Ginger Biscuits and Allspice Tea

 Today we are making allspice tea, with leaves from our garden.  Nayan has baked ginger biscuits, just perfect to dip into the tea, especially on a rainy day like today.  

We have just returned from a walk – an unplanned ramble on a rainy day.  There was no one else around – just us and trees bursting with birds – barbettes, humming birds, bulbuls and all kinds of tiny ones whose names we did not know, hopping from branch to branch, shaking themselves dry and singing away, unconcerned about us or the rain or anything else around them.  

Nayan and I sang the unforgettable children’s Bengali song “Bulbul pakhi moyna tiye” as the bulbul, moyna and tiye flew above and around us.  

Nayan took some pictures – the birds were too fast for him but the rain drenched plants stood patiently, waiting to be photographed.

It was like being in a treasure hunt.  We chose a path, looked around for the place that seemed to beckon us towards happy adventure, and then waited for wondrous things to reveal themselves.

“We can choose one of many paths,” I told Nayan.  “Each one is right for that moment.  And going along the path is the exciting bit because it can lead you to many treasures if you use your inner compass as a guide (Nayan has recently dismantled an old clock to try and convert it into a compass so he knows all about these things).  That warm, happy feeling means you are going in the right direction and good things will show up if you are ready for them.  The not so happy feeling means you need to change your direction a bit.  Even if you can’t see exactly where you are going, but if you like the way the flowers smell or the birdsong you hear or just the thought of what might lie beyond that little hill that is inviting you to climb it- that’s a path worth exploring.”

Today our path led us to the feel of the wind, the touch of the rain, the sound of the birds and then back to our garden where we encountered the allspice tree.

“How tall it has grown!  Not a berry in sight but so many leaves.  I wonder if we can use them for tea...”

“Yes, let’s!” said Nayan the intrepid adventurer.

But I needed to check with Google first.  Certainly, allspice leaves were used extensively in Caribbean cooking.  And they seemed to have all kinds of beneficial properties.

So, we made ourselves the perfect Sunday morning breakfast – poha (light, beaten rice) flavoured with curry leaves from our garden and fresh lemon juice from our lemon tree, allspice leaf tea and homemade ginger biscuits.  The tea was so incredibly delicious, I wondered why we had never made it earlier.  The tree has been standing outside, patiently, all these years, we just had to find our way to it.

Thirty Years Ago

Thirty years ago, on this day, I was rushing out of my room to get to a Halloween party.  Just as I had locked my door, the phone began to ring.  The sound was shrill and persistent, so I went inside and took the call.  It was Raghavan, proposing to me.  (I don't think the word 'marry' was ever mentioned, but in those few halting sentences, I understood that it was a proposal).  He was in India and I was in the U.S. at the time, and it meant a sudden change of lifestyle, which didn't really worry me.  

It was a time of "I don't have time to deal with my hair, another day is beckoning."  A time when one didn't really think too much ahead.  Leaving a bustling campus not far from New York where I was a student, to settle into a quiet campus in a relatively conservative part of Bangalore, where I would set up house with the person I wanted to spend my life with, and do... what else?  I didn't know but it was a dream come true.

And so it was that the following year found me in Bangalore, looking at a tiny two room apartment meant for postdocs (but campus accommodation was scarce so we were lucky).  I arrived with nine bags in tow.  "No space!  Keep two and send the rest back to Delhi," said Raghavan.  So my possessions were unpacked gradually over time.  The most important first - books, music, herbs and my favourite crockery.  A few clothes and shoes.  Everything else could wait.

We had a house with a stone wall on which hung our first rug - a wedding gift from a master weaver that was filled with colours of the sea.  Raghavan felt it was too beautiful to spread on the floor and on the wall it has remained ever since, in each of our houses.  A wall to wall bookshelf and a small space for the music and crafts that we collected.  Stone slabs served as seats and tables.  There was no space for a dining table and other luxuries.

The kitchen was sparsely equipped.  Raghavan had bought a microwave and an ancient toaster.  The shelves initially contained packets of pea soup and cashew nuts.  The first dinner I cooked required a walk to the campus outskirts, to search for a small shop selling any kind of food.  Sure enough, there was a tiny shop just outside, catering to the needs of a traffic intersection - displaying eggs in a rack, sweets and glucose biscuits in glass jars and a bunch of bananas that dangled overhead.  I chose the eggs and went home to cook cashewnut omlets and to microwave the pea soup.  That was our first and most memorable home cooked meal.

