An ode to upma

 Upma is a salty porridge of sorts that has slowly but steadily, grown in popularity all over the nation . 

Made of semolina, broken wheat , vermicelli, bread , etc , it is a heartwarming dish on a cold Monday morning , when life appears forbidding , and the spirits are as down  as dew drop covered grass . It warms hearts , fills bellies and tiffin boxes , and brings good cheer to grumpy people. 

It is easy to make, therefore manifesting promptly on dining table before people can utter " no breakfast".

Some , arguing against, would say it is a humble, peasant dish , with nothing great about it .

It has been however, seen , like a chameleon, to take on the hues of its surroundings. One may find it , ghee - slick , studded with dry fruits glistening with loaded calories at a wedding feast ( for instance) . Or , in the Spartan company of rustic vegetables . 

What one craves on a rainy cold evening , however ,is the plainest , almost grey ( echoing the sky outside) version with minimal accompaniments , but with warmth ample enough to keep the sun glowing in your heart. 

ChatGPT

 "Artificial Intelligence will have a more profound effect on humanity , than fire , electricity or internet . " - Sundar Pichai .

The single most , relatively quiet , revolutionary moment in the field of robotics , in 2023 , was the launch of Chat GPT . Launched on 14th March by Open AI , a robotics research institute in the US , GPT4 ( Generational Pre trained Transformer 4 ) is a multi modal large language model made available to the internet users , via a the chatbot called Chat GPT . 

It has taken the world of computers , internet users , students , all , by storm . It can process 25, 000 words , and can respond to images . 

It has revolutionised home work , classrooms , presentations , and our literary  expressive abilities . 

Though the users have fallen for it , hook , line and sinker , for you can write your essays , speeches , presentations , and articles , in the blink of an eye , there is a word of caution , for the over enthusiasts . Slowly , and certainly , we seemed to have entered a dangerous realm where we have given our ability to think , to a machine . We will be spoon fed words and phrases , and somewhere on the way , our creativity will take a beating . Our minds may yet emerge winners , but it is a shaky possibility . 

Like a wise man once said 

"By far , the greatest  danger of Artificial Intelligence is that people conclude , far too early , that they understand it . " - Eliezer Yudkowsky 

Good Morning" friends"

 On every Android phone , except that of my nonagenarian parents , is an app called WhatsApp . 

It allows you to send and receive messages , to and fro, from " friends " , families and acquaintances . 

There are roughly 15 of these so called " contacts " , in my list. I wish them every morning , and  , am wished back , in return . That is how this works . 

This early morning exchange of digital greetings has led to very interesting observations . 

There is a friend , who , in return to my innocuous ( or so I think) , roses and posies , sends me a short homily . On how I should conduct myself  , the ways of the world , and such like , similar philosophies . The gems read " " You are punished if you have common sense . For then, you have to tolerate all those people who don't have it. " 

" All the wealth in the world cannot buy you sight , if you choose to shut your eyes. " 

Another class ,( there are a few of them) do not reply regularly . After few days, when your overtures go unanswered , you clam up . That is when they reply .  A game of digital hide and seek. Like a drop of monsoon , in a desert . Tad too late , and frankly dangerous . They are known to scrape off top soil . But I can't say that to them . 

So I answer . And the cycle repeats itself . 

Another class , over indulgent , want to share every waking moment of their lives with you . From the photo of the early morning tea , to the paintings made by their normally tantrum filled daughter , to the food cooked that day , places visited , family get togethers , birthday cakes , wall decorations , new pots and pans , everything is posted . 

Another group is the religiously - replying class . Either through words or from pictures borrowed from other inboxes , they will never fail you. 

A last group posts religious good mornings . Either Lord Krishna , Rama or Shiva grace your screen in the morning. There is no option but to fold your hands in reverence . 

Some others are fond of Gulzar , the poet . A bit too much . In fact , most non rhyming  words and ugly poems are attributed to Gulzaar. That is  leaning on the sacrilegeous , if you ask me . 

However , the conclusion is , I am the perpetrator of all these misadventures put together , hence I too am not above board . 

Hence I am my own good morning ' friend '. 

On writing a story

 Some days back , I began writing a story. 

A few characters born and christened 

Grew out of thin air , on vanity fattened 

Run amok amongst the pages 

looking for their place in the ages 

Hunting down their own history .

She , he and they , puffs of smoke , all 

God , did they make me hurry 

Behind their backsides blurry 

trailing the thread of narrative 

muddying the perspective 

sloshing through the swamp , spinning the ball 

I finally collected my own yarn 

lassoed all the  parties aberrant

bringing them to the forefront 

Tying all the loose ends 

frayed ones I did mend 

So much hard work , darn 

Weaving a tale , 

fat as a whale 

was a lesson for me 

henceforth , just tiny 

stories .teeny weeny 

Cricket Mania

 So , last month The World Cup matches were held . All in India . In a cricket mad world . Where strangers on trains will eulogise on batting techniques , run scores and fielding . Where you can make instant friends , in banks , at roadside shops , at petrol pumps , just by mentioning the score of the days’ game . The usual greeting on “match days “ is “Score kitna hai ?” (What is the score ?)

That is followed by a detailed theory on the batting techniques of Kohli versus Maxwell , or Rohit Sharma’s captaincy versus Gavaskar . The older generation will sigh and lapse into “Ahh ! Those days !”

My neighbour upstairs has a three year old daughter . During the match days , their music , karaoke ,and raucous laughter is replaced with pin drop silence . In fact , there is silence all over the jungle too . Most matches finish in the hushed darkness of early evenings . The birds too , sit quietly on the tall tree branches , cock their heads and listen to the commentary , and the noise of the crowd in the background .

The jackals don’t howl , and parents forget to take their impatient kids to the park . All sit with hands cupping the faces , meals getting cold on the laps , mesmerised with the glowing screens. Till , a wicket falls , or a six or four is hit .

Then the world erupts into joyous Stone age-ish whoops . My upstairs neighbour runs across the length of the flat , screaming his lungs . Following his heavy tread , come a pitter patter of tiny feet following the parent , mildly alarmed , and a tiny voice pipes up “ Itna chillate kyun ho Papa ?” ( Why are you screaming thus Papa ) . Someone bursts crackers leftover from Diwali , someone else blows the conch shell , and someone rushes to the puja room to prostrate in front of silent deities .  The birds fly off , and the dogs bark , the pack joins in . A fall of a wicket halfway across the nation , transforms into and  a celebration across the jungle .

We are passionate about cricket . World Cup just made us go complete nuts .

