On the demise of a tree.

The first flight of stairs was suddenly awash with uninterrupted sunshine. It was harsh and it hurt the eyes where it bounced off the glazed tiles on the wall. People climbing up or down, shaded their eyes with files, notebooks  to avoid the glare.The rusted, years old ,railings, having been suddenly thrown open to scrutiny, each strand of cobweb painfully visible.
The tree had fallen. The tree that had always been there, as old as time itself, had given way. The impossible had happened.
Some said the tree roots had been gnawed away slowly by the inexorable termite, some said it was a simple case of old age, others had more sinister explanation of sabotage and arson.
All said and done the tree was lost. Forever.
No more dappling of sunbeams on stairs.No more sweet smelling blossoms flooding the first floor rooms . No more extra work for the sweeper to gather fallen leaves and withered blossoms on the verandah upstairs. No more cheerful squirrels running up and down the length of its benevolent trunk.No more shall flocks of parrots and mynahs fight over its fragrant fruits, no cackle over perching rights on the branches. No more shade fronm the harsh summer sun and no more soothing- to -behold greenery poking its way onto the roof.
That afternoon , it rained. Cats and dogs. Torrential rain; monsoon in all its fury; unleashed.
The first floor was a swamp, as the rain lashed and battered , unchecked, unhindered.
Next morning, as the sweeper grumpily mopped the floors, some one peered down and said' look'!!
We all craned our necks.The tree stump was moist, slowly oozing sap, as though, bleeding , and right next to it grew a small cluster of straggling saplings, poking their pale green heads through the dense layer of dead leaves.
A collective sigh rose from the crowd. We smiled at each other and went back to work.

The baby bike

"You have two kids, right,'she shouted at me from downstairs, hair and pink T-shirt billowing in the stiff breeze." No! I Have one". I shouted back from the first floor balcony. "Whose bike is it in your garage then?"She countered back. I sighed and braced; for the umpteenth time; for another round of ridicule. "It is mine."Quickly erupting into the familiar fit of giggles, she whispered , "But it is a kids' bike!"
I took a deep breath and launched on a full scale explanation, gesticulating wildly, like a theatre actor of yore, from the first floor balcony, toddlers squirming on both our hips,craving attention.
It started two months ago. My new born turned four months and my maternity leave plus furlough was fast dwindling. I faced uncertain future, so far as my method of commuting to the workplace was concerned.My sweet husband and I used to drag the newly bought, unused scooter, to the lonely hillock behind abandoned hangars(I insisted on total privacy), where every attempt of mine, at taming the metal beast, would end in him calling me' stupid cow' and me dissolving into tears. Sullen faced we returned every nightfall, avoiding each other. The two-wheeler remained untamed. Time was slipping by faster.
It was then, that my ever thoughtful husband, had a brainwave at the breakfast table.Toast in hand, in between mouthfuls, he declared"We'll buy you a kids' bike"!!The support wheels wont let you fall off and you wont need me ." He declared with a finality. The shining new , red and yellow contraption, with tweety stickers on the side was bought.As my relieved better half pointed out triumphantly"the ball was in my court now', or rather'the baby bike was in the garage".
I was on my own. No swearing, cursing and crying. I only had myself to curse and swear at.
The shame of it was so intense that for the first two weeks or so I rode the bike on the terrace, in the balcony.Driving the people living downstairs insane.The deed was done in the wee hours of the morning, around 4a.m, adding insult to injury.
Enough courage was gathered during this time, and I timidly ventured out on the road.As my ever optimistic husband pointed out" after all you have to drive on the road, dont you?"
My downstair neighbours heaved a sigh of relief. The time I chose was around 8.30 a.m. , when most of the office goers from the colony, had departed for the day.The rubber tyres scrunched on the gravel as I went on my slow tour of the neighbourhood.As one of my honest friends summed it up 'We felt sorry for the small bike". Needless to mention, I had not yet lost my post pregnanacy weight.
This carried on for a couple of weeks, till my vigilant better half decided to remove the support wheels. Then falls, bruises and cuts became the norm.Stumbling and tumbling my way through the macadam, I had almost given up when a miracle happened.
The maids' daughter came a- visiting from the village. She rode a proper -sized adult bicycle meant for ladies(minus the front rod). Upon some coaxing, I climbed up the perch, which to me, seemed way too high.My kind maid(God bless her) held the carrier behind, steadying me, while I warily pedalled, surging ahead, way too fast . It was drizzling and I was still dressed in my night clothes. To ease tensions, we began talking about the weather. After a while, she stopped answering me. I turned back , and saw to my horror, she waving me merrily on, standing few metres away. I was on my own!! I was actually riding a bicycle without falling off!!
I remember the brand(Hero-Miss India) of the bicycle, the colour(faded purple) and that I said every single prayer, to every God, I could recall in all the religions I had heard of. The entire hindu pantheon and all the gurus had been invoked and beseeched,  by the time I finished the entire colony perimeter. The real reason for having carried on ahead was my percieved inability to alight from such a lofty perch, without assistance.
But it had been proved, beyond doubt,that I could ride a bicycle. I raced ahead upstairs, rang up my better half, to give him the good news, bang in the middle of a surgery(while he, gloved hand and masked , patiently heard me out)
The journey from the bicycle to a two wheeler was swift, and at the end of a week, I could safely commute to my workplace and back; in a matter of minutes. I am full of gratitude to my better half, my maid, and sundry friends who would stop to give friendly advice while I was still tottering.

