Lanterns In The Sky

                                         

It has happened before, the sudden vision of lanterns in the air.

A rushed morning, the taste of breakfast still in my mouth, the stress of an impending day as I drove to work would weigh me down. When all at once a dozen plum headed parakeets would rush out from nowhere—green-red-blue lanterns swaying to a magical breeze. All the knotted skeins of thought would unravel as a wingless me reveled in their flight.

More recently, I sat with my younger daughter on a park bench. The grey haze that filtered the setting sun was the unromantic smog, not mist from the mountains. We saw the revolving lights of a temple dome against the blushing pink of the evening sky. Skeletons of unfinished construction projects stole the colors of the sunset to cover up their bleak grays and blacks. Noisy green lanterns raced over our head. On and on the parrots raced, spilling out in a pandemonium of dozens or more, from dusty thickets that had guarded these green lights.

It’s hard to be untouched by the power of their freedom and flight.

Infant 2016 was only a few minutes old. A few relatives struggled to get their paper lanterns in the air. Either the paper caught fire or the camphor bits fell apart. Not a single stubborn lantern took flight. I was secretly glad. Who wanted spent lanterns drifting into trees or landing on sleeping birds or hanging in sad shreds on terraces?

The cold morning breeze reminded us of warm beds we’d reach in a few minutes. The sound of fireworks and music fell behind as I looked up. The clearest grey velvet was punctured by stars and a flock of white cranes winged home. Their silence and fluorescence lit the sky. When I pointed them out to the others, their upturned faces mirrored the inexplicable magic of that breathtaking moment.

There is a futility in the launching of man-made lanterns in the air. I’ve always known that.

Day 2: Bangalore Literature Festival 2015

This post is more than a week overdue. I was to write about the second day of the BLF’15 but got caught up with other writing deadlines.

Today I downloaded my Certificate of Completion for the How writers Write Fiction 2015 conducted by the University of Iowa’s International Writing Program. Seven weeks of rigorous work has paid off. This is the first writing course I’ve taken. I had enrolled for IGNOU’s creative writing program a few years ago but never saw it through.

Now to a recap of the second day of the BLF’15. The first talk of the day was by Anuj Dhar who is an expert on Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose. He claims (evidence in terms of files that need to be declassified) to have strong reasons to believe that Netaji died in Russia. He wielded the questions with great authority. Wonder what the truth really is.

Tipu Sultan was the hot topic of the next debate. It was well moderated by Maya Mirchandani of NDTV fame. Vikram Sampath, Prof. Hanuru--a historian, and a politician each from BJP and Congress provided both information and entertainment. I felt history is better left to historians; our politicians and their viewpoints definitely sway according to the vote bank.

The next talk (after I ate a pricey Masala dosa) was on short stories. I went to listen because Kulpreet Yadav, the editor of ‘Open Road Review’ was on the panel. ORR is a good blog with excellent content. He came into writing from a defence background.

I listened to a few authors talk about their work (with the moderator talking much more than the panelists). Poile Sengupta was kind enough to caution the audience about Macular Degeneration which she suffers from. How terrible for a reader or writer to have problems with eyesight.

Then I spent three hours listening to the shortlisted candidates who pitched their ideas at the LITMart to publishers. ( I too had been longlisted but didn’t make it to the shortlist.)

Every literary festival I attend, puts me a few steps onward in my writing journey. Loads of resolutions for the NEW YEAR.

A Festival of Literature.

The Bangalore Litfest Day 1.

