Life's lessons from fruit flies

 Yesterday , I saw a bunch of fruit flies . No , they weren't sitting on rotting fruits . They were crowded around my bathroom drain . 

That taught me my lesson number one , Be adventurous . Think out of the box . Food may not always be served on the dining table . 

I sprayed a fluid called harpic , which recently , is being sold in red plastic bottles , smells great , is clear , transparent . It avows to "cleanse bathroom of all germs ". To rub it in , I used the toilet brush . Scrub , scrub , shine , glisten rather . The tiles acquired a holy white hue. The flies disappeared .

Lesson number two , stay away from aggressive predators. Vexations to the spirit , or body , or mind , or all three.  

By evening , the flies were back . In the unscrubbed corner .

Lesson number three, do not shy away from danger . There might be food ( read , opportunities ) in the next corner , round the bend .

I scrubbed the entire floor , the nooks , crannies , crevasses , everywhere , humanely and arthritically possible . 

They returned back , next morning . Full blast , entire tribe , possibly even the neighboring ones  . 

Lesson number four . Persistence . Dont give up . 

Lesson number five . Do not be picky  . Keep your expectations low . 

Postings

 Moving is inevitable for us ,

Hence nothing grows
beneath our feet
I mean , the grass .

Pack your bags , helter skelter
Some organised souls
Have an army of helpers
Fold and pack , avoid jitters

We imitate and try hard
Paint , label and stow ,
Lumps swallowed hard
All chaos , no order to show

I still forget where is which
The labels stay , contents dont
All ends up , hotch potch
Meagre trunks , pots , clutch

Trucks arrive and leave , hurry

All heave and scurry

Possessions depart in a flurry
Petrol fumes , tears , goodbyes , vision blurry

We must depart , sooner
Make haste , don’t linger
Uproot and tear
I’ll move if he does , oh dear

There germinates a thought
forget -me -nots
Vagabonds, are we not ?
Very existence fraught

Lack of permanence .
In essence
Evanescence

Plants !!

 Sometime halfway through into the lockdown , he was bitten with the gardening bug .

He wanted to plant coriander seeds .
Lot of coriander seeds went to waste this way . Some the birds ate , mistaking them for birdseed . Some by an overenthusiastic follower , who planted individual seeds in the egg bowls of a biodegradable egg carton . “Brilliant idea !!” Exclaimed everyone , on her face and on whatsapp .
Unwatered , the egg carton was to be their grave yard .
Now , we have followed every rule in the book .
Soaked the seeds overnight .
Prepped the soil ( not too sandy , neither too clayey , just right amount of compost ) .
Less shade initial few days of their life . ( an old orange scarf to deflect harsh noon sun )
Protection from birds . (Shoo them off their favourite perches )
Now every morning , we hear a glad shout ” Plants ” !!
They are just about 2 inches tall and they are visited , counted ,watered , and proudly shown off.
Who says plants do not rule our lives ?

Paradox

 I am hanging 

holding the clapper 

of my own life's bell 

thereby 

with every breath

I ring my own 

death 

knell .

The moment 

your heart 

begins to beat 

or your lungs 

pump air 

It is only fair 

that you 

yourself 

begin 

your  own 

countdown 

On wearing a mask

 Wearing a mask

An unenviable task

Has taught me much

Common sense and such

I  humbly learnt

Garden bad breath

And abominable fart 

Are not so different

It is easy to mistake

One for the other 

Of similar make

Arising from the gut(ter)

Of being able to breathe 

One's own exhaled breath

Back again .

Is like wearing one's own wreath

Parading 

The paradox .

halitosis 

Hail to thee.

The Kitchen

 The kitchen . It was a separate building . It still beats me , as to why was this so ? A small passageway connected it to the rest of the house . This passageway was unroofed , originally . So , during blazing summers , you could be roasted to a crisp by the fiery sun , or drenched to the skin during the relentless monsoons , on your way to and from the kitchen .

Later my grandfather built a roof over it , so it became a hideaway , a passage to culinary delights , and a clean cricket pitch . The cricket pitch ended the day my smashing delivery broke one of my grandmother’s enormous water pitchers .
There were raised platforms , where one could sit and eat , discuss politics or peel and chop cucumbers.
They were strategically placed . One could flee at the sound of my grandfather’s walking stick on the cement .
The kitchen floor was smooth , cool , cement . It was mopped countless times through the day . We sat around the open fire , and ate , laughed , joked and became adults . 

My sister , fresh from her hostel , reed thin , would be plied with mounds of soft, steaming, white rice . The moment my mother turned her back , she quickly distributed her rice amongst