The bus accident

 It had been drizzling since our jouney began. The daylight faded away and was replaced by sickly gloom of yellow, street lamps. All the windows were shut, and the rain drummed a staccato beat on the wet panes. The passengers had settled down to a gentle murmur of snooze as the bus sped by lush paddy fields brimming over with the monsoon bonanza.The sky grew darker as the occasional distant roll of thunder was audible  The road stretched before us like a wet strip of ghostly silver.
It must have been near abouts 2200hrs. The only sounds in the bus were muffled sounds of drunken revelry emanating fom the bus drivers cabin.Strains of bawdy songs disturbed our slumber.
A sudden screech of the tyres followed by a loud thud jolted us all awake. The bus heaved and shuddered to an uneasy stop, creaking and groaning.
My companion and me had slid to the floor. Lying in a confused heap of loose footwear and suitcases, we could hear the  emerging sounds of pain from the people behind us. In the darkness of the night, people slowly  got to their foot, and  the numbed minds coming to senses.A slight movement of the inmates sent the bus lurching forward and we knew that it was hanging half in and half out of the rice field. We were teetering
on the edge of the road.
From our window we could see the remains of the truck our bus had hit, turned askew, its rear  end smashed.Agroup of people started hammering the door to the bus drivers cabin, jammed due to the impact.
The cabin itself was abandoned and in the dim street lamp of the  village we could make out the shapes of driver and his cronies, one of whom kept dabbing at blood oozing from his forehead, standing out in the rain.Almost immediately, a crowd of villagers materialised, carrying umbrellas. Passengers were getting hysterical, being trapped as it were in a locked, lurching bus.Some one was about to miss his connecting flight from Guwahati, and he unleashed a volley of invectives directed against the bus driver and company.Taking the cue, they turned tails and quickly vanished into the crowd, leaving us to fend for ourselves.
Luckily, a young man, about twenty year old, took charge, and climbed aboard the shattered cabin. The bus groaned and lurched ominously. Despite the obvious danger, he made a battering ram of an uprooted bench and smashed open the door, miraculously saving us. Someone from the crowd had propped another piece of wreckage against the now non-existing foot board, so that we slid to safety out, instead of landing in the muddy field.
In our hurry to attend to various cuts and bruises and in the panic to catch the next minibus to our destinations, we could never discover the identity of the good samaritan whose bravery saved so many lives.

A new day

Everyday , a whole new world of oppurtunity is born. Everyday, the providence gives us an oppurtunity to redeem ourselves, to rectify our wrongdoings, to begin afresh. Every morning should be treated as a discrete gift, completely bereft of all the staleness of yesterday.For each day, newer goals can be achieved, newer steps can be tried out, new frontiers explored, new words learnt, new dishes learnt, and newer bridges of hope built.
Each morning should be treated as a miracle. As an oppurtunity to start out afresh, as a blank page waiting to be written upon, as a blank canvas waiting to be painted upon.
As Scarlett of' Gone With the Wind' would say"tomorrow is another day".