Punah Musko Bhava

("Turn into a mouse again . " -Sanskrit . ) ( This tale of timeless wisdom , is culled from the Scriptures , and is my own retelling . It may have inconsistencies when compared to the Original tale ) 

Once upon a time , in a dense forest lived a sage . He had a small hut , away from most of the civilisation , for his yogic practices , penance and prayers . He had a small , bubbly mountain stream that went past his abode .

Often , he would be found half submerged in these freezing mountain waters , clad in nothing but a tiny loincloth , muttering prayers , facing the sun .

Once , while the sage was thus engaged , a bird of prey flew across the skies , overhead and dropped something into the Sage’s cupped palms , facing heavenward , in supplication .

The “thing “ squirmed , was bruised from being held in the talons of the eagle , and sneezed from cold . The sage , being a kind hearted individual , took the mouse indoors , and tended to its wounds . By the by , he became intensely attached to the rodent . Craving human company , as we all do , the sage , with his magical tantric and yogic powers , transformed the mouse into a lovely baby girl . He looked after her , like his own daughter , and taught her all the wisdom he had learnt from the universe . She grew up into a beautiful maiden with all the wisdom and manners of a Princess .

When she “came of age “ , she was asked by her doting father , the sage , as to who she would like to marry ? After giving it much studied thought , the young woman replied , “Father i would like to marry the one , who is most powerful of all .”

The sage , now a father , set out to fulfil his dear daughter’s desire .

He went to the Sun , the one who shines upon the entire earth , nourishing its soil , the harbinger of life and joy , the begin and the end of the day .

“O Sun !” the sage asked with folded hands , “You are the most powerful of all , please accept my daughter’s hand in matrimony .”

The Sun frowned ,”Who told you I am the most powerful in the land ? “
”Why , of course , you are . You are the reason for all life on earth . “

“No , I am not . Just look at this . “ At that very moment , a large black cloud moved across , infront of the sun , and blotted all sunshine from the earth . The world went silent in anticipation of a rain or storm , in the absence of the sun . Stillness and darkness and wintry cold , quickly descended on the sunless earth .

“I get what you said .” Shouted the sage , at the sun , who murmured a muffled acknowledgement behind the bank of cloud .

Then , he ran behind the racing cloud .

“Oh Cloud ! I can see how almighty you are ! You bring rain , hope and crops to feed the millions . You are the sower of seeds , nourisher of grains , can you please accept my daughter’s hand in marriage ? “

The cloud stood still for a moment , and turned its dark visage to the Sage .

“You are mistaken , O Sage , I am not the all powerful . You think I am running across the skies , of my own accord , no I am not ! The wind buffets me , here and there , everywhere . I am just following the diktats of his whim . I am nothing but just a puff of smoke . “

The Sage went chasing the wind , and found him chasing the clouds of sand in the desert .

“Oh wind ! I have heard you are the most powerful of all . You move the enormous clouds , making him weep and rain , in places you deem fit . “

“Who told you that ? The clouds ?”

The wind whistled a horrid chuckle , and sped to the northernmost corner of the enormous desert .

The Sage , having mastered the magic of Teleportation , caught up with the wind in no time .

“Sire , I have come to believe , you are the prime mover on this planet . You make things happen . You are the strongest of them all . Please accept my daughter’s hand in marriage . “

The wind stopped in its tracks , and looked back at the Sage .” I agree , Oh Brahmin ! your daughter is the comeliest maiden I have ever laid eyes on . But there is one who is mightier and loftier than me . He stops me in my tracks and is completely unmoved by me .”

“Who is he , Oh wind ? The sage cried .

“He lives right next to your hut O Sage . It is the Giriraj , the mountain .”

“Oh I see !” Exclaimed the sage as he sped back to his hut on the mountain side .

“ Oh Seer of all the worlds ! Great preserver of the Snow world , the shadow of the Universe . Please accept my daughter’s hand in marriage.”

“No, You don’t see , do you ? “

“See what my Lord ?”

“See , right now , on my right flank , away from the eyes of the populace , hidden in a corner , beneath a bush someone is consistently burrowing a hole into my side. I can feel the pain , but I can’t do anything about it . “

“Who is that Sire ? Please tell me ! I will burn him to ashes with my tantric powers . “ The Sage shouted , enraged .

The Mountain laughed . “ You are not getting my point. “

The Rishi stood perplexed .

“This is one entity more powerful than me . And the rightful claimant to your daughter’s hand . “

With a whoosh of air , The sage transported himself to the point the mountain indicated .

To his utter surprise , it was a tiny mouse , diligently , burrowing into the side of the mighty monarch the Mountain , in an innocuous clatter of pebbles , absorbed , single mindedly , in his task .

“Holy Seer , it is a mere mouse !” Exclaimed the sage .

“Indeed , it is . This tiny creature has the power and right by nature to burrow into my body , and I can’t do anything about it Hence , he is stronger than me . “

The Sage closed his eyes and muttering mantras , summoned his daughter next to him , and told her his entire adventure . Beginning from the sun , and ending in the mouse .

The daughter , contrary to the Sage’s belief , clapped her hands in joy, and shrieked “Father , I want to marry this mouse . Please turn me into a mouse . Please ,father , please . “

With a relieved and a heavy heart , at the same time , the Sage said “Punah Musko Bhava “ ( May you turn into a mouse again ) 

Kakima

( Kakima is the name given to the younger uncle's wife . Or the wife of the younger brother of one's father . Subsequently , over the years , it is a generic term meant for elderly neighbours  and relatives too far removed to defy any nomenclature ) 

 " She is a recluse . How much trouble can she be ?" 

That is what we were told . Like all fake reassurances before an ensuing storm , this too proved as much of a falsification , as it could . 

Kakima apparated  one fine afternoon , when the kids returned from the school . 

The astha channel had usurped the TV and the study room was occupied . The kids had to study on their beds or on the dining table . It was a no brainer . Geometrical instruments do not work on the 'electromagnetic magical 'surface of the kids beds , which is cushy enough to send most conscientious kids into the realm of sleep , in the midst of toughest trignometric sums . Horrors ! Un homeworked kids march like little criminals into the penitentiary of the school . 

Never happened before .

Lot of things never happened before . 

Fish curry was banished to a small shy side table , where the flesh eaters had to depart to season their mounds of rice , while Kakima ate sparingly on the table , a hanky on her nose , of vegetarian food , certainly "contaminated " in the kitchen by fishy utensils . 

Next day , a small bucket with terracotta mounds was bought , from a forgotten bazaar . A tidy heap of twigs was burnt for Kakima to brew her "satvic "(Pure ) Khichdi on  "pure "terracotta utensils . 

Maa rolled her eyes more frequently , and Baba took semi permanent residence in his office . 

As gullible youngsters salivated at  the delicious aroma of the ghee laced khichdi ( elder sister said, with dramatically dilated pupils for good effect ) in rhymes " A witches brew , to entice you ."

