Life is Change!

The Gliricidias. For over five decades, they had stood there in all majesty, in a row by the roadside. Lush green, even in summer, their thick, nutritious foliage, often lopped by farmers to provide a fodder supplement to cattle, and used as rich, green leaf fertilizer in the fields and gardens. In winter, they would shed their leaves, and be decked with glorious pinkish, purple blooms.

Enduring the seasons and providing cool shade to the passersby, they had flourished, with an aura of permanence about them, a challenge to time, perhaps.

Then suddenly came the deluge, a year and a half’s dispensation of rain, all within a few days. Lands turned to rivers, and then to lakes. Unable to breathe, the roots rotted away, the leaves disappeared, and when the sun came out in all its burning ferocity, the trunks and branches dried out, leaving naught but stark, upright firewood; heartbreak for nature lovers.

Hardly had a couple of months passed, when seeds of wild Ipomea, washed down by the floodwaters, germinated and turned the place green.

Within weeks, they had entwined themselves firmly around the dead Gliricidia (quickstick) branches, and were full of purple blooms, swaying and dancing joyously in the winds.

Nature had renewed herself, in her own immaculate way. In her eyes, there is neither birth nor death, nor pain nor suffering, though to her individualized entities, all creation is so real. Every bit of existence is her body; constantly forming and dissolving, transmuting, transforming, decaying, rejuvenating, materializing and disappearing, she plays with the master of illusions, time. In her very exuberance of being, her whole body is the infinite flow of energy, an endless dream play of light and of shadow. In the infinite emptiness of space, life is change itself.

P.S. In nature’s immaculate vision, rocks, sand, water, trees, birds, animals, humans, everything is life. Yet, in her infinite magnanimity, she has given humanity the great gift of choice. For it is up to us, to determine whether we need to continue depleting and transforming natural resources for petty gains, welcoming climate change on a scale large enough to wipe out the flora and fauna, including the human race, or, to restrain ourselves, embracing an eco-friendly, sustainable lifestyle.

The River!

A view of the river Kabini, chief tributary of river Kaveri, near Mananthavady, Wayanad.

She flows and flows,
Yet not an inch doth she move,
Bowing to rain and to drought,
She wouldst swell, only to wane.

From mountain to sea,
Still lies she, all to see,
An enigma, still, yet, flowing,
And everflowing, yet, still!

Bulbul!

The most prolific of birds in our area. Though wild, they are affectionate toward humans. Quite friendly and trusting, they accompany us when we work in the garden. All grubs and worms are gobbled up in a flash of feathers, so we have to be careful with our spades. This bird is called Erattathalayan (ഇരട്ടത്തലയൻ) in Malayalam, because the crest of stiff feathers atop its head together with its beak, makes it appear to have a twin head.

They sing beautifully in the evenings before retiring to roost and never fail to wish you good morning at dawn.

They nest in shrubby trees, laying small mottled eggs, and raise two to three chicks in a clutch, the parents urged by famished squeaks, frantically flying to and fro, filling the tender pulsating crops of their offspring.

No one needs to teach them love!

A Moment in Solitude!

When time flows in stillness,
And beauty rises from emptiness,
Love rears up on fancies,
Surging and ebbing in rhythms,
Kissing sandy, dreamy shores,
To roll back to auspiciousness.
Oh, to stand back and to watch,
Silhouettes at play in eternity.

Day before yesterday, a friend and I took a few minutes during the lunch break of a conference, to steal away to the lovely Payambalam Beach at Kannur. Usually crowded with merrymakers, it was then miraculously empty and serene.

Wild Fowl / Junglefowl (കാട്ടുകോഴി)

Chickens in our garden! They visit only in the early mornings and late evenings, generally shunning humans. Sometimes they lay eggs in the open, which resemble regular eggs. These birds are different from domestic fowl in that they are smaller and can easily fly for hundreds of feet at the first sign of danger.

They breed in thickets and we often find little chicks who venture out even in daytime, though the broods are smaller.

I wonder if these are endemic to the Western Ghats. You can see a few wild pigeons too, in one of the pictures.

Trk! Trk!

A dear feathered friend from the wild, who comes to say hai (trk! trk!) everyday. If gone unheard, it is followed by a loud hello (a thrilling series of loud, musical, metallic chimes), till we come outside to return the warm greeting!

It is called Tickell’s Blue Flycatcher (Cyornis Tickelliae), so named in honor of Samuel Richard Tickell, British ornithologist.

A Dream!

From the eternal satiety of wakeful slumber,
Spontaneously, arises there, a dream,
A vast varied world of beauty, limitless,
Of colors, of sounds, of lights and darknesses,
Of atoms and space, all within time!

Spun with myriads of thoughtrons,
On magic cloth of homogenous love,
Seemingly different atoms or entities,
Each feeling complete in itself,
Yet empty, wanting it knows not what!

Oh! She dreamt she were a bud on a vine,
Lo! Quickly, she transformed to a bloom,
And there she was, spreading her petals wide open,
And with her fragrance, joyfully enticing bees,
Then off dropped the petals one by one, a tiny fruit was born!

Now she dreamt of growing into juicy fruit,
She dreamt in the wondrous world around,
The magical show, how deeply engrossing,
The dream now turned so real,
While the truth retreated, forgotten!

Enjoying the playful pushes of the wind,
Drinking in the sun and the rain,
Shivering at the caterpillar a-passing,
Or smiling at the gardener in glee,
How quickly time flew on and on!

Ah, to play on, grew her desires,
To seed, set they within, and matured,
Her flesh now ripe, dream time, its wand did wave,
And she opened wide, for her time had come,
Live her progeny would, each with a dream of its own!

Now gladly, would she drop this bag of flesh,
Mission accomplished! It is high time to rest!
Every desire, every fancy has flown,
Now free of all containment, free of all bonds,
She says, “Ha Ha! It never was me!

I be unattached blissful spirit,
I am love so pure, pristine,
The silent mother of dreams,
Eternal, indescribable, infinite,
Ever content, blissful peace!”