Gym patrons

A sudden culmination of a long standing desire, and the tilting of the weighing scale needle in the wrong direction brought us to the doors of our very own cantonement gym. Out side the door hung an ominous sign. How to dress appropriately(no saris!) and how to maintain proper etiquette(wipe the handle of the equipment off the sweat, donot monopolise the treadmill etc,etc).
Of all the various time slots offered to various group of human beings(officers, lady wives, lady officers, officers'families et al ) we fell into the latter category, yours truly being of the so called weaker gender, accompanied by my chivalrous husband.We had precisely half an hour to put our wrongdoings of a life time to right and "push off" before the next group arrived.
Gradually, a daily pattern emerged and we began to recognise faces as our gym-mates.
The most noticeable entry would be of a family of three, all dressed in audacious black. Almost like the klu klux klan of fitness. Father in shorts, mother in leggings and daughter in knee length capris. Terse orders would be issued to the attendant on their entry, and a blue plastic stool would materialise from the nether end of a gym already bursting with fitness gadgets. On this hapless stool. the patriarch would proceed to perform ingenuous feats , in the name of yoga and work outs, putting Jane Fonda and others of their collective ilk to shame. After every feat, he would breathlessly glance up to see how many eyeballs were swivelled in his direction.Many were indeed, glued to this awesome spectacle.
The mother busied herself on a weight training machine, hitherto , the male domain. The daughter, looking peevish, would cycle on the easiest cycle around, thereby depriving me of my own shammer's throne. The fitness fanatic family carried their own blue bottle of water and strode in with their own towels on their backs. They were all lean and mean and oozed serious business of keeping themselves fit.
Then there was this voyeur. He too took his vocation of seeing people exercising very seriously. He would fix  nervous gym goers, especially the females , with unwavering and  unnerving stares. That people were positively squirming under his relentless gaze made no difference to him. Only backing out when he was stared back. A strategy most females mastered over a period of time. Thereby beginning a different type of game.
Yet another patron was this handsome hunk, who would roll up his sleeves, impossibly upto the arm pits, thereby revealing his' drool-worthy' biceps. He didint have to do much to gain attention. His muscles and abs did the talking.
Another class belonged to the reluctant exercisers. All out of shape and breath, trying hard to tame bodies spoilt by years of indulgence.We belonged to this group. So did a couple of colonels, doing sit ups which they so fondly doled out to their  troops as punishment.
Finally, the narcissist.Taking due advantage of the wall sized mirrors, he would position himself, hands on hips,admiring oneself from various angles, and mentally ticking the areas that needed to be worked upon further.

The Hindi Teacher

With all the dignity of a village mukhiya (chief), this dhoti and rawhide shoe clad true "son of the soil"- shouted loud and clear-"Saaaavdhaaaan"(attention). The platoon of unruly school children reluctantly came to attention. Some one audibly grumbled" Sir, angrezi mein boliye".
His ears immediately picked up the words" thik hai, ab angrezi mein'-" Eshtaand at eeeash". The group stood at ease and girls broke into uncontrollable fit of giggles, boys followed suit and soon the air was rent with adolescent, high pitched laughter.
Not one to be left behind, his face broke into a sheepish grin . Next moment he had composed himself and bellowed "claaaass dissshmisssh".The lines broke up. In midst of all the hilarity and chatter,he made his way to the school gates with his head, held high and back, ramrod straight.
Sudhanshu sir made his appearance at a time when we desperately needed a good hindi teacher.On this particular  day, he was filling in for a sick colleague, the P.T. teacher. His generosity and leadership abilities having been severely put to test on this first day. He went on to take several other parade lessons, all commanded in chaste hindi, while english speaking teachers stood on the sidelines and chafed in vain.
.Our school was a convent school, run by nuns and fathers; mostly from Kerala. Where our school was exemplary in all other subjects,Hindi and sanskrit suffered . Due to obvious reasons.The present incumbent was more interested in telling us ghost stories during the said classes. Needless to mention, the marks obtained were also ghostly,precipitating certain fainting episodes.
It was rumoured that Ajay sir(the aforementioned ghost story teller )  was a good purohit(performer of religious rites). That did not necessitate a good knowledge of the scriptures.
Enter Sudhanshu sir. Not only was he strikingly differently attired, ha had a profound sense of pride in the languages he was intended to teach us. He had no patience for people who made fun of hindi, sanskrit or the attire that he donned. Some of his fierce loyalty, must have rubbed onto us proteges, for not only did we do well in the language exams, we went onto win debates and elocution competitions held in Hindi.
He could recite entire sanskrit poems verbatim, had the meanings , comprehension of the passages at his fingertips, trashed the locally available guide books,(in a swift , didactic move having gathered everyones copies and confined it to dustbins) and generally quelled all signs of rebellion at his rustic appearance.
During the long , harsh winters of the plains, while everyone made a beeline for sweaters and jackets, he smugly wrapped himself around in a coarse blanket.
That scarcely dimmed his brilliance. He was happy to be himself and had no regard for the popular opinion on his sartorial eccentricities.He taught us to take pride in our inner being and not be too bothered by the external appearances. Our marks soared and his detractors were silenced.
No one laughed at his parades conducted in hindi any more.From the most laughed at teacher, he went on to become the most venerated. And sought after. Apparently, his maths skills were also legendary.