The theme of the day's talks attacked intolerance in one way or the other. The keynote address by Shashi Deshpade was good despite her scratchy throat rendition.
 Devdutt Patnaik and Mani Rao discussed their renditions of the Gita. I was inspired. Must read it too. Why should one wait for old age? Better to absorb the wisdom when there are years ahead of us.
Upamanyu Chatterjee and Zac O'Yeah entertained the crowd with their witty banter. Chaterjee has written 'English August'. They began by discussing his story in Granta called, "Othello Sucks." This set off a color discrimination debate that received his witty solutions.
Sunil Sethi moderated a good session dealing with the "Confessions of a Biographer" with Jaishree Misra, Manu Pillai and Yatindra Mishra. Sunil's 'Just books' on NDTV was one of my all time favorite TV shows. Sadly he has discontinued it now.
Akar Patel read beautiful essays by Sadat Hasan Manto, the themes of intolerance still very apt in today's scenario. He has a beautiful voice and reads Urdu like it was his mother tongue.
Vasanthi Hariprakash moderated a lively session by the couple Ayushman Khurana and his wife Tahira. The couple have co-authored a book titled, "Cracking the Code" dealing with tips on how to make it in Bollywood. Despite the love for the written word, Bollywood stars draw huge crowds and good applause in Litfests. He remarked he had actually carried the hefty heroine in the climactic race in the movie "Dam laga ke Aisha."
In his other avtars, before becoming an author, he's been a RJ, Roadies winner, drama actor, TV actor, singer and Bollywood star.


Take home: Ayushman suggested that one has to manufacture or conjure a chair when there are none when the music stops in a game of musical chairs.
Create your own opportunities. Reinvent yourself till you fit the groove. Hmm...good advice.

Met a few friends and will meet a few more tomorrow.

Vikram Sampath's stepping down didn't influence the seven participants who boycotted the festival to return.
The venue at Royal orchid was thoroughly windblown. You either chapped in the sun or shivered in the shade. Food was expensive as expected. The love for literature helped one ignore all the discomforts. Hope this festival grows and stays out of 'intolerance and award wapsi' spats in future.

A Notepad when December goes Missing.

I looked at the calendar. Hey, November's been gone for like three days. I pulled off the sheet in the calendar and found that there was no December. Really missing. If I were writing sci-fi, I could have filled this blank period with time travel adventures till the fireworks go off on 31st Dec. Being neither Asimov or adventurous, I pulled down the calendar to stack it with old newspapers.

The months were printed on only one side, the other side was tantalizingly blank. My daughter refused point blank when I suggested she work out some maths problems on the sheets. "I can't. These huge sheets are unwieldy."

I set about doing what I had done all through school and college days-- make 'rough books' from used notebooks with blank pages--and finally made a rather 'rough' looking note pad. It's not unwieldy and she 'thinks' she'll use it.

I'll be happier to scrap this when all the sheets are used. 

My parents cut the sheets into smaller squares held together by clips. To-do lists or note taking during phone calls is never so easier.

Unsure of its acceptance, I hadn’t given my calendar-disguised-as-a-notepad a pretty cover or artwork with sketch pens. 

It’s not my time to write, “This book belongs to Jyothi. Subject:………….,School:……………..” anymore. 

I’d have loved to have a go with the sketch pens and decorate the covers though.

Husqvarna No.5:Journey from Sweden to Mysore

A sip from the cup of tea next to me, the unmistakable taste of cinnamon, cardamom  and clove meets my approving taste buds. 

I became a tea drinker, weaned away from coffee, when we moved to Jaipur and ran out of our filter- coffee powder rations within a week of replenishing it.

All through my childhood leading up to the time I married, I drank milk laced with a little coffee religiously twice a day, disliking all other supplements thoroughly. I was a loyal coffee fan.

My parents still own the coffee seed grinder (now stowed away in their kitchen loft) having switched over to coffee powder from shops or drinking instant coffee when they are bored of drinking tea.

The grinder was fixed like a vice on a low stool in the kitchen and had a lid covering the top to prevent cockroaches from investigating the crushing mechanism. I remember the olive green seeds, each with a cleft in the middle arriving on Sundays when Daddy visited the ‘town’. Robertsonpet was this town that met our needs. I think the seeds sometimes were also bought in Bangalore. The green seeds didn’t have the rich aroma till Mummy roasted them in a black iron pan. The house would fill with the thick smoky smell of coffee. Once cooled these seeds went into an airtight box. The grinder is black, the color of roasted beans. 

