingers in the crisp, fresh air. We stop by a slope that leads down to one of the tributaries of the Teesta, quite surrounded by the rugged Himalayas. I look at the rosy-faced young Tibetan women who run the tea stalls and envy them for actually being able to live here, amidst this natural magnificence; older women in traditional clothes with leathery, wrinkled faces shuffle back and forth from the wooden tables set up in front of their charcoal-warmed wooden cabins, selling souvenirs and warm clothes. Yaks chew cud on the grassy slope, and we pick our way through yak gob down to the pale blue-white river swirling cheerfully over smooth white pebbles. I cup my hands and take a swig of the clear water- it is deliciously cold and unsullied. A little boy collects tiny stones and skips them on the water. Quiet and pure, this could almost be a place on another planet. I don’t have the heart to leave.

But move on we must, and we’re back in the jeep and climbing again, clinging closely to the narrow “road” where one misstep could hurl you to death instantly into the deep, plunging valley. You can well feel your heart in your mouth when two vehicles try to pass each other in opposite directions on one of the tight hairpin bends, and once the obstacle has been cleared, laugh shakily and throw Sebastien Loeb a challenge- with your driver at the helm, of course.

We drive past little patches of newly fallen snow that still haven’t melted. Vast expanses of snow cover the grey, rocky faces of some of the mountains we pass. Approaching a height of nearly 15000 feet, we come across army barracks- a grim reminder of the inhospitable conditions that our soldiers fight in, another reason to question the reason for war and the thirst for territory.

We are at Zero Point, the tip of North Sikkim, right at the border with China. It is extremely cold, and the strong breeze is freezing our hands and noses and lips. We can hardly talk for the cold, and our fingers tremble as we try to hold our plastic coffee cups. A couple of soldiers are getting ready to drive away, but when we request them for a picture, they readily oblige. Once more, we cannot help but marvel at their tenacity as they struggle in difficult conditions so far from home and their families, working endlessly at the borders to ensure the safety of our country.

Snow still lies in mounds or in crevices between rocks, and I finger it gingerly in my ungloved hands. A little snowball fight ensues, and soon we are packed off in the jeep again- it is just too cold up there. However, the spectacular views of snow-shrouded mountain peaks more than make up for all the discomfort.

I have seen the Himalayas and marvelled at them- but I still haven’t had a glimpse of the crown jewel- the Kanchenjunga. It will have to wait till we’re back in Gangtok, though, and then, the skies will have to be favourable and we’ll have to appease the sun. For the first time in my life, I’m wishing the rain clouds away.

Eyes to the Sky

Sing to me tonight.

Bring me the songs you stole from the sea; ask the wind to carry you hither. Give me the solace I seek from your music, fill the air with your wondrous voice, let no one question the futility of your arrival.

Don't, in a fit of misplaced perversity, wander away to those fertile coasts where no one cares for you. It is this starved desert that needs you and pines for you. There are no sentinels you need to hide from- come in majestically, full of pride and noble intentions. Let the earth open her arms to your gift and touch all creation with her fragrance. Wash away those layers of filth and black dust. Allow the flowers and the birds to drink in your mirth. Make everything clean and pure once again.

I see the silver lining, and I know you're here.

I never knew watering plants would bring me such peace.

It was a sort of visit to the past, to those distant years of single-digit-aged childhood when I'd joyfully grip the faded yellow hose-pipe with both my hands and watch the water spout out of the aperture; cover half of it with a thumb and marvel at the many streams of water that flowed out, dripping, gushing in song onto the sun-baked mud. It was a hot area- marked by dust storms, the loos of the north- the water must have felt like ambrosia to the parched plants.

All this ignorant mind knew then, though, was the delight of white foam on brown soil, bubbling and gurgling in small swirls and puddles that seemed to stand still, but were in fact slowly being sucked thirstily in. I'd watch till the pool disappeared and the soil turned refreshingly moist, the fragrance wafting up to my eager nostrils. Nothing gratifies unaccustomed senses like nature.

What 'watering plants' first meant to me was dousing the drooping plants in water, letting it rain over the leaves and stems and watching the drops left behind in fascination. A little enlightenment led to the realisation that it was the roots, in fact, through which nourishment reached all parts of the plant, and not the ritual bath that I persisted in giving them.

I gave the plants names and spoke to them long before I heard of the theory of conversations with plants promoting their growth. I don't know if it really helped.

And today, watering an absent roommate's plants after repeatedly forgetting to do so, I had to say good night to the forlorn orange rose, relegated to a dark corner of the balcony. I had an exaggerated, misplaced sense of doing good- but how fulfilling it was! Is this what it means to find happiness in the little surprises life brings you?

