Perks of waking up early and perching in an orchard

It was the second morning of my weekend-getaway, I found myself wide awake by 6 am and very soon perched on a rock in the midst of an orchard right across my room. I was seated here for over an hour now, looking up at trees where little birds- sizes ranging that of my thumb to half my fist, and hoards of squirrels moved about recklessly, busy with their morning chores, oblivious to me or that it’s Sunday. I patiently waited for them to hold still for more than two seconds, just so I could capture them with my mobile camera held in my already tired arms... For a moment I pulled my hands down to rest them, and I suddenly heard...

Two loud calls, shrill screams for attention, I realised I knew this call, my heart raced and ears perked up, I held up my camera up again, reinforced with curiosity, forgetting the aching arms for the moment.

I walked with measured steps to the back of the small shed that I was facing. I heard foot-steps, but that of sharp claws against a metal roof, there was a rhythm to the movement, the sounds were coming from beyond the six-and-half-feet tall compound wall. I spot something that looked like dry bundle of grass. The bundle moved, and suddenly something popped up, I saw sharp arched beak, a crown, long neck in the most beautiful hue of indigo, and it disappeared just as quickly as I spotted it...

On an impulse, I was climbing up the narrow knee-length-high brick ledge of the compound wall. Reckless I'd say myself, and by now tactlessly trying to balance myself. My aching arms are back in awareness, now worsened with my left arm holding all my weight against the wall and the right arm balancing the camera precariously. I looked across the barbed-wired fence above and noticed broken glass bottle pieces edged to keep intruders away from.. Well, climbing across the wall from the other side.

The barbed-wire or broken glass pieces were hardly the distractions, but the sight across took my breath away and I immediately dropped to the floor and came tumbling after, yes, humpty-dumpty style, but not before I had a quick glimpse of my objects of interest swiftly bobbing away to safety, alarmed by the movement across the wall, away from my direction.

I got back on my feet, composed myself, steadier now, took a long breathe, I massaged the arms with my freshly bruised palms, stretching them again to climb back up. I couldn't hold up much longer than my first stint, stepped down with remaining dignity in less than a minute, though no one was looking, or not that I noticed, but this time I stepped down more gracefully.

For a change, I was quick to realise that  I am not ready for such acrobats, but intent nevertheless. For the next attempt, I optimize my home label - 'lazy bum'. There is good reason for this, for I try and get much work done without as much moving few fingers. I realise I could get what I want by just stretching my hands up, gripping the camera, leaning my arms and body against the wall for support. It also helps me stay still, now that my hands are trembling with added excitement. Moreover, keeps me from scarring the wild pheasants. 

In stealth mode, I spotted them again, a pair or are there three of them... Ready to tango?

This was possibly the only time I couldn't stop beaming with joy looking at a cocky, flamboyant, strutting display of a male specie in all his glory. He was, as if,  showing off all the attitude in the world to one much attracted female around, the other couldn’t care less, she was busy picking fresh worms from the very earth she sidestepped.

He was focused on his show, not wanting any distractions, self-absorbed in arrogant display of all his plumage, blue, green, purple, specs of burnt-sienna, shiny, fluttering, wriggling, switch-sidling around an axis, swaying and bobbing his head to some low-frequency slow-music like Dervish dancers. No particular rhythm yet there was oodles of omph in his moves. One female was hooked for sure, but he didn't care to give her any due, shooing off her advances. 

He is said to be the crown glory of my nation, his kind not known to fly too high, but declared as the bird of highest order of my sub-continent, laws written to never ever cage him, his kith or kin as they are set free for eternity on this land. After all his strut has won his kind some brownie points. Over generations, he has been more superior gender, more recognized, his plumage picked to adorn the charming good Lord's hair do, or as the tool to let creative juices flow as prose or poems, and to caress your love.

Such cockiness rarely brings out prose in me, much less poem. My Sunday turned to a funday, the most eventful mornings in recent months... I felt blessed with the experience, I am certain many would say, why so much prose for a pair of fowl dance, but it was my first sighting of pheasants really born free, not waiting to be set free. 

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My Gratitude To Trees For Her Lessons of Life 

To spread the roots deep down into mother earth and be firm on my ground, 
To set a foundation like her strong trunk, 
To spread out branches that sway to the heat, rains and winds of life. 
To grow leaves that wither away and drift to unknown lands, 
To experience the fragrance of flowers and fruits of joy. 
To shelter and shade anyone seeking, 

And... To just BE, for sometimes that's all it takes.

A mother's master stroke

Today I cook. I cook to feed myself and I have survived and survived healthily.