A parallel kitchen grew outside the wire mesh door of our kitchen , and the outside wall blackened with the rising soot . Baba sighed , and departed to the "Office " quickly . 

No one can say for sure , how we were related to her . Except that , like monsoon , Kakima arrived with unfailing regularity , once in a year , unannounced , to turn our household , topsy turvy. 

More fruits , than necessary , were bought , and  eaten . Apples and bananas wormed their way into our tiffin boxes as Maa would be busy participating  the elaborate puja rituals that came along with kakima . The smoky fragrance of incense emanated along with tinkle of bells and muttered mantras . Kids tip toed their way past the erstwhile study rooms , in their school socks , carrying their uniform shoes ("contaminated " ) in their hands . 

Baba was called to school office as complaints against aberrant children piled up in "unfinished homework " category . Baba sighed and reassured the teachers that , "It was just a matter of one more week " . 

Sometimes kakima would perceive the disaster brought upon by her arrival and pack up her bags early . 

Everyone would heave a sigh of relief and the study room would be repopulated by Godless kids , tramping about in shoes on holy surface . 

Chairs , tables would be dragged back in , backyard walls would be whitewashed and the tiny fish curry table would disappear . Terracotta pots , pans , along with twigs and the bucket stove would disappear into the shed , and remain there for a year . 

Amazingly , the fragrance of incense sticks would linger on in the passageway , for a long time , and astha channel would unerringly pop up , while looking for AXN . 

Time

Time is the only God 

The only cattle prod 

The one true master 

The  eternal  blaster 

Nothing else 

Comes close 

They, You and I 

Will close our eye(s) 

Time shall keep a watch 

Ironical, what a catch !! 

It will tell the universe 

Of our follies and worse 

Our weak knees , our foibles

Our undoing , barren crucibles 

How we ruined the span 

Granted to us , Oh man !! 

We were so dumb 

Hearts so very numb 

What heights we were 

Given ? We walked mere

Plains , earth , the sea

What you could see !! 

What you chose to be 

What sorrow, land bare 

Like a fallow land in meadows

Barren dead tree in dense woods 

Lost the chance, missed the goods

Time stands tall , as it should 

Judging me / our lives 

Petty , piffles , hives 

Aimless ,pointless 

Alas we,wee wasted isles. 

Goras , goats and itchy throats

 ( Foreword: Elephant foot yam or Suran or Ole is a large rhizome which is grown and eaten in West Bengal and Bihar . It is peeled , sliced ,salted and kept in the sun for leaching and drying of the juices. Thereafter , it is boiled, deep fried , cooked in a gravy heavily laced with either tamarind paste or lemon juice . Suffice to say, this extensive process is performed in order to kill one terrible property of the Yam . It itches , and how!! Hence, though it might have the pink and juicy appearance of a sweet fruit , it is to be never, never eaten raw. The reaction of the buccal mucosa is to precipitate an itchiness of ungodly proportions . It might be even called mild  anaphylaxis ) 

"Aeeeeyyaaah "  Someone screamed in the far distance . 

In a village , distance is measured in terms of visibility . If you are not visible, you are very far off . Simple .

The screamer , however , turned round the corner of a hut , holding a tiny goat kid , writhing and bleating , in his arms . 

This was serious .

The goat parent, an elderly farmer , well into his fifties , worry , care and hard work etched into each of his wrinkles and lines on the face , trying very hard to keep the squirming  kid above ground. The bleats were fast turning into moans .

It was the farmer who screamed.  

The goat kid was guilty of eating raw elephant foot yam pieces , which sliced and salted, were kept in the sun to leach out the moisture .

The goat kid had been seen munching on the freshly cut juicy pieces by mischievous members of the family who made no attempt to stop him . Rather catching the sides of their tummies, were seen rolling in the dust, with laughter at the apparent agony of the goat kid 

A pet is a member of the family . It's agony was palpable on the face of the farmer . 

A stern look from my grandfather  stopped all jolliness even in our mirth prone home , as the misery was well audible . A goat's incessant bleats can be heart rending , almost sounding like a human cry . A helpless , non stop sobbing for help. 

My grandfather was a homeopathic doctor. He had none of the verve and instant cures of allopathy . All he could offer by means of treatment was a large bag of sugary granules to be dissolved in water and fed to the goat ,along with a mild sleeping agent to tide over the agony filled hours , till the effect of yam or ole wore off. 

The goat recovered. Next morning , the farmer brought a great jute bag of freshly harvested corn cobs as a token of gratitude and payment . 

It was accepted . 

For the rest of the days , and so long as the corn lasted , " the goat who ate ole", sparked several similar stories , but mostly with human players . Equally riveting. One of the stories, recounted by my grandfather stood out. 

A gullible British officer was passing by the village . Some sixty years ago. Clad in a stiff red and black uniform , with an unbending spine , a tall red hat,  astride a majestic horse .

It was noon time. Approaching lunch time. Numerous housewives had taken the advantage of the autumnal harvest of ole and had sliced , salted their rhizomes , spreading them out to dry in the sun .

The "Tommy" was thirsty and possibly a bit hungry . 

And he stopped at the sight of this wondrous and unfamiliar fruit / vegetable. 

He asked a passing group of teenagers. "Is it good to eat ?".

The teenagers , being teenagers , replied in unison . 

"Yes, yes , very good to eat. Very sweet and juicy." 

," Yeah . It definitely looks juicy and pink." 

He alighted , ordered a homeowner to pack him a kilo in a clean cloth bundle. 

In the British times , if a "gora sahib" asked you for something, you gave it . No questions asked. 

The homeowner , with a conscience and fear , said  meekly "It is raw ."

"Never mind" . Laughed the gora. "I believe it is sweet. It looks sweet alright. And juicy. I am really thirsty." The Tommy pointed at his open mouth "Bhooka hai " . ( thinking , all the while, "bloody dumb Indians ")

And the teenagers thought "Bloody dumb Angrez" 

At this , the peasant had no choice but to pack it . The teenagers , held their breath and giggles , waiting to take a flight at a moments notice .

At the same time, the spectacle was going to be too good to miss. 

After the payment was made , the homeowner repaired quickly in , locked his gates and was heard shouting at his womenfolk " Jaldi , bhago ."

A confusion of alarmed shouts and suppressed giggles ensued from the farmer's home. 

The Tommy , took a bite of one juicy pink square and stuffed the rest into the horse's frothing mouth .

The teenagers' collective mouth fell open . They had no time to wait  or guffaw. Pell mell they ran to the fields , where the slippery , narrow paths would be impossible for either the Brit or the horse to give chase . 