the train journey

I was distraught. Clutching the ticket, my bag strap biting into my shoulder, I stared unbelievably at the reservation charts. It clearly said W/L 9. That was waiting list 9. I could not fathom the reason as to why the reservation had not" moved up".This, despite having booked my tickets three months in advance.
I felt close to tears. A large lump in the throat already threatened to spill out  tears from the eyes. Finally, I tore my eyes away from the charts. Mere staring them down, wouldn't change my unreserved status.
Right then the train chugged onto the crowded platform.
The crowd surged towards the doors. Helplessness began rising like a tide . I had never travelled unreserved before. Neither had I ever travelled alone before. I rose on tip toe and saw two islands of black and white clad TTEs(Travelling ticket examiners), in this crowd of swirling humanity.I made a beeline for the closest TTE.
To my dismay , he was already besieged by several  unreserved ticket holders like me. After what seemed an eternity, I mananged to push my way through the clamouring crowd and pushed my ticket in his hand . He promptly shoved it back in my hand, and shouted the dreaded words through the din, for all of us desperate travellers-"jagah nahin hai"(there are no more seats). Refusing to be browbeaten, I screamed back " Yeh first class ka ticket hai."(this is a ticket for the first class).As an answer, he gave me a half grin , revealing betel nut coloured teeth.Disgusted, I used my last argument, somewhat half-heartedly" Mein railway officer ki beti hoon"(my father had advised me to throw my weight around, he said it might help.He couldn't have been more wrong ). To which, the TTE tilted his head (to avoid splattering others with his paan spittle) and let loose a hideous guffaw. Others in the crowd joined him and turned to look at me , jeering. I wished the earth would crack and swallow me whole.
The TTE shrugged and turned away,' seatless ' guys in hot pursuit. I didn't join them. My humiliation was complete. But missing the train was not an option.
I had to board the train back home. I had paid for a ticket alright, I consoled myself.
The first class compartment door was locked, from inside. It was ominously dark inside. The train was about to leave in a few minutes. Panic welled in my chest as I hammered onto the door, screaming' open up" in four different languages,(hindi,marathi, english and bengali ; in that order).The bengali did the trick. God bless the car attendant's bengali soul. Groggily(it was only 2130hrs, and this guy had hit the sack) he proceeded to interrogate me, as to who I was, why was I creating such a din etc .I took a deep breath as I planted my feet in the corridor and began my tale of woes. I was cut short in mid first sentence and was asked to curtly "sit in here", as he disappeared in to the darkness after having locked the gate.
The train heaved and quickly gathered speed.
 I had dismal visions of being bundled off on some godforsaken station, bag and all; and left there to perish in anonymity.
In olden days , the first class(non-AC) had a windowed corridor bordering the doors to the cubicles. I was waiting in one such corridor, for the attendant to return. It was a warm summer evening and the open windows brought in fresh air to the rattling train. A single yellow bulb, above the entrance to the washroom ,threw a sickly pale light into the place. Audible and ominous snores emanated from the shuttered cubicles. The entire corridor was deserted . A part of me was relieved. At least I had boarded the train. And I was sitting on my bag outside the first class berths,that should have been mine.
The breeze, the chugging train, and the hectic day(practical exams on the final day before summer holidays)and relief at having boarded the train took its toll.
Next thing I knew, I was staring at a pair of chappal-ed feet , standing next to me, and bright sun streaming down on me from the windows.
Igot up hurrriedly. I had slept off in the corridor!!(when recounted to merciless classmates, some one, callously wanted to know if there were coins,as alms, lying next to me.)
This was a whole new low for me. The pampered daughter of a railway surgeon, sleeping in stinky dirty train corridor!!Shaking with indignation, I faced the owner of the feet, a middle aged man in pyjamas waiting his turn at the washroom, toothbrush and towel in hand.Hurriedly, I proceeded to unburden my sob story on him. Having patiently heard me, he informed me that this bogie was about to be detached at the next station, that we were in the middle of Madhya Pradesh and that in order to reach Howrah ,one had to shift to the next first class bogie.
It was nine o'clock when we reached the next stop. The TTE I met in the next bogie was more friendly and found me a berth in no time. God bless him. The next night I slept in my own berth and reached home eventually the third morning.
Note:
This journey was undertaken two decades ago, when shatabdis and  rajdhanis  existed on paper and a journey from maharashtra(pune) to west bengal(howrah) spanned 72 hours and 1539kms, across the width of the Indian nation, crossing five states and at least ten dialectic zones.

