Today, the seven sisters, saat baaya, the original twitterati, were at their cacophonous best. They babbled away gregariously, unmindful that they had stupefied the koel, albeit momentarily. They settled on a flamboyant yellow flowering tree, whose blossoms freshly bathed by the night rain, allured myriad winged visitors. The plumeria was generous in her offerings. She had strewn the grass with joyous white blooms waiting to be gathered.
The sky was streaked with gold, the sun yet to come out. These are the mornings when the moment you take an invigorating breath, you feel deeply grateful to be alive. As if in acknowledgement, a flock of squawking parrots flies past, and a wagtail settles on the lush green below, its tail a propeller.
The weather is salubrious and the mood languorous. Ah! Life in the slow lane… Savouring every moment, taking a minute longer to locate the elusive Bharadwaj, watching the clouds do a slow dance and part to make way for the sun, going into raptures as its rays break through and set every pore of the earth ablaze with infinite possibilities… This life chose me. I can’t stop smiling.
There are the books waiting to be read, the stories begging to be written. Can it get better? I open one of my favourite books: These My Words: The Penguin Book of Indian Poetry Edited by Eunice De Souza & Melanie Silgardo. Randomly I read from a Gujarati Folk Song, by an anonymous poet, titled ‘Rain of The World’. Pour down, O rain of the world, Thou art the rain of four continents. The earth, thy beloved is waiting for thee.
We wait. For someone to arrive, for something to change, for some messiah to save the world, for the tides to turn. Seasons change. Waiting is pregnant with both and futility. Eyes glued to the door, someone waits somewhere for the departed to return. A battered soul engulfed by dark thoughts waits for first light. A young girl waits for her dream-lover. We wait for Godot.
Closer home, children, dressed in white and canary yellow, sea green and white and grey and white checked uniforms wait impatiently for their school buses to arrive. A six-year-old holding a lunch box bag swings his arm up and down prompting his mother to admonish him. ‘The food will spill out’, she warns. He stops midway and lowers his arm. A minute later, up his arm goes mindlessly, the restlessness of his age overruling his mother’s warning. His unmindfulness exasperates her and she grabs the bag from his hand, inspects it for spillage and keeps it with her.
The buses arrive one by one, and the little ones pile in, waving out to their parents and minders. As the adults turn to leave, I can see that their strides now have an urgency.
A crow caws, breaking my reverie. Slow gains momentum. My feet tap across to the kitchen. The black-eyed beans I had placed in a sieve near the window have sprouted. They have the sun in their bellies. The tiny spearmint plant my new friends gifted me sways in the breeze. It looks vulnerable, having taken root in new soil. The sambar balli plant, the latest addition to my family, keeps it company. It adds a pop of soothing green to the terrace. I touch the underside of a leaf and breathe in its oregano-like odour. One day, I will dip some leaves in chickpea batter and enjoy the crunch of piping hot sambar balli bajjos. I water the plants. They drink eagerly.
The skies have now changed colour. They are a dark grey. It may rain today. Words too, I hope.