The agonised screams and curses of the Brit and incessant neighing of the afflicted horse could be heard all over the terror stricken village. 

It is learnt later that the homeowner who sold him the ole was brave enough to feed large quantities of nimbu Paani to the human and salted water to the horse to kill the after effects of the raw yam . 

The teenagers retired to the safety and anonymity of rooftops to watch "tamasha" .

The incident  quietly entered the legion of " legendary stories to be told to the grandchildren" . 

Mitali

 Incense sticks and the the havan had filled the hall with its sickly aromatic smoke . Numerous ghee lamps burnt  smoky , sending lampblack soot  into the air. The devotees were tired and were just waiting for the Pooja to end . 

This being a Jain ceremony , was mildly different from Hindu rituals . The pundit uttered words which were mildly foreign . However , the Jai at the end of every unintelligible chant was well received and well known , even for ignoramuses like us . 

My neighbour , his wife , my hubby and me , belong to a pseudo modern group of people, who are neither here nor there . The encouraging thing is , there are lots like us .

Suddenly, a female voice  cheerfully piped up, alongside our sullen "Jai " . She was emaciated, wearing a red scarf on her head , despite 40 degrees outside . Her thin worn face bore the delight of a four year old. She jumped up with every chant and thanked the lord with all her might , raising her hands . 

She was , however, nowhere to be seen in the dining hall . 

I met her two days later , at my neighbours place . She was Mitali Sharma . The wife of a retired banker. She had two kids , one son and a daughter. Both grown up and working . 

Her smile was infectious , and rubbed off on us . It was like sunshine  on a cloudy morning . She smiled more than she spoke . Words chasing each other, clearly overwhelmed . 

She was also bald from chemotherapy . I too had become bald due to a sudden spate of bad illness , and we shared notes , comparing the length of our hairs and laughing at our troubles . 

She was naturally shy , but happy to be alive , and it was apparent . 

Over the next few years , we would become great friends , walking in the evenings , on the small tarmac road that ran through the colony . 

She would recount her troubles , I would reciprocate with mine . We shared songs , bhajans ( she was extremely devout ) , recipes and stories . She would tell of the time she stayed in Kolkata , as her husband was posted there . 

How she had learnt Bengali from her maid , and was sad that she had forgotten now . She would , everyday , accost me with Bengali bhajans and ask me to translate them for her . Baul geets use several archaic Bengali terms , not in use in general circulation , and she wouldn't hide her disappointment at my inabilities . In the end however , we would digress , tell each other humorous stories and laugh into the night . 

We would see exotic birds in the tiny garden , and name them . There was a tiny man made lake that drew lot of water birds , waterhens , lapwings and egrets . We would watch , and race . For she could really walk fast . Leaving me  breathless in her wake, if I slackened. 

Mitali was a yoga and fitness enthusiast. For some days we attended a dance class at the community hall . When the dance classes ended , she decided to host them at her home . It lasted for a week or so, and we had terrific fun . 

Then came swimming . During Summers , Mitali donned a costume and  entered the waters . She had , amazingly, taught herself swimming via YouTube . That was her level of dedication . 

Once she sent idlis over . They were the most softest , pillows of white perfection anyone could ever cook . 

Like a good friend , she always pointed out that my sweet tooth will be my undoing ( it is ) . And that morning walks are the best things one can do . ( No doubt) 

Sometime in 2020 , she suffered a relapse and underwent a radical surgery. Her para aortic lymph nodes were removed . That plummeted her immunity and stopped her walks. 

After that, once,  she was walking in her balcony and noticed me with a ponytail , as COVID had curtailed visits to the barber and my hair had grown . She was overjoyed to see my " choti " as she called it . 

We laughed . 

Few more balcony to ground conversations later , we heard , she had taken to bed . 

Her kids came several times to see her . Her daughter got married, became a mother . 

On women's day , March 2021 , Mitali  talked to me ,on phone, one last time.  I congratulated her on being a grandmother , and she laughed , as always . As always , she was full of nostalgia for her beloved Kolkata . 

Then , a few weeks later, she breathed her last . Finally , it was time to go, surrounded by all her loved ones .

I am sure , she is laughing away , whichever world she is in . 

Of riches and soft palms

 Recently  I read somewhere , if one has to know ( which one shouldn't actually) how hard a life one has led , one just needs to touch the hands . Palms to be precise . 

This is our homegrown "princess and the pea " test . 

If you are a princess , and are free of all the drudgery that a household entails , i.e., you have adequate help or resources thereof , your palms will be soft .

Otherwise , your hardened , calloused palms have an interesting tale to tell .

However , like all rules , it has exceptions . 

My grandmother was born with a silver spoon. Both the men in her life , i.e, her father and her husband, were landowners . Jobs like sweeping , mopping floors and milking the cows were tier three jobs . Meant for the lower caste women or men . The upper caste servants were given the cheerful task of washing clothes and cooking food . 

Procurement of Pooja materials also entailed a screening of the caste hierarchy . 

As she grew older , various shades and grades of daughters in law entered her home and hearth and managed the supervision of cooking , feeding of the babies etc . 

That left her free to do an equally challenging and time consuming job . Pooja . 

That left her hands were seriously calloused . 

One would ask why ? 

The Pooja room , a large cemented cavity roughly 15 foot * 10 foot in dimensions , had to be washed daily . Then mopped dry . All Gods and goddesses , their brass statues were immersed , washed , scrubbed . Fresh flowers were woven into garlands and fresh Bel and Tulsi leaves sorted . Fruits for offerings , washed , chopped etc . Ghee lamps were scrubbed with ash , daily , till they shone . When lit up, they reflected the flames in a thousand tongued splendour and bewitching aroma . 

This process was repeated twice. Once in the morning, when the deities awakened, and once at night , when they had to be put to sleep. 

All the water for this purpose was hand drawn by her . No one else could do this . Not even us , her numerous progenies or grand progenies .

Drawing of water for Pooja was a back breaking, soul crushing job of using a prickly coir or softer hemp rope ( no short cuts of contaminated pulleys here ) to dunk , fill and lift a small brass bucket , carrying roughly 1.5 litres at a time . Hundreds of this bucket of water were drawn , almost daily .

The Pooja room was a parallel household were Gods were bathed , fed and put to sleep . Daily . 

The sheer hard work put into this , and the colossal web of rules that governed it ,is unimaginable in today's day and time. All this had to be done by a fasting matriarch .

That pushed my grandmother's first decent meal of the day to 3 in the afternoon . 

When the world was napping after having twice filled their tummies . 

Having lived  a major portion of her life , governed by the pointless tyranny of religious rituals , she had realised the futility . 