When we expected guests we would put seeds into the cup like opening and slowly turn the handle collecting the fresh powder in an orange plastic bowl. Mummy stored some of the powder in a jar for daily use. Neighbors with unexpected guests borrowed coffee powder. Nobody returned the powder, they explained they didn’t have its equivalent and would force us to accept fruit or snacks in return. I loved turning the handle and was proud that we owned something that others seemed to covet and enjoy.

On my last visit home we got it down and took a look inside. Writing a few emails to the company and using the help of search engines resulted in this sketchy history:

It came out  in the late 1800s from the foundry of a company in Sweden called 'Husqvarna' in a small place by the same name. Not much is recorded about the sale of this particular piece.

My grandmother received it from her father in the 1920s when he saw her--his married daughter crushing coffee seeds with a pestle and mortar. My grandmother let my mother, her eldest daughter-in-law have it. It is mine now. I would love to trace its journey someday from Husqvarna to Kannambadi in Mysore, where my great grandfather worked on the construction of the KRS dam.

The grinder 

Husqvarna No.5

Welcome Depression.

It's hard to think of depression and welcome in the same breath or even within the same sentence. But there was a time when the word 'depression' signalled rain and holidays from school. It was the days before the internet. I had no responsibilities except that of being the child I was. My parents looked at the sky or the newspaper and told me, 'Depression over Bay of Bengal'. Hmm...that meant I could wear my favorite red coat and find a place near the window and spend hours watching the sky weep. It wasn't my concern that the clothes had no place to dry. They would hang like huge penants from the roof along corridors, taking in the smells of the house. The garden was hosed down repeatedly, the way you find people in cities today washing their cars, trying to get dust off that had already made its way into their nostrils. Each tree had its unique response to the falling water. Mind you, this was no heavy downpour, but a steady pattering on the wide wet world around me. The plaintain leaves made the most of this; the broad leaves allowed the unseen hand of the magician to drum a melody. Atleast one didn't have to water the garden for a long long time. Grey skies, watered down sunlight, an isolation for a few days from the playground, a good book to read, toys to play with, were never unwelcome.

It's back again. Three days of a steady rain; life under a waterfall. I always wake with a sudden dread that I've left a tap open somewhere. The sound of water through drainpipes that filters in through my dreams makes me see visions of dripping clotheslines on the terrace. Its only when I'm awake, with a cup of tea in my hand, that I dismiss these concerns. 

It's good that the rain is outside of me. The other dreaded D-word which implies the steady rain within the mind is probably similar. A constant wetness that dampens the desire to look at the outside world, preferring the cold slushy depths of sad thoughts.

I'm glad the rain outside doesn't seep through my skin. The clouds will lift. In the meanwhile, two or three days to relish the warmth and comfort of hot food and woollen clothes. 

And then the wash will dry in the sun once again.

The feathered mimic-- The Racket tailed drongo.

Picture credit: Oriental Bird Club database (taken by Nithin Srinivasamurthy).

I recently sighted this bird, Dicrurus paradiseus for the first time on a bird watching expedition in Coorg. I am familiar with his cousin the Fork-tailed drongo, whose tail always reminds me of a curling handlebar moustache.We were lucky to meet this 'policeman' (kothwal) once again on our drive home. He's called that because of the whistling sound he makes. He's locally also known as Bhimraj or Bhringraj.

His two tail (rackets) are described as appearing as if two bumblebees are in his hot pursuit. But it occured to me that it looked more like the thin plaits of a young school girl running to school. :)

I read this description in the wikipedia and was surprised to see why Nature has made him an expert mimic.

"They are conspicuous in the forest habitats often perching in the open and by attracting attention with a wide range of loud calls that include perfect imitations of many other birds. It has been suggested that these imitations may help in the formation of mixed species foraging flocks, a feature seen in forest bird communities where many insect feeders forage together. These drongos will sometimes steal insect prey caught or disturbed by other foragers in the flock. They are diurnal but are active well before dawn and late at dusk."