I moved to an exciting city to a hectic work-life. Everyone around suggested I need to be pragmatic and hire a cook so I have time to breathe and to avoid succumbing to irregular and unhealthy eating habits - last thing I needed. But cooking was part of my game plan.  

I had watched my mom cook in her unconventional ways with the approximate measures like: Fist-full of salt or some grated coconut etc. Measures were never the same two consecutive times. And this made my mom (among many of that generation) known among family and friends to be a supremely good cook. She excels in traditional south Indian cuisines and her attempts when trying out any new cuisine – Indian or not, always result in excellence. She always adds her touch to anything she cooks up.  

 

Even as a young adolescent my attempts got a barrage of comparisons. ‘You can't even make tea, you have a long way to catch up with your mom!’ were among the more polite comments. And yes! I totally sympathize with celebrity-kids who say they are pressurized because of their successful parentage. 

This one time when home alone, I decided on making tomato soup and offer it to my parents when they return. I can’t remember what I wanted wriggled out of them in return of this 'favour', but well, there was an attempt.

I had watched my mom dish out the soup many times. In all the excitement, I added baking soda instead of corn flour to make it into a lumpy and moldy ‘something’. (Come on! I was a novice and no-one can tell one from the other. And no I didn't bother to taste it.)

My folks returned before I disposed off the experiment. The next thing I knew, the great failed exploit was broadcast to the extended family. I was the butt of all jokes for couple of months. To scar me, they even named the soup "Special tomato lump of a soup".

 

Turns out I wasn't among the kids who was persistent enough to practice and perfect. In the years to come, I was the sort who took it up with vengeance to never get back to the kitchen unless I had my family begging and pleading for fresh food when mom was away for a week or so. My mom was so horrified of my adamant nature that before left us for a short trip, she would refrigerate enough for days ahead - just in case my dad or brother managed to cheese me off - which they have cultivated skills. 

Years went by, I would try some dish on a rare and random occasion or just stand around when she cooked, and complained about how she never uses the ingredients in the same order or measure, just so its complicated for me. Years went by... My mom would try excoouraging me occasionally. 

One day when in college, I was watching a travel show and cursing the lucky host who got to go all exotic places - They got eat yummy food and amazing spa treatments all for free! I was complaining about how I wanted to be independent in life - to do things my way, to travel and enjoy life. 

My mom who was watching the show with me, heard me and curiously asked, ‘How do you plan to travel so far, all by yourself? Moreover you need the money to travel and eat?’
I quickly gave her an insight to my future plans. ‘Yeah mom, I will be independent soon. I will earn and blow it all out on travelling.' 

The practical side in me added, 'Of course, I cannot eat at fancy hotels like the travel show host, I will have to depend on ready-to-eat packed food.'
 

‘Who will pack your food for you on a long trip?’ Mom’s quick revert that seems inconsiderate to her offspring surprised me.

 

Not knowing where this discussion was heading, I promptly said, ‘You mostly mom. I will buy ready-to-eat packets as well. Life today is made simple like that.’
 

My mom thought for a while and said, ‘Oh yes, for few days you can manage with packed food. But you have been saying you will travel for months at stretch and live a humble tourist life. You don't enjoy cooking clearly. Do you? Will you manage so many weeks or months just eating the food you make hastily?'

 

Without a moment to gather what she was getting at, I quipped hugging her with, ‘In that case, I will take you along with me, mom!’

 

Mom's master stroke: Sure. But that doesn’t make you independent. Would it? Are you going to be independent then if I tag along with you or even pack for you?? You are being dependent on your mother for the most basic need – Food.

 

And there! In my mind I rested the case. And my exploits in the kitchen became more frequent. I learnt slowly, and dishes I made were always up for test with the world biggest critics - my dad and brother. The former can at least cook to save his life, the latter is 'all talk' ;)

 

Going back to the kitchen in my ‘independent’ life was the best thing that actually happened to me. Today, I love cooking, I made mistakes, many when I started. My chapattis were called papads by new colleagues in the new city. In months that followed, the same colleagues look forward to what I bring, or say they do. Recipes that were discussed in random lunch talks, would be served to precision in a day or two.

 

Cooking soon became a stress-buster. I don't hinge going to the kitchen after a hard day at work, even at 10 at night. Finally I dish out something that was worthwhile by midnight.

Recently I made my own version of burnt coconut barfi called it - Greezy Coconut Chaar. Well, my own twist to the dish! Not bad right?

Part of the aspiration of earning and fending for myself in a new city has come true. As for the travelling, I can say am prepared. I am independent as far as earning for myself, cooking a good meal and eating it goes. My bro's definition also includes filling my own taxes returns in time. Well... Independence also means: Not subject to another's authority or jurisdiction; autonomous; TO BE FREE. ;)