Being  blessed with an extremely sharp intellect , she realised that only education can free us , womenfolk . She shielded us , her grandchildren , under the guise of "going to school' , 'pursuing studies " , and her own daughter in law ( my mom ) , by saying "she was just a kid " " needs to look after the children " , thereby swallowing the poison of centuries old tradition , herself , like a steadfast Shiva . 

No one , after her demise , has had the need or compulsion to go through this mindless rigmarole of Pooja Ghar . 

In her lifetime , we shifted to a town , then to a megapolis , and the number of her Gods dwindled . The multitude of leaves and flowers required for Pooja too , became scarce . Hence , when she passed away , she had to contend with just half an hour of hushed chanting in front of a drenched and bemused looking statue of a brass Shiva and couple of Durga photos . 

Quickly adapting , she was a living epitome of the wisdom laced words " Yatha Shakti , tatha Bhakti " ( loosely meaning , you have to worship as per your means )

Before she passed away , she stayed in an ICU for two weeks , hooked to ventilators . Having worked all her life , she gave up even  her breathing to machines . Another two weeks in a step down ICU , without the ventilatory support . During these four weeks , her skin moulted , and became smooth and callous free . For the first time in her life, the heels were crack free . 

When she passed away , she was adorned as a bride in Bengali custom , red alta on feet , hands , huge red bindi on her forehead , white and red saree . She went back to her creator , as she had been sent here . Callous free , petal soft hands and crack free heels . 

Train ride through rain drenched rural Bengal

 Ankle length soft green

Paddy fields , gentle sheen

 Laden boughs , grass and vine

Bathed , in a luxuriant shine 

Afar, some fields , are orange 

Sudden dots of  colour , splurge

No death, no brown , no age 

Verdant life's youthful visage 

Ponds are covered with sheets of round

Green has made them too , earthbound

The blue sky , dark earth the clear pond 

All seem to be somehow spellbound

Bewitched by the blade , the moss

The frond , the swaying  green gloss

The dominant colour of the slosh 

It is the emerald , glen and vale posh 

A flock of egrets take flight 

Against the green , dots of white

It is truly a heartstopping sight 

Open your eyes , shut tight 

See the paradise comes to you 

Outside a rattling train window 

It is Bengal, it is monsoon now 

Dazzling pretty , nature's brow .

Endless surprises

"In every walk with nature , one receives far more than he seeks . " 

                                                                         - John Muir 

For nature lovers , there is nothing called a mundane morning walk . There is always something to be excited about , specially , if you live in a densely wooded area , such as this . 

I discovered a tiny bird , no bigger than a palm , feasting on wild figs . It had a green body, red stripe on the head and red neck . Crimson headed barbet . 

I also discovered a tree called Arjun tree ( Terminalis Arjuna ) , the bark of which is known to cure diabetes and hypertension . 

Today, it was drizzling . Hence the embarrassingly brightly printed umbrella . I discovered a pond on the path that I usually take . It was right next to the road , fringed with reeds and tall grass , hence not visible from the road . A few days ago , in the pelting rain , the authorities got the reeds slashed by wet , disgruntled workers , who had done quite a messy job . The slashed reeds stood tall , still , swaying their bruised heads , some lay wilted on the ground , however , the net result was to make the pond 'apparate '( to borrow a term from Harry Potter )  hitherto invisible. 

The bank next to the road was higher than the other edges . So , one is not aware of the wildlife sitting in the shallow , grass filled edges . My footsteps disturbed a flock of twenty two (Yes , I counted ) grey herons . Alarmed , they stuck out their long necks and gracefully winged their way across , to sit on the low branches of the trees beyond . Following them , three waterhens skidded across the clear , dark waters . the last one , practically walking on water ( "Miracle ") with its long three toes , sleek black wet wings in sharp contrast with their white undersides . Raindrops kept falling creating tiny concentric circles on the water surface . Like an abstract painting .With jointed grass and reeds elbowing their way out , poking their green heads , beaten every now and then ,by the falling drops . 

Tall vines , as tall as trees covered almost every tree trunk , and horizontal ground , with their pale green heart shaped leaves . Entwined amongst themselves to end up as large masses of leaves swaying gently in the rain , held up ,tail end from a Goliath tree . Now you know where the legend of green swamp monsters originated from . 

Suddenly , the clouds part , like a reluctant crowd of onlookers , and lets the brilliant morning sun in . The drizzling is on .Each water drop on every blade of grass catches the sun and is transformed into a glittering gem . 

All at once , a drab wet pond is transformed into a shimmering field of priceless diamonds . 

Two tiny wagtails were doing their comical dance at the newly finished Kids park . Both had differently coloured plumage , one darker than the other . 

A flock of spotted doves flew away when I neared a tree , leaving a clumsy , wide eyed , largish , green bird behind . Lineated barbet . It stared at me with scared eyes , shuffling in the foliage . "Why didn't you fly away like the others ? How did you know that I was a friend ?" I asked the barbet . 

On the way back home , I discovered a large white mushroom growing by the roadside , in the grass. With a large fan like head , with a stout, conical brown stalk , broadening as it neared , and a  tough grey white lichen clinging to a rotting log. 

 

Relocating in the Indian Armed Forces

 “If we were meant to stay in one place , we would have roots instead of feet .” 

A wise person said the above words . But it is not entirely true . Roots do grow ,even in the two and a half , one year and eight months, and sometimes as short as eight months , of the Forces tenure . 

The process of uprooting sounds painful . I assure you , it is anything but that . In fact , the longer the tenure at a particular station , the greater the eagerness , and anticipation . For example , right now , the house we live in , is built on an ancient road . Rumours suggest that this was a part of the ancient runway . 

The runway that was used by the British , during the british raj , in the second world war . This station also has the dubious reputation of having refuelled and provided a landing pad for the American allied aircrafts , that flew from here , to bomb Nagasaki and Hiroshima . 

Anyway , we digress . The old , British era runway has now been covered with roughly six inches of soil, and lawns , trees and flowers planted on it . We discovered this,  while gardening , that some areas of the lawn have particularly poor soil and nothing on it actually grows or lives , for that matter . Including hardy periwinkle ( which will thrive anywhere else ) . Trees however , over the years , have penetrated the asphalt and have spread their roots in a wide , unforgiving swathe . The macadam on top of these giant roots , have swollen , heaved and cracked (Take that , Brits ) , leading to percolation of rainwater to deeper reaches . Nothing survives the power of the peepul and Banyan . They , together , succeeded in hiding entire city of  Angkor wat for centuries , so a foot or so of asphalt is not a problem . 

We digress again . The plants , transplanted (or uprooted ) from the aforementioned lawn , into tiny , but well nourished  flower pots , start thriving . Impossible , isn’t it ? 