We had a little patch of garden where marigolds planted themselves each year.  A small hardy custard apple tree and a papaya tree which yielded delicious yellow papayas (these are now hard to find, they have all been replaced by their hybrid orange-red cousins).  I remember my first few spirited arguments with the Bengali neighbours who lived above us.  The lady would keep plucking unripe papayas from our tree without telling me.  While I claimed ownership to the tree because it grew in my garden, she claimed ownership to the papayas because they appeared at the level of her house!  A dispute that was mercifully resolved a few months later, when they moved out.

I remember learning to rat proof my house.  There was a large group of wily rodents of varying sizes and shapes that would sneak through gaps in doors at the slightest chance.  Raghavan's hockey skills proved very handy in chasing them out and we gradually learnt to seal every possible crack in our house.

Raghavan's first birthday celebration was to be a surprise party.  It was indeed a surprise filled evening, more for me perhaps than for anyone else.  It was to be barbecue dinner.  The friends who were to bring the barbecue set called at the last minute to say they could not come.  There was a power cut that entire day, which meant no mixie - so all marinades were hand pounded.  Large pans of drinking water were furtively boiled and cooled.  I did not possess an oven so I made gulab jamuns from Amul full cream milk powder (which has since vanished from the shelves- it's all toned milk now so I am unable to use that splendid hand me down  recipe from my mother any more).  I fried the minced meat that had been kept to make seekh kebabs- a kebab by any other name name tastes almost as good..

"No more surprise parties, " I decided at the end of the day.  It had been a nice celebration but I needed more hands to help out at parties at home in the future.

What I loved most about the campus were the magnificent trees.  They really made me feel connected to an ancient and natural spirit.  I still love seeing them and reaching out to them each day.  

Summer brought tamarind, and in those days when the campus was devoid of stray dogs, homeless monkeys, security guards and resident construction labour, I was free to cycle down the little lanes, gathering tamarind pods that had fallen on the ground, to make into a delicious tangy pickle.

I remember our first Diwali, when my father in law made a special trip from Delhi to see us.  It was filled with light and happiness.  We lit a huge number of fireworks on our terrace and ate home made sweets, then drove him to the little airport in Indiranagar (which was rather a peaceful drive in those days).

When I look back, I get a warm, contented feeling thinking of all those moments.  Not knowing where I was headed and not worrying about it, life moved on exactly as unpredictably as it had begun for me on that happy Halloween day, thirty years ago  Not knowing where life was taking me but knowing it would be a good journey, and that was all that mattered.

Seeing What Is

 On Tuesday morning, it was raining cats and dogs.  "Why not candies?" asked my son Nayan.  

"Candies would be like little rocks pelting on our head," I said, "And I'm not sure if we could eat them.."

"Of course, we could," said Nayan who actually doesn't eat much candy in real life.

"It might rain frogs," said Renee Aunty, who knows all about these things.  "It does, sometimes, you know."

"It's raining rhinos and leopards in Arunachal Pradesh," said Ram Uncle who likes a bit of a jaunt now and then.  "All I have been seeing are car wipers."

"On my farm in Maharashtra, it usually rains elephants and hippopotamuses," said Hasmukh Uncle with a smile.  Nayan was worried that the farm animals might get squashed but I said they would probably be wise enough to keep away from the rain.

But after Nayan had sent the video of the rivulet flowing past his bus stop to all his friends, everyone agreed that this was an unusually torrential downpour.

"We used to float paper boats in the water," sad Mona Bua from Kolkata, "But that isn't a good idea because it could clog the drains."

"There are no drains near my bus stop," declared Nayan.  "The next time it rains, I'm going to float a boat."

"We could make a banana leaf boat," said Raghavan aka Appa.  "Did you know that leaf boats are decorated and floated on the river, on Kartik Purnima (the full moon day in the Indian month of Kartik)?  This happens during a festival called Boita Bandana celebrated in Odisha to mark the day when merchants would set sail from the coast of Odisha to Southeast Asia and Sri Lanka for trade. Now it's a festival to mark the ancestral maritime journeys.  There is also a similar festival in Thailand called Loy Krathong."  