The lost friend

We, my better half and two very tired kids, had trudged up and down the hillock twice , before we spotted her name on the gate. We hesitated. It was a huge house, full of greenery. Foliage trying to escape from the confines of the dilapidated boundary walls built during the British era.Creepers and vines ,dried as well as green also threatened to choke the rusted bars of the two wrought iron gates, one of which was ominously chained and padlocked.
Upon ringing the bell(which sounded a faint gong somewhere) at the unlocked gate, an elderly gentleman made an appearance at the door.Dressed in the unpretentious' mund', iconic to keralites the world over, he walked over to us , his flip-flops chattering on the cobbled pathway.The familiar and endearing simplicity almost rendered us speechless. He had the same slanting forehead. I found myself asking him for my friend in pigdin malayalam, a language I had not spoken or heard for fifteen long years.
He nodded,obviously not trusting my linguistic abilities.
As he turned he motioned us in and I gingerly followed in ,the eyes took a moment to adapt to the darkness inside the room.Immediately, I recognised  her sitting at the laptop, her back to me. Flowing waist length hair, dark purple suit , she turned to look and was frozen for a moment.
Her screams of recognition brought the other members of the family into the spacious living room(the size of a small basket ball court). Her parents grinning , my own folks trooped in , sheepishly smiling.
Her non stop chatter  setting the scene for a long morning, full of reminiscing and catching up on lost times , numerous milestones and life events that we missed.
She would begin sentences in English and end them in malayalam, hoping I would latch on like olden days, I would shake my head and she would break into her heartwarming guffaws. Totally beside herself she insisted we have lunch before we left.
Time flew by and it was time to say goodbye, this time we promised to keep in touch, via social media.
Another miracle had occurred. I had met my long lost friend, played with her cute daughter of two years , one couldn't ask for more.
It was one of the most wonderful day of my life, one I would always cherish.

The lame one

She was called langdi(the lame one ). A debilitating affliction in her childhood left her with a twisted spine. She recovered after a prolonged bout of fever to discover that she could no longer straighten up fully. Those days were the dark ages of medical science and no one could actually help her. Fate and destiny decided to be kind to her thereafter and she grew  up with stunning good looks.

A young police officer in charge of rounding up congress crooks(pre independence revolutionaries) took one look at the girl(daughter of the village landlord)and was totally smitten. Love must have been sufficiently blind enough to gloss over the obvious handicap, and they were married. The fairy tale wedding was the talk of the entire district. The  festivities lasted few weeks and the delicacies made mouths water, even when recounted two generations later.

She bore three sons and one daughter (another stunner) to the guy who went on to retire as the SP(superintendent of police). 

They owned a large house in the suburbs of a famous hill town, had two cars in an era where having two bicycles in the house was considered extravagance. 

 The youngest son grew up to be a politician of note . Other two boys fared better. Landing government jobs and pretty brides.
She lost her husband to old age and diabetes, a few years ago. Thereafter , the sons convinced their mother to undergo hip and knee replacement surgeries.With the tenacity brought on by life long hardships, she was up and about on her feet , within days of surgery.
After a lifetime of jabs and ridicule, she stood up straight, looked world in the eye and smiled.
She is somewhere in her seventies now. All grit and resilience, she hobbles around the house in her new walker, teasing her grand children, reprimanding errant servants, her back ram- rod straight.
She is no longer the lame one.

Whats in a name ?

Names are the small identification tags, that human beings stick to each other, in order to distinguish say A from B.Like every thing else, this too leads to interesting and hilarious stories.

During my primary school, I was made to sit next to a boy called pope paulose. I remember this because later I came to know what or who a pope was. There couldnt have been greater disparity. The said boy was dark, unkempt, with lice crawling over his forehead,( having decided to breathe some fresh air as against his heavily oiled locks).He was nothing like a pope or paulose. 

Our small township was a goldmine of hilarious names. My enterprising elder sister once took it upon herself to compile such gems and her list , unbelievably , ran into fifty odd , odd-names. We lived in that part of Bihar where it was common to add the suffix of' babu'(not to be mistaken with the bengali term for endearment ; or with the malayali proper name), to all respectable gent's names.Whether the suffix diluted the effect of the names or highlighted them is tough to decide.