Yes . It is true . Transplantation breathes new life into plants , vines , and people . 

We grow . Meet new people , breathe  a different air , hear a different language around us , and encounter different cuisine on the streets outside . The vehicle registrations have a different alphabet , your pincode and STD code changes ,there is a different guy sitting on the chief minister’s chair , and , in some cases , a different political party too .  Your airport and main railway station changes , and you get to see a newer part of the country . 

Roots , shallow , adventitious , grow numerously , fabulously . Everyone needs nourishment . Don’t we ? Hence roots . Albiet shallow , thin . Ready to move , at the drop of a hat . 

The template is already there . The home , when you are allotted one , has been recently vacated by an earlier family . It bears all the signs . 

Nails have been already startegically hammered into the walls , all you need is to hang your pictures , twine your fairy lights for diwali around the old nails . Sometimes the ‘welcome maintenance “( euphemism for whitewashing of walls and painting of the wood work ) guys will rip off the nails , fill the holes with putty and whitewash it over . Fear not , like a homing pigeon , you will find the tell tale hole shaped depressions in the walls , where your nails go. 

Whatever is despised , unwanted or plain forgotten , is yours to discover . 

We have , over the years , discovered beautiful , thick , calender paper lined cupboards , mosquito repellant refills , complete with machines in each room , still plugged , ready to use . In one house , we discovered neon , glow-in -the-dark stars , stuck to the ceiling of the kids’ room , bringing untold joy to both my daughters . 

Gardens are a storehouse of these leftover items , yours to embrace . The residual roots of the previous occupants , yours to splice with . 

Waste tyres upcycled into flower pots , plastic sprite bottles , cut up and painted , with soil still inside for your plants , garden embellishments like terracotta horses , and plastic hanging fake nests , chinese diwali string of lights , wound around the giant mango tree in your yard , and an abandoned badminton net , tethered to poles . Plasic pots , some cracked , some perfectly reusable , dog bowls , and ready made  open air hearth for backyard bonfires . Nylon ropes still tethered to your guava and neem trees , ready for your clothes . 

An unwritten rule means we always inherit toliet brushes , and several bottles of harpic in the washrooms . we also leave ours behind . I guess , everyone does that . 

In one station , we discovered a radha krishna fridge magnet ( it is still with us ) , and a large laxmi footprint floor sticker ( that store room automatically became the pooja room ) . 

It is not thieving , if you are inclined to think so . In most cases , you do not even know the name of the previous occupant , leave alone , his /her present abode . 

In any case , these items were left behind , so you might as well use it . Because one day , you will move too , leaving your roots , or impression thereof , in your beloved but transient  home . 

Packing is meticulous and so is loading of the truck , but there may be snags on the way . Delays , truck hold ups , and accidents are not uncommon . So is burglary and missing boxes . You may find your metal boxes caved in , crockery broken , potted plants smashed and wooden items scuffed / scratched .  But , that , as they say , comes with the territory . 

In many ways , a posting is like death . You are reborn , so is your household . As said in Bhagwad Gita , “ as a man changes attire .” 

Fall of a leaf

 Swivelling stalk downwards,

spiralling  gently earthwards 

The yellowed leaf falls 

Just like that, down it sails

 No noise , no sirens , no pain 

No reason to whine or complain 

No loud moans , no loathing the end 

No petty groans , Into the scene blend 

Gracefully , noiselessly , it accepts 

At matter of factedness , it is adept 

No wailing family , no unruled kingdom 

No fake drama , no abandoned fiefdom

Let us be like the leaves 

Behind us let's not leave 

Too much muck and stink 

Let the tree thrive pink 

Let our absence 

Lend peace 

Not remorse 

Endless farce 

Oh leaf ! Aged and Yellowed

From this life mellowed 

Please take me along 

To your noiseless world 

Bird behaviour

 The first time I was taken in by this strange and uncannily human behaviour by our avian neighbours , was on a walk in the small garden that exists in our colony . On one of the large , broad leafed tree , a number of babblers ( noisy , gregarious , ashy brown in colour ) were creating a ruckus . Nothing new . Except , it quietened down on my third round . Looking up, I saw six to seven good sized babblers , skewered on one branch , almost weighed down by their weight . Squeezing against each other , all fluffed up against the Punjab winter , sharing bodily warmth .

Next , was in Bengal , at one of the numerous ponds . There was quite a collections of ducks , mallards and geese swimming in the murky , muddy waters . All of them , comically , doing this funny thing . One moment , they are serenely sailing on the waters , next moment they dive , headlong , and thrash with their tails and legs , extracting nourishment from the mud , with their beak . To the uninitiated , it might appear , as if they are drowning , wilfully . Next moment they emerge , beak dripping , looking innocently around , sailing quietly . They keep doing this several times in a minute . So , at any given point of time , there are at least half the duck butts waving and thrashing in the air , with their heads submerged . It appears very disconcerting and comical at the same time .

When it comes to eating food , all have different personalities , just like humans. So , if you have extra rice grains , which you have scattered in your backyard , you will see babblers . Numerous , noisy , greedy and unafraid .

If you continue sprinkling , suddenly a crow will swoop down from the heavens and snatch the food ,mid air . Then it will disappear , waiting for more swooping opportunities . Like Amitabh Bachchan in Deewar , they do not pick up stuff scattered on the floor . Unless , they are very hungry .Crows too , if you create a habit of giving out food regularly , will perch on your window sill , and caw for their share . Demand , actually .

Mark Twain thought that crows are brilliant . So did R K Narayan . They were right.

The second circle of grain acceptors are mynahs . Proud , and wary , they treat babblers as their food tasters . Letting them eat the first round , watch and observe . Then move in .

The third circle consists of normally raucous tree pie and barbets . They watch from their great heights , almost invisible . They will come down and deign to accept your offering only when you , the benefactor , have bodily removed yourself from the scene . It is you they fear . It is a very humbling ,sad fact . The prettiest jungle birds , are the wariest of us . For very good reason . People imprison bulbuls and parrots , for their bright plumage and sweet songs .

Another baffling bird behaviour I had the fortune of noticing was the grey francolin , or the Teetar . It lives in the bush , and can fly very short distances like a hen . It will spot a predator kite circling in the skies and go nuts . Instead of taking cover , it screeches its heart out and runs in circles , imitating the kite . That makes it easy for the kite to spot it along with its vulnerable hatchlings .

Mynahs screeching in groups always heralds the presence of a nest -raider aka cat or snake . They will increase their volume of alarmed shrieks if a human passes close by , knowing very well ,that the human can chase away both of these egg eaters .