No, we did not know any of this (actually neither did he, but a few minutes on the Internet is all it takes).

"Actually,"continued Appa, "Kartik Purnima will be coming up soon, it usually occurs in November.  And look - here's a video showing how to make a banana leaf boat without any pins or staples."

Wow!  Appa sure knows how to ferret out important information.

So we agreed to try and make a banana leaf boat to set sail in the next rivulet we found.

But before we could find a banana leaf, the rain began again.

On Thursday morning, it pitter pattered without warning.  There was no time to find a banana leaf or watch the video but Appa did make a perfect paper boat while the rest of us were rushing to get ready.  I carried the boat carefully for Nayan but as we reached the bus stop, the rain tapered off.  No rivulet!  Not even a reasonable sized puddle.

Nayan was very upset.  Tears trickled down his face.  

I did not take it too seriously.  "Look Nayan," I said, "Look at what all we have around- it's a beautiful day - crisp and clear, the sun has risen, the trees are all saying "Good morning' to you.  We have time for a little walk.  Look at what is, and not at what is not, or you will never be happy."

But he couldn't be consoled or diverted.  So I just let him stand there with tears running down, until the bus arrived.  He wiped his tears off as he sat in the bus and he did not see me wave goodbye.

"Why does this child have to feel so intensely?" I asked Raghavan. 

"Maybe I shouldn't have made the boat.  I did tell him that there would probably not be enough water and we could float it later at home, but I didn't think he would take it so much to heart.  Anyway, it's a learning experience for us, and for him too."

"I told him," I said, "not to miss out on what is by dwelling on what is not, but he wouldn't listen."

"It's okay," said Raghavan, "He will soon get over it."

As I relaxed and thought about it, I realised that it was I who needed to see things as they were.  Yes, it was a beautiful day for me, and not so at that moment for my little son, whose heart was aching because he had imagined and dreamt and so looked forward to floating a boat. ("Pray to the gods for rain," he had told me earnestly).  

But in wondering why Nayan was so upset, I had stopped seeing him for what he is - a boy who is sensitive about things, and there are many things each day that touch his heart.  When I freed myself of judgement, I appreciated the fact that Nayan could feel strongly about things that were important to him, and he could express his feelings without worrying about how others perceived him.  I also know how buoyant he is - that once he is back from school, he will create a giant artificial puddle to float that boat, with much glee and splish-splashing.  And later, Raghavan will watch that video and make that banana leaf boat for a rainy day.  My job will just be to procure that banana leaf from our neighbour's garden (and pray to the God of Rain for a torrent even though our walls are dripping with water). I am gradually learning to see.

Music Enters My Life

 It has been about a year since I began my music lessons.  It is very different learning experience compared to those when I was younger.  The path seems considerably steeper, much more strewn with boulders..  Perhaps this is why I appreciate the opportunity to be able to learn more than ever.

I often feel I need to thank life - and my music teacher (Soumitro Sir as he is called) for adding this unexpected new dimension to my life, and my home.  

It began, as many things do nowadays, with my son Nayan who does have a gift for music and a tendency to disregard his gifts.  I searched hard for a music teacher for him, and am glad I finally found the perfect one for Nayan: someone who could introduce him to music gradually, systematically and playfully.  My son often doesn't realise how much he is learning or how gently he is being prodded to continue with his practice when all he wants to do is to veg out.

I began to learn a little later (at the suggestion of the teacher) to support Nayan's music and help him at home.  Thus Hindustani music found its way into our house.  

We had always heard all kinds of music but now we were actually singing (and playing the tanpura and harmonium), and it had a different kind of energy.  Nayan and I practiced singing; my husband periodically searched for similar kinds of music to what we were learning, and other songs that he thought we might like to learn.

For Nayan, singing is almost effortless.  He glides in and out of notes, with minimal practice and complete confidence.