Wrath, Sloth and a Walk in the Park

Wrath:

Another of my cousins was sacrificed at the altar of engineering studies in India nearly four years ago. He feels now, at the end of his term, just as I did a year ago. That four whole years, the time of ripe youth, romance and vigour, have been poured into unnecessary, irrelevant work at books, ploughing through pages that are easily forgotten and uninteresting, preparing for a life that will bear no connection to all the slogging and will bring challenge of an entirely different nature.

We know we are making mistakes, and what baffles me is that instead of learning from them, we persist in repeating them. Bruise, burn, more bruising, more burning, no learning. We condemn society for having set standards and norms that do not in the least matter, for giving undue importance to educational degrees and what you’ve read rather than what you know, conveniently forgetting that we are that society, those ‘practical’ people who nod their heads in wise agreement to what society, the ’sane’ people, think.

And notwithstanding the ranting, I’m still sitting back in passive discontentment, doing nothing. Ugh! Courage. Where is it gone?

Sloth:

On a Sunday afternoon, when you’ve managed to drag yourself out of bed, made the customary telephone calls and think of indolence as the most beautiful-sounding word in the dictionary, would you really want to change out of comfortable home clothes (you know what I mean) and get out among the crowds? Particularly when the people with you are girls who intend to go shopping? Walk to the station, take a train, end up among people and vendors in Chinatown.
To be fair, I am writing this in a fit of grumpiness. Exploring is something I ought to do while I have the chance. This is the perfect opportunity; with the Chinese New Year just a couple of weeks ago, the whole of Chinatown is bustling and sparkling, as the driver who drove us to the Botanical Gardens yesterday told us.

A Walk in the Park:

Last evening, we headed out to the Chinese Garden, but having had some sense knocked into our heads by the cab driver who told us of its surprisingly early closing time, we turned to the Botanical Gardens instead. (That we were destined to spend the evening in the midst of nature is indisputable; I am so glad.)

Tall, grand trees, comfortably rooted in the earth, looked down in magnificent benevolence from amazing heights; flowers and buds appeared from nowhere among the green foliage. The weeds, unduly despised in manicured, doctored lawns, looked at home, and genuinely pretty. The sprawling park spread out so you couldn’t walk through all of it at once; there were nooks to be explored, steps that appeared suddenly where you expected none, little gurgling brooks that wended their way through stones and over pebbles. A lake- Swan Lake, to be precise- stands in the park, murky and green, tortoises and swans living in perfect harmony, unfazed by human attention. I must admit that I was rather disappointed by the state of the lake. The name sure had inspired in me visions of a serene, sparkling pool of clear water, the music of nature wafting gently through the breeze stirred up over its ripples, swans gliding gracefully through the water. There were swans (real and artificial), and fish, and other aquatic creatures, but it wasn’t quite what I’d expected. Oh well! Just one of those things to be ignored and forgotten in a place of several attractions. Statues exquisitely crafted popped out from among branches, darkly silhouetted in the fading evening light. The grass on the undulating slopes within the park looked very inviting; notwithstanding the red ants, it seemed like a perfect place to spend a sun-warmed winter morning at. Oh, for a book, some decent music and plenty of time! I would love to go exploring amidst the inviting thickets, so dark and mysterious, full of promise. You could just look at the trees for a long time and not get bored.

The bandstand rather interested me. It is the kind of structure you would have expected Liz Bennet to spend an evening reading in, primly gloved, bonneted and veiled. Now, it is being invaded by couples in love, families with kids running loose, young women who have no idea of how usefully to spend a Saturday evening. From music to noise and irrelevant human prattle- what degradation!

The park, again, reminded me of the Presence. The Thing that is at work in the universe and keeps it in motion, unknown to us, carefully guarding its secrets. I felt that intense peace that arises from cleansing your head of unwanted thoughts and exuberant emotions, of thoughts that besiege you despite your attempts at resistance and drive you to desperation. This feeling yesterday was exhilaration of a different kind- subtle, in control and measured. Fleeting. So that you would look forward to it again with a sense of awe and eagerness, never knowing when it would take hold of you.

It appears in the unlikeliest of places. You happen to be walking through the most commonplace area, where probably everybody wants to go, yet feel sublime and superior. Or atleast, like you are as good as the person next to you. That is the best thing about Nature. She tells you what you are. She tells you the truth, and not what you want to listen to. She is a good friend.

PS to Sloth: I did manage to go to Chinatown today, and I actually enjoyed the trip. I got a few delightful things at the bazaar there, all red and gold and New Year cheer. Explicit details later.

A Green Canopy in Paati's Backyard

Green-gold light. Blue skies. The glorious, generous shade of the trees restraining the fury of the warm August sun. All on a lazy, peaceful Saturday morning.