A bird bath is an excellent window to seeing bird behaviour . Mynas dip their beaks and daintily sip. Babblers toss a beakful of water down their throat and cluck gleefully . While sparrows and bulbul wont hesitate to take a bath , sprinkling and fluttering gleefully , shaking their feathers dry later , Golden orioles and Treepies keep a watchful eye all around . If they so much as hear a sound inside the house fifty metres away , they will take flight . Thirst may be damned !

Maidless in the Jungle .

 Last week my maid developed flu . A mild illness , but one that entailed bed rest and also unrest on my part . In India , we are so used to having someone do your chores , update you with the neighbourhood gossip , and troubleshoot ; that an absence can create mild havoc . Besides , we live in a village sitting at the heart of a jungle . The faintest sign of civilisation ( read , shopping complexes ) are at least 30 kilometres away .

While R (that is her initial ) recuperated , I cleaned , scrubbed , swept and mopped the place . Years of practice has given R a definite edge . All these aforementioned tasks require roughly one and a half hours , when R accomplishes them . I needed exactly double the time , with frequent water / juice / music breaks .

I realised certain basic truths about life , which I enumerate here

1. Long nails and housework do not go together . It is an either -or situation , clear cut . Dish soaps are not meant to be kind to your nail varnish , the mop & broom handles plus your scotch brite scrubber will chip your nails . Better to keep them short . Better still , unpainted .

2. You can’t lift up dirt on a dustpan without handles . R had been telling me of the broken dustpan and I had been postponing buying a new one . No more . Choices are few . You can also broom away your housedust into the a narrow strip of beaten earth that surrounds your home , but there is no guarantee that it won’t attract wildlife from the great beyond , to come and taste your biscuit crumbs and nail parings . Worse , they may be hungry for more . Hence , dust pans .

3. You must have Imagine Dragons on your playlist , when cleaning your home . If you can play it really loud on a bass speaker , it will loosen the cobwebs in the corners of your house , and give you the much needed push to get off your chair . It is like one of those patriotic songs they must be playing before wars . It fills you with much needed enthusiasm .

4. Doing house work does not justify drinking sugary drinks . Since housework , like workout, varies in intensity and duration , there is no knowing how many calories have been burnt . I always succumb to this ill logic , and sweet cravings , after one bout of mild house work . Bad decision .

5. Pace your innings . There is no need to put a bubbling pot on the stove , switch on the washing machine , and scrub pots all at the same time . Experience has taught me that the bubbling pot stops bubbling and burns its contents to the bottom , emitting thick dark clouds of sad smoke , washing machine gets stuck at the rinse phase (because the water supply has been discontinued , and you weren’t alert enough to monitor it ), and you are stuck half way through the pots , elbow deep in suds . And Imagine dragons keeps asking you to “believe “.

6. Stock up anti flu medication . When R returns , all crisp and clean , you are going to sniffle into your pillows and cough your nights away . Hence , flu med .

Relax , it is not the end of the world . Just a couple of days . This too shall pass . I am strong . Amen ( That is my current prayer ) 

Sepsis

 "Ah , so you decided to get a surgery done . On your leg!" 

" Yeah , the blistering balloons of varicosities were quite ugly to look at ." 

"So?" 

"So I got them surgically removed ." 

"But you landed in sepsis , how did that happen ?" 

" There is no substantial proof , but they say that the propofol used for the anaesthesia precipitated it "

"Were they able to isolate the organism that caused the sepsis ?" 

"yeah , much later . Because bacterial culture takes time . "

"How did you know that you  were in TSS?"

" Because I was getting disoriented , and my peripheral blood vessels had collapsed . They couldn't find a vein to start a drip." 

"So you asked to be shifted to ICU yourself . " 

"Yes , I did . Plus , there was a precipitous fall in my BP , 50 / unrecordable ." 

"What next ? " 

"They pumped me full of fluids , to bring up my blood pressure . " 

"That resulted in choked lungs ." 
"Yeah , the capillary leakage added insult to injury , my lungs were full of fluid ." 

"Then ?" 

"Then  they gave me lasix (frusemide ), to get rid of the extra fluid via the urine ." 

"That lead to hypokalemia ." 

"Yeah , I started hallucinating ." 

"So , coconut water and other potassium supplements " 

'Yeah . The sepsis caused blisters in my mouth , genitalia , and toes ." 

"That is awful . I am glad it was short lived . But it taught you great deal of medicine . ha ha ha ." 

"I also lost lot of hair . Finally I had to get my head shaved . Don't be alarmed , the hair grew back ." 

The Walkers

 “If you cannot find a good companion to walk with , walk alone , like the elephant . “ Buddha . 

(Buddha goes on to say that there are plenty benefits of walking alone rather than with someone .For instance , he talks about hindring of progress , whatever that may mean )

In our colony , too, there were people who walked . In twos , threes , or solo . 

Mr M walked alone . He lost his wife to a protracted battle with cancer , but it hampered his walk just for a day or two . He didn’t let that interfere with his daily goal of 15, 330 steps . Each round of the colony accounting for 2,190 steps . Seven rounds . Four in the morning . Three in the evening . 

Mr M has no time for niceties . For each greeting , he looks up precisely for three seconds , nods his head unsmilingly , and lowers his head . Five seconds and he is gone . Like a hurricane . He walks purposefully , taking long strides , counting steps , gaze lowered to the asphalt , leaping across potholes , manholes , and rainwater ditches .As if they do not exist . 

Mrs J and Mrs B walk in the evening . They are retirees , both in their early sixties . That phase of life , when you are not old enough to sit at home , watching TV ( like their husbands do ) or young enough to join the club ,( where younger fair maidens singger at your back ). They were both head mistresses in their hey day . Both belong to the same community , and speak in the vernacular , mostly . However , it is not long before they break into English , specially when recounting their glory days . Both are immaculately dressed in pressed crisp cotton salwaar kameez , with flowing dupattas , which they adroitly manage , and wear all the pearls and shiny baubles they used to , when addressing their schools , from the podium every morning , at assembly . Their hairs are immaculately done up , and they are wearing the perfumes and ittars of a by gone era . 

Seeing them walk , sedately , their sneakered legs moving in tandem , is almost like watching a retro movie . With breeze softly carressing their chiffon chunnis , and grey hairsprayed hair , they are like a balm to frayed nerves . Like fairies from the past . 

Unlike Mr M , they are not besieged with the pressure of goals or steps or rounds . They walk for an hour or so , till darkness descends and the street lights come on . Then they stand on the doorstep of one of them , chatting till they run out of gossip , or some one calls them in . 

They are in no hurry . 