I am completely the opposite.  I plod along, repeating each step innumerable times and I always feel I have a long way to go before I can sing something properly.  Soumitro Sir understands.  He just sits quietly, waiting for me to gather my confidence before I embark.  It is an online class, so he offers to switch off his video so I don't see him there but I say that closing my eyes is an easier option.  Once the momentum builds up and I stop thinking about how I sound, notes flow in a happy way.  

Our classes are oft interrupted as both of us are working from home.  "Ek minute, Madam, aap gate rehiye, main abhi aa raha hoon" ("One minute Madam, please keep singing, I am coming") or "Soumitro Sir, the gas person is here with a cylinder refill," or "The washing machine repair man has finally come.  I will just be back."  Or "I could not practice today.  We had a dinner for ten people and I was cooking."   

Our classes are filled with discussions of life, philosophy, family anecdotes and even food.  Soumitro Sir knows I relate well to food (as he does), so I often hear, "Add a little sweetness Madam, not too much or it will get sickening, just a tiny bit.." Or, "When you make prawn curry, you need to mix the ingredients in the perfect proportions for the right taste.  Music is like that.  It's not just getting each note right, it is the mix of sound and feeling."  He emphasises bringing softness and the right kind of emotion to each composition, which is something I  would love to achieve.  It's like breaking a sheet of ice of uncertainty and hesitation and allowing the warm, spontaneous feelings to burst through.  (I am trying.)

Our classes are varied, keeping in mind a broad theme - streams of notes learnt in different ways that somehow fit into a greater whole that was not obvious to me at the outset.  Often improvised depending on the mood (after months of practicing classical ragas, I have suddenly embarked upon learning a Bengali folk song written by Tagore.  Soumitro Sir sang it for Nayan and the song resonated so much within me that I thought I would look into it, and there's no turning back now).

No turning back.  For months I was full of doubts about my ability to learn singing.  To be able to play the harmonium (and now, my son wants a tabla for his practice, there's no knowing where this journey is taking us).  Now, I know there's no turning back.  I would like to continue and I hope one day to sing freely, with all my heart.  I hope, someday, to lend a voice to all those notes which float in my mind.  Like writing, the words (or notes) seem to have a life of their own- and keeping them true to form while bringing them to paper (or in the air) to be read (or heard) is the main challenge.

When I write, there is no one looking over my shoulder, but when I sing, I am aware that everyone around can hear me.  That is a big difference, and that is what makes me hesitate as I sing.  But then, I remember Soumitro Sir's questions from an early class.

"When you are singing in the class or at home, who are you singing for?"  My invariable answer would be, "I am singing for myself."

"And when you are facing an audience who  has come especially to listen to you, who are you singing for?"

I falter.  The prospect of facing an audience is unnerving.  I say with some hesitation, "For the people who have come?"

"No!  You are singing for yourself.  You are always singing for yourself."

It is something I never forget.  I sing because it opens up something vast and wonderful within me.  I sing because I am filled with joy when I approach the right notes.  I sing to air melodies that linger in my mind.  I sing in deference to extraordinary composers, to the grace of classical music and the spontaneity of folk music.  I sing in memory of all the love and beauty of Nature and of Life itself.  I sing because I want to.

The Way Back To Happiness

 I recently read an article on Ricardo Munoz ‘s (former chief psychologist at San Francisco General Hospital and now distinguished professor of psychology at Pal Alto University) mission to prevent depression.  He began in the nineteen eighties when very little was known about this subject and depression was largely thought to be unpreventable.  

Munoz used simple techniques based on the premise that if people resumed pleasurable activities even though they didn’t feel like doing them, they felt better and were able to do more activities.  This significantly helped to cure people suffering from depression and led to Munoz wondering if it could actually prevent the onset of depression.  Years of work with a large number of patients (many from a low-income group, who didn’t speak any English) proved that it could.

Munoz then utilized the internet to reach out to many more people in different ways- he ran a very effective smoking cessation programme in the nineties and later founded a company to provide self help mental health information that he admits “won’t work for everybody, but nothing does.”  It has helped a large enough number of people though, especially during the pandemic when the number of U.S. adults who had symptoms of a depressive disorder or anxiety disorder rose from 11% to 40%.

Munoz recommends simple methods like calling a friend, getting enough sleep, being with nature, listening to music or having a special event to look forward to, to prevent people from spiralling down into anxiety or depression.

