Daily
downpours and the lack of sun have encouraged colourful mould and fungi to take
over walls/windows/shelves/bags and footwear. In the bathroom towels and
undergarments, in the kitchen pulses, onions and dried fish, also colonized.
The road that
divides the neighbourhood into plots is like God: can’t be seen (submerged under water), but
those in the know, tell us it’s there, has always been reliable. Outsiders have
to rely on belief and faith when they are driving/walking on it.
Trees known
and strange have sprouted leaves. Creepers are adventurous. They climb up high
teak trunks, wrap themselves around branches and twigs, hug other creepers
along the way and knit canopies above canopies, fashioning dismal gloom below.
One night, a
guest gets her car-wheel stuck in a spot of soft mud. The revving sinks the
wheel to bumper level. It’s nearing midnight. We phone the crane-service who,
spotting opportunity, charges unreasonably. A neighbour sees what’s happening.
There’s a puja going on in his house. “Cancel the crane,” he tells us. After
the puja, we’ll help you.” We wait for an hour till the chanting is over, then,
in minutes, young strong hands, legs, torsos, push it out safely.
Villagers
always help where Nature is habitually cruel. I’ve seen that in remote places
in Rajasthan (blinding sand-storms), Uttar Pradesh (crazy creepy-crawlies and
erratic electrical supply), Andhra Pradesh (drought), Tamil Nadu (more drought),
and Kashmir...
Kashmir.
Srinagar was my home for three years
long ago. Right now in the news for sad reasons. In this season, in the rented
house where my son toddled, the roses must be in bloom, pink and fragrant. I
have no idea where the landlord’s (what a grand title; it means in this case
the owner of a little house) family is, whether they’ve been since the 1980s. Whilst
it rained in the rest of the country, in Kashmir, locals cut, strung on thin
ropes and dried in the mellow sun, brinjals, white gourd and whatever else grew
in their compounds. Housewives must
still be doing that today. The soil was/is so fertile, people said if you stood
long enough in one place, your feet would sprout roots. Weaving carpets,
carving on walnut wood, growing almonds and embroidering fabric were
‘industries’. Today, the headlines about Kashmir tell about spilt blood, of
young men wielding guns, abandoning studies, professions, families. Some people
I know are accusing the government for not having done enough, others are
accusing the government for having done too much damage. I don’t know what the
outcome of this mayhem will be. I watch/read about what’s happening in a
detached way, distance blurring reality. My grandchildren will learn about it
in their history textbooks. Quoting words said by Steve Jobs: ““You
can't connect the dots looking forward;
you can only connect them looking backwards…” (I’ve taken just a part of the full quote.)
In my Goan sanctuary, surrounded by croaking
frogs, barking mongrels, birds eagerly chasing lizards, insects running for
their lives to avoid being eaten, I’m more concerned about the old fallen wall
that needs to be repaired. Or the pot-holes that are causing traffic-jams in
Porvorim. Or that Karwari fisherfolk are selling fish on my turf. My levels of
stress, the triggers, are different from those experienced by parents in
Kerala, where the rains are even heavier, where teenagers have been missing,
and television guesswork says they’re turning to radicalism. On the map Kerala might be closer to home, but
it’s another world, no? Such things don’t happen here. Goa’s my comfort zone;
Goa’s different. Ignorance is bliss, no?
Washed clothes
just don’t dry in this humidity. I squeeze the fibres till they wear out;
finally I decide organic/cotton stuff is impractical and unaffordable for me. I
also switch over to plastic, glass, synthetic containers. Steel? That, too, is
made in a polluting industry and is hard to dispose of, no?
I once believed that I and members of
my species were destroying the planet. Watching the rain, I change my opinion.
Because ‘dry and comfortable’ = synthetic raincoats/ gumboots plus
air-conditioners/driers. I think, the planet will outlive steel, cement,
aeroplanes, refrigerators, GMOs. What can I do to destroy something so big and
powerful? How arrogant of me to believe anything I did would give Earth even an
itch. I get philosophical when the water table rises and rises and I’m confined
to looking out of the window with little else to do but watch and “listen to
the rhythm of the pouring rain telling
me just what a fool I’ve bin”… (love that song, sung by The Cascades in 1962, especially
in this weather). Primal surroundings turn my thoughts topsy-turvy.
I pluck alloo, tero and some other
leaves that I cook immediately to be eaten with hot-hot bhakryo. I ooh and aah
over century-old, unchanged traditions—it’s shravan and my neighbours chant
some prayers before lunch. I switch on a wonderful Miya ki Malhar on the flute.
Sounds so good. But I also enjoy a trip to the new mall and take a ride on its
escalators. Technology rocks.
It’s afternoon as I type this. The
pair of bulls with the sharp, straight horns is returning from the fields. When
they go there in the morning, they are reluctant. On their way back, they skip
(ok, that’s an exaggeration, but they do walk faster). The fields have been ploughed,
the seeds scattered, fodder collected, waste composted and the rain-gods are
being kind.
One rainy season in north India, the
post-horrible-summer parched soil became mushy with the first few drops and I
observed a strange phenomenon. It came alive. The mud began to jump and dance.
I saw it under a magnifying glass (no mobile-phones nor cameras then to
document it). A scientist told me: “This desert was once part of the sea. The
ova of certain marine life stay inert until conditions are wet and conducive to
them being ‘reborn’.”
Fascinating, the monsoons are.
Feedback:
sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in
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