We had , KaanuBabu(the one eyed one), Paanu babu(the guy who eats too many paans -betel nuts),Chchedi babu(immortalised in salman bhai's dabang)paanchu babu(some thing to do with five-paanch)penchu babu(either' screws''-pench';or related to owl)goda babu(tattoos).A rare name was Teenkauri babu(the story goes that the unfortunate guy survived the death of numerous earlier siblings; to ensure his long life , a ritual was performed wherein he was sold to the Lord Yama- the god of death; for three cowrie shells).

An older cousin, a highschool dropout and a troublemaker was endowed with the unseemly moniker of' chavanni'(25 paise). Last I heard, he was a lawyer. Wonder what his clients address him as?

My favourite was' gulaabi babu', the nonchalant dispenser of medicines at the local medical shop. Poor guy had nothing rosy about him. The LGBT movement was unheard of , and madhuri dixit or' gulaab gang' was yet to make an appearance.

My own name has had its share of lime light.I was named after the lake (pampa sarovar) which lord rama crossed on his way to sri lanka. My malayali friends were petrified at the serpentine connotations (paamb means snake), the well read ones demanded to know if I knew that I was named after a grassland in Argentina(The Pampas).My more irreverent friends have called me papaya, pumpkin, (anything that is large and begins with a p).Pompous, pompeii are other distorted versions which I have to grin and bear. In college , everytime a new teacher took the roll-call,  I would patiently wait for him/her to reach my name. They would invariably falter, much to the collective mirth of the class.Then I would sigh and tell them it rhymes with champa-the flower.That would result in another round of raucous , hearty laughter from the benches. 

The Oscar Awards Night

"Oscar"!! My daughter jumped up off her chair,note books, pens, pencils  flying in all directions." Oh my god"!!Hair whipping her cheeks , she flew into the living room, totally oblivious to the startled looks around her, she plonked herself on the sofa. She was immediately transported across the seven seas, to the world of glittering stars, sequinned gowns, tulle and laces, tuxedos and bow ties. Awe struck, she hunched, hugging her knees, laughing when they tried to be funny, smiled when they preened, and sobered up when someone on the screen became sentimental.
That a television program could be so riveting was not new to us. What was vexing is that this should crop up one day before her sanskrit exams.
Instead of focusing on her own sanskriti(culture), there she goes, emulating the west blindly, grumbled the family elder. Youngsters were vexed that their slapstick comedy show had been interrupted and the prime TV viewing seat hijacked. I was more worried about the dinner getting cold and my better half fumed about "total lack of discipline in this house".
Everyone, by the by, made a beeline to their respective bedrooms.Dinners eaten, teeth brushed, the din of living died down as everyone paid attention to their sleeptime.
The lone ranger continued to stare at the idiot box, glued , entranced. Breathing and living in a world whose marvels were unfolding , scene upon scene, enthralling her totally.

the salmon.

The salmon lives a majority of its life in the sea, where the sea water nourishes it. This existence in the sea brings untold wealth of minerals and nutrients to the tissues , sinews and bones of the salmon.
Carrying all this goodness of the natures marine bounty inside it, the salmon does a weird thing.( Weird for us human beings perhaps, who are probably less of 'givers' and more of 'consumers')
.The salmon upon attaining sexual maturity, swims upriver, (miraculously)and spawns there.
This is euphemistically termed' salmon run, 'wherein salmon actually runs into death and destruction. We are given to believe that preservation of the self is perhaps the overwhelming goal of all living creatures.It spawns and perishes.Paradoxically, this annual unholy pilgrimage of the salmon brings about its end.It provides food to hungry grizzlies woken up from their hibernation, migrating birds on the lookout for natures bounty and of course, puts mouth watering piscine delicacies on many a platter for humans.
The saga of sacrifice doesnot end here. After having laid eggs (or spawned), the fish age rapidly and succumb to "death due to natural causes"(as spoken in medical parlance). It simply gives up living. Thousands of miles from,' home'(the sea), having reached the upper reaches of the river of its birth,it dies. In its end bringing to the fresh waters the nutritional goodness of the sea, which leaches into smaller lakes(nourishing bird populations) and surrounding land(nourishing giant trees like the aspen, cedar, birch ,oak, to name a few) and literally supports the entire riparian ecosystem.
Now, that is some giving. In addition to nourishing its own young, which was the original plan ostensibly.
I think we all have a great deal to learn from salmon,lessons of giving, of not giving up, of tenacity, of generosity and above all of the meaning of our existences(which we so futilely hold countless discussions on ).