This simple commonsense approach that has apparently worked wonders struck a chord in me.  I had never given much thought to how troubling these problems can be until recently.  My study of Ayurveda had just informed me that health is the state of equilibrium between the mind, body and spirit.  I had read all about what happens when this equilibrium is shifted but never thought to apply it to myself.

I have been suffering from migraines for many years and sought various forms of remedies for these.  Nothing seemed to work very well, the triggers (largely hormonal) were too strong and were getting more frequent over time.  So last July I visited a few doctors.  One of them recommended a medicine called Sibelium that was very commonly taken to prevent the onset of migraines.  When I asked about side effects, he said, “Oh it will make you a bit sleepy and hungry.  But you are thin and can afford to eat.. Ha! Ha!”  It was said lightheartedly.  And so, in the same spirit it was that I began this medicine.

The first day that I began the medicine, everything seemed strange.  I could hardly keep awake and I was continuously eating whatever I could find.  This seemed dreadful.  I should have stopped right there.  Instead, I told the doctor and, on his recommendation, went on a lower dose that reduced these symptoms and kept me away from the pain killers I had been using.  I was able to function (and I really needed to function, with the pandemic lockdowns and my little son’s online school and assignments to be dealt with.  My husband was, and since, has been busy making Covid and other vaccines - he was in his lab right through this period).

A few months later I noticed something startling.  (My husband said that he had started noticing changes much earlier on- he felt I had lost my lightness of spirit- but he thought it might just be a small change with the medication and was probably reversible).  I began to get sudden panic attacks for no reason.  Fortunately, I connected it to the medicine (and when I read the list of possible side effects, this was one of the innumerable side effects listed as affecting a miniscule number of people).  I got in touch with another doctor, who knew me and who I trusted, and his words were, “Get off the medicine immediately.”

I did just that, but the panic didn’t subside.  It went on – a fierce churning in my abdomen and a terrible cloud of worry and gloom covering my mind, day, and night.  I couldn’t enjoy even a single moment.  I couldn’t sleep.  I somehow had to still stay functional, to deal with my family life and also, unfortunately, the very large tangle of paperwork and other responsibilities that my father’s death had left on my shoulders.  (My father passed away just at the onset of the pandemic quite suddenly, even before I had time to say goodbye to him, and this had also left me emotionally weak).  It all seemed overwhelming.  

Normally I would have dealt with everything one step at a time, but I was not functioning like my old self and, worse still, I didn’t know if I would get better.  When I asked people, there seemed to be no answer other than, “Hopefully, the effects of the medicine will pass.”

Quite serendipitously, the day I went off the medicine was the day I was to meet an Ayurvedic doctor.  I had set up the appointment some weeks ago, hoping to ease off the allopathic medicine.  When I went, I gave him my medical history.  He noted it down but said he just wanted to balance my elements from within and then gradually get me off all forms of medicine.  He didn’t mention the migraines, the panic or anything.  

I had not much hope but since I started the medicine, my migraines are very much under control.  So, I am keeping my fingers crossed that I don’t get any other kinds of side effects with this medicine, though the doctor has told me that it is quite a mild kind of medication that he has given.

This blog is not about my troubled times.  It is really about how I pulled myself through all this and how love and faith are really what can guide us in times of trouble.  

I made an effort to listen to my inner voice which seemed shaky and weak, but which pointed me in a certain direction.  I learnt that the direction which makes me feel better from inside is always the direction to take, no matter what anyone says.  I learnt not to ignore those little bits of contentment or peace which came unbidden.  And that peace leads to a trickle of joy sometimes, which may be easily forgotten.  But then another trickle of joy comes along and slowly, very slowly, I realized that there are many tiny trickles of joy to be found in my world.

People helped a lot too; I was lucky enough to find the right kind of people.  Too much talking does not help.  Some people are embarrassed or don’t seem to want to hear about your misfortunes.  Some give weird and wild advice which just unsettles you even more.  Some will just shrug it off or say, “Snap out of it,” which is exactly what you want to do but don’t know how to.

I was very fortunate that my husband stood firmly beside me at every step.  I woke him up a million times at night, called him endlessly at all hours while he was in lab and just repeated the same thing over and over, “I don’t feel good.  I want to be back to what I was.”