Two retired colonels walk in the garden . Each walks alone , on a different path . Both wear sneakers as a reminder of their disciplined existence and walk with crisp , long strides , almost marching . Both have tidily tied turbans . Both meet at two points in the loop around the garden . Both nod silently and move ahead . One , however , carries a 2kg dumbell in his hand , swaying it , changing arms , when he is alone . Other , chants a prayer , almost audibly . 

One , the chanter  , sports pristine white beard , cleanly trimmed. He is also the older one  . The other has his long beard tied up neatly . 

The older has a serene calm radiating from his visage , the younger one has a fierce intensity . He also has a salt and pepper beard . 

They have little in common , except for the evening walk , where the younger one’s calisthenics and the older one’s chanting collide twice every round . 

The older one takes five rounds . The younger one keeps swinging his arms and striding into the dark night , long after the Mrs J and B have retired and Mr M is back at his home , trading online , with same assiduity , in the dimly lit apartment , where he lives alone . 

As the darkness falls , other motley groups emerge from their houses . It has been a warm day , and cool evenings are inviting . Some families take walks , post dinner , chatting late into the night . 

A celebrity couple emerges in this dark cool. The husband , stocky , dark as night , is a popular singer . The wife , a fair wispy lass , who has decided to dye her hair blond , in pink tight leggings and a neon green t shirt , she is the cynosure of all eyes . She hooks her hand in the crook of her husband’s arm and giggles fetchingly at each syllable uttered by her husband , who in turn , breaks into a snippet of a raga , without any particular reason , rendering the evening very very interesting . People stop to gawp shamelessly at this duo . 

Portly matrons stare at the couple from behind surreptitiously lifted curtains , men gawk openly , some are brave enough to greet them . All greetings go unanswered as the couple is so absorbed in their own world . This invites scowls , and whispers . The couple is , not very popular , as would be expected . 

Soon , night deepens . The one odd late night walker has departed . The singer has  taken his sporadic ragas to his apartment , from where bursts of music and laughter are faintly audible . 

The colony returns to its solitude and lampposts brood within their  circle of clarity , surrounded by inky blackness . An owl flutters back to its post on top of the lamp post , where a feast awaits him . Insects hum around , occasionally erratically thumping into the iron tube . 

The earth takes a long sigh and retires for the night . Walkers will return again tomorrow . 

Woes of a wealthy farmer

" Let me tell you my story ." 

Keeping all eyes glued on his face , he bent down to pick up his "chhota peg " , took a swig , picked up a few peanuts from the cut glass bowl , chewed them with his eyes shut , head thrown back , swallowed it slowly, savouring every bit . Then , straightening , he opened his eyes , and began .

"I lost my buffaloes ." 

"Really ? How ?" 

Buffaloes are large , visible , and noisy beings . They stomp the ground , moo loudly , splatter paths with dung , and are valuable . How could one possibly lose such a being ?

"Which one ?" Uncle A asked . Uncle A was in the army for long years . He knew that fantastic tales often had their origin in Chhota pegs . A wee bit of liquor can loosen tongues and blast inhibitions away . In some , it could trigger a tsunami of imagination too . 

"All of them ." 

"Pshaw ."  Uncle A couldn't hold back his indignation at such a tall tale .

He knew Mr P from Patiala had eight , hefty buffaloes. Each of the buffaloes cost anything between forty to ninety thousand rupees. That was tantamount to losing all your fortune in one go . Pandava fashion . Unbelievable . 

"No really . I lost them all ." 

There were tears in his eyes , so all kept quiet.

The newly opened whiskey bottle was three fourths empty .

Maudlin is the word , last looked up on Google . 

Then his pretty daughter piped up " Uncle , they really ran away." In Brit accent , with a nasal twang, and over - sincere , saucer eyes , kohl lined ,wide open .

A seconds silence  followed. No one knew how to drag the conversation further .

"Actually ,it was all the women folks' fault . " The main man , Mr P from Patiala , blamed the favourite scapegoat of all time. Women . 

The daughter's mouth fell open ,in mock disbelief. The wife smirked and looked away. Too embarrassed with the sudden turn .

" How come? " Uncle A was persistent.

" There was this get together in the neighbourhood. Ladies meet . So , entire afternoon , I was regaled with the twinkling of jewellery, plonk plonk of heels , rustling of silks , giggling of throats and the aroma of mingling perfumes. Imported perfumes vying with desi deodorants . How can a man sleep? " 

"Why were you sleeping when your buffaloes were ' running away '? " 

" I didn't know that , then . I thought they were taking an afternoon nap , just like me."

" Haah ." Uncle A swallowed a guffaw , midgut , and picked up two peanuts. 

" They were found next week." 

" If they were found,then what is the fuss? " 

" They had been put up for sale , on the panchayat WhatsApp group . My buffaloes had been bathed , massaged with oil , their horns painted and hooves trimmed and shorn . " 

"Someone took good care of your cattle." Uncle A was honest and sarcastic in the same breath. 

"Yes , but he was going to sell them . My  buffaloes." 

" How can you say that ? They might be his , for all you know. " 

"I know uncle. They were  mine ." Mr P had shifted his face within inches of uncle's. 

"How?" 

"A farmer knows his cattle." 

"How ? By hoof marks ? Or by their mooing ? " When Uncle decided to be sarcastic , there was no stopping him . Laughter bubbled at the pit of my stomach .

" My maid recognised them ."

" Your maid ?" 

"Yes sir. She milks them, feeds them and bathes them . She knows each scar , each snort , each skin pigmentation and each mark. She can even tell them apart by their distinct smell. " 

"What was she doing in the neighbour's barnyard? "

" She was visiting her sister , who works for them." 

" Then , what next ?"

"She came back home and told us . She told us that they have been prepped for the sale at the monthly cattle fair . She told me to be quick . " 

"Hmmm" .

" So , I was quick .I went to my neighbour's house and talked him out of it . We brought our cattle back home. The Lakshmi ( goddess of wealth) had returned back to my house. " 

                                $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

After a fortnight , some digging into this story ensued as Uncle A also knew the neighbour of this Mr P from Patiala . 

We came to know ,that the buffaloes had been actually hustled into the neighbour's compound ( Any one who own buffaloes will tell you that these are very lazy creatures , very loathe to move and seldom change directions ) , to graze on his lush green "imported " lawn grass , dropping dung and trampling his begonias , till they were rounded up and locked into the cattle shed . 

MrP was approached and informed of the misdemeanour by his black beasts and he flatly refused . He said that these ill mannered cattle were not his , and that he had nothing to do with them . Following which , they were bathed , oiled and painted and put up for sale by the neighbour .

In the end , Mr P had to buy back his  own (probably barren , i.e., not milch ) buffaloes from his neighbour and had to pay for the damages to the lawn too . 

It was a plain act of malicious vandalism ,which Mr P , decided to narrate to us from the victim point of view .