Connecting with Nature

It is criminal to have an exam on a day as beautiful as this. But we did, and in the three quarters of an hour that I spent on the bus to college, my eyes were more on the cloud-veiled hills than on my Data Mining textbook. A thick, cloudy mist hung in the distance, ready to swallow anything that dared to come too close to it. I tried to make out the outlines of the green hills in the distance, but I could barely see them- just a little curve, here and there, made itself visible, assuring me that the hills were standing strong through the storm, enjoying the attentions of the low, swirling clouds.

My heart bleeds for the ravaged hills. Everytime we decide to make our own lives easier, we destroy a bit of nature. So it is with the hills. Connectivity and comfortable travel is what we are asking for. The solution? Bare the hill slopes of all the trees, cut through them and run trucks up and down the red roads, pressing against the soil that once sustained a more gentle, nature-friendly form of life. Today, the rain-laden clouds embrace the hill tenderly, forming a cold compress on its bleeding wounds; the moist wind blows softly, adding its own soothing effect.

The pink flowers bloom by the highway every January. Towards the close of the mild winter, they make their appearance. They herald the arrival of spring/summer. They arrived last month, as usual, and are now fading away. Which is the signal for summer to sneak in. Yes, summer, because it supplants the fleeting spring and establishes itself with unnecessary fury. I like the little bit of spring that we do have. My memories of spring? I associate the season with Board Exams. I remember walking home from the bus stop every afternoon, when I was in school, and the fluff would fly around, seeking an anchor so its parent plant could propagate itself. The fluff would stick to socks, clothes, hair; every visible inch of space. I'd hold my palm open as I walked down the tree-lined road, and sometimes the fluff would fly right into my clammy hand. Then I'd release it immediately, feeling a little guilty, because it rightly belongs to the air, and, to me, symbolises freedom. Just once, I'd like to be able to experience a proper spring- to smell the intoxicating breeze bearing the mingled scents of a hundred different flowers, to watch them come to blooming life from their dormant beauty as buds; to watch a light rain fall soundlessly and unimprison the primitive fragrances locked in the soil. I want to indulge my senses, feel everything that is natural and beautiful at once.

No matter how powerful humans claim to be, I feel Nature is more about the plants, the animals, the sky, the wind and the sea. They were here long before we were. They have a strong relationship, and speak one another's language. We belong to this wonderful community, of course, but our ignorance keeps us away. There are certain moments, however, when Nature calls upon us with force, asking us to be a part of the happy celebration of life and beauty. Perhaps we interpret these signals in our own individual ways. My channel is the rain.

Beautiful October

October somehow sees it all. I consider it the most delightful month of the year. Writers often talk about the beauty of the weather and the landscape in October. Famous people are born in October (and every other month, of course, but somehow they seem to choose October more frequently than the others). October brings with it Diwali, the brightest and most visually appealing of Indian festivals. On the downside, the exams unleash their fury in the same month, but what is a little bit of inconvenience with so much joy and pleasantness to offset it.

The vagaries of weather are always on full display in October- oppressive heat (I remember having studied something about this in Geography in Class 9 or 10; I wish I’d concentrated better), cyclonic storms, and the approach of autumn. From what I’ve read in English novels, I’ve come to understand that October is a month much appreciated for its weather, for it brings along clear skies and cool weather, the transitory phase between the unpleasant heat of summer and the chill and snow of winter. If the advent of spring is welcomed for all the gaiety and colour that accompany it, so, I am sure, is the approach of autumn.

Living in a tropical concrete jungle, I have never really witnessed autumn in its full glory. There are no magnificent autumnal colours to admire, no brown leaves that crackle underfoot. All I can see is the stray leaf on the balcony that has floated in from the tree across the road, which sends out a gentle shower of tiny yellow leaves that drop soundlessly whenever a soft wind whispers through its branches. There is a nip in the air. The sun is no more an unwelcome presence; its rays tinge the remarkably cloudless azure sky and turn it softly golden. They are delightfully warm on bare skin and break invitingly through the morning mist, acquiring a touch of green as they are filtered through the foliage of the few trees along the highway.

I’d like to experience the autumn of New England. It has inspired writing and music, which means there must be something incredible about it. John Steinbeck talks of autumn in Travels With Charley, where he mentions a woman from New Hampshire telling him that the colours of autumn cannot be remembered, and always come as a surprise. I like to imagine whole forests in autumn, the floor carpeted with dry leaves in various hues, skeletal trees standing still and apparently lifeless until the first leaves of spring rouse them; I imagine a bench in this riot of colour, where I can read in peace and then rest my tired eyes by taking in all the beauty around me. So much is said about autumn; can any writer or artist or photographer do full justice to its brilliant, ethereal colours?

I started with October, and then wicked, wicked autumn drew me away. I see I have been rambling, but I couldn’t help it. October is beautiful and romantic, not just by its own virtue, but also because it unselfishly leads to things and seasons prettier.