He always heard me out, always encouraged me, always stood firm in his belief that I was gradually getting better, and everything would be fine.

My sister-in-law Tanu supplied me with virtual hugs and physical lavender sachets, both of which I clung to at night.  Another sister-in-law, Kaveri, provided kind words over the phone.  My friend Nora who is a Five Element acupuncturist, sent me diagrams of points that I could press or needle to get back into equilibrium.

My music teacher, Soumitro, served as a great source of strength and focused my energy in the direction of music, which I found very therapeutic.  Though I began learning music less than a year ago (to help my son practice), never having learnt it before, I found myself drawn greatly to the sounds and notes that were introduced to me.  My head felt better, my mind felt soothed and I discovered that I enjoyed singing.  I called my teacher many times when I was low, and he always responded positively and joyfully, talking me through my troubles with examples of his views on how to feel good about life and reminding me that all was well in my world.  He introduced me to peaceful and happy ragas that I could hear and sometimes hum or just replay in my mind.  From being a music teacher, he moved onto being a friend to my son and myself.

And so, gradually, began the shift to positivity.  I began ignoring the pangs and they gradually receded.  I did not know how to actually feel happy again but my husband encouraged me to take time to do the things I had always enjoyed.  Swimming, cooking and music filled the hours when my son went back to physical school.  I stopped dwelling on all the paperwork that was piled up related to my father’s work.  I timidly began asking people for advice or help when I found there were financial and other tasks beyond me, and I discovered how much goodwill there was for me.  I may not have achieved any high-flying targets in recent years, but I care about people and people seem to remember and appreciate it.  I sensed that and it made me feel grateful.  This is how, gradually, the transition occurred.  

Initially, in the swimming pool, my mind would be full of troubled thoughts, “I’m just wasting my time here when I should be doing bank work.”  Now I enjoy the tranquility of the pool, the pale turquoise water with the glimmering sun beans slanting through.  I enjoy the feel of the water and the way my body feels at the end of the swim.  I enjoy the warm shower I take after that.

Earlier I would quake at the thought of making anything more complicated than rice, dal and a curry.  Now I’m back to khow suey, stir fried crabs, homemade pizza and more.  

Earlier, a walk outside would just be a short respite before I returned to my old worries.  Now, I feel the breeze, smell the damp earth, reach out to the ancient trees and the young, springy grass that grows alongside.  I thank Nature for showing me all its beauty each time I step outside.  

I make it a point now to stay in touch with people I care about.  Earlier I wondered what I could say to them as nothing much was happening in my life.  Now I realize it doesn’t matter.  Somehow, we connect, words flow, and people appreciate my gesture of reaching out to them.

Not that I no longer sense those clouds gathering.  They do come once in a while, but they don’t stay for long.  I try to remember the peaceful or happy moments of my days and remind myself that each day will be filled with some of these special times, which will stretch out for longer and longer periods.  And I will get back to my yoga and my writing soon.  

I no longer take natural beauty, bursts of joy, periods of peace and different forms of love or compassion for granted.  Each such moment has become very special for me- a gift to be grateful for and to be cherished.  I find that acknowledging and appreciating each beautiful moment inevitably leads to other moments of great positivity.

And as for banks and other impersonal institutions that I need to keep dealing with?  They can all wait.  My happiness can’t.

My Cupboard Complains

 It all began with the packers.  Everything that goes wrong in our house, if not blamed on the monkeys, is always blamed on the packers.  But it WAS their fault.  For mixing things up in big boxes, leaving them unlabeled and strewn all over the house.  Boxes that were too big and heavy for me to move, boxes that were too jumbled up for me to guess what lay within each.  There is more order in volcanic eruptions than in my unpacked boxes.

"It's okay,"says my husband.  "We're not here to win a prize for neat and tidy homes."  (This means, "I'm not going to waste my time clearing up this mess when I can work on a Coronavirus vaccine."). Fair enough.  And, usually, it's okay.  The inherent lack of order combined with the disorder my son brings each day into our house is something we live cheerfully with. (Garbage is not garbage, according to my son.  It is a thing of wondrous possibilities, which he must explore).

We moved in just before the Coronavirus did.  At a busy time, a few days before Diwali.  "Don't worry about unpacking, immediately" said my husband (which meant, "I have to go to Africa on Diwali.  We'll deal with things when I return.").  And so I just skimmed the surface of what lay in the boxes and put them away.  Of course certain emergencies required immediate action (like my husband realising a few hours before his flight that he had no sweater.  Finally, after much upheaval, we located one (and only one) sweater -the rest were packed in a completely different box in the garage.

It has now been almost two years since we moved.  Gradually I have unpacked, leaving the lowest priority and most voluinous items for the end.  These were undoubtedly my clothes.  Living in three pairs of clothes for a year brought a certain sense of freedom.  No choices to be made.  No accessories to choose.  Just wear, wash and repeat the process.  This served me well through the first pandemic year.  Until my clothes developed holes that grew larger and larger.

It was then that I unpacked and put away the rest of my clothes.  My cupboard is old and exceedingly beautiful.  It has spotless glass and coloured tiles on it and is made of ancient, gleaming teak.  But its design is such that I cannot see half the contents because the doors do not open completely.  To access these, I have to pull everything our, sift through the clothes and push everything back again.  Not practical but I love my cupboard much too much to change this.  And my cupboard (when it is not in one of its moods, loves me immensely too).

So I carefully put away my things but had no use for most of them because life was still moving at maximum simplicity scale.  The priority was waking up early, going outdoors to play, rushing back, cooking breakfast, checking internet connections, making sure we were in time for the zoom calls, cooking the next meal and repeating this process over and over.

It was finally only today that I gathered the energy to wear a saree.  I got my first saree when I was sixteen and I have loved wearing them ever since.  In my parents' house I was oblivious as to the demands of sarees- they demand to be hand washed, starched, sun-dried, carefully ironed and put away in the right place, next to the matching blouses and petticoats.  It is understandable that I have not been able to summon the energy to wear a saree for the last two years.

But today things were different.  Today I was determined to wear one.  And so I went confidently to the cupboard and pulled out my favourite colour- off white.  I love all shades of white and this white and blue one was what I would wear today.

But life had Other Plans.  The saree was perfect, but - no blouse!  I searched high and low and finally located the blouses tucked away in a corner, camouflaged next to a bunch of dupattas.  Whew!  But the problem was far from solved.  My cupboard, which once overflowed with white petticoats suddenly shook its head when I asked it to produce just one.  "Not possible," it said with a little sigh.  "You didn't put them in here."

Didn't put them in here!  I was aghast.  Where HAD I put them?

"Well maybe you did.  But - ahem- you have so many white clothes and they look all the same folded up that I can't tell," my ancient cupboard groaned.  "Here- why don't you take this nice- grey one."

Grey!  I shuddered.  It is a colour I don't like.  "Okay, how about- bright yellow, dark mustard, navy blue.."

I shook my head.  "Oh!  You're so hard to please," creaked my cupboard.  "Well, take this- it's a very old green one."

Green- I rummaged around.  Yes, I had a saree.  I had a blouse (did it fit?- whew! yes it did..).  Okay I could manage that.  "Thank you," I whispered to the cupboard.  "Don't mention it- ever again," it sighed.  I wondered.  Had I been too demanding?

Finally, after I got into my saree, I felt it had all been worth it.  Yes, there are mounds of clothes scattered about which have to be rearranged and put back.  Yes, I need to find those white petticoats asap.  Yes, I will have to wash this saree (but I am not going to think that far ahead).  Today, I am going to enjoy wearing my green saree with this cheerful red blouse.  A small triumph of perseverance in the face of complete clothes-finding chaos.  Even my cupboard approves of that.

It Rains!

 It rains, the Earth

Sighs in relief

 It has been parched

Beyond belief.

It rains, the trees sway

With the breeze

I watch the drops

Leap off the leaves.

It rains, the sky

Is all aglow

With fireflies'

Fluorescent flow.

It rains, I hear

The koel call

Nocturnal notes 

That rise and fall.

Faultless notes

That flit and dart

They echo deep

Within my heart.

It rains and brings

A peace so deep

My heart is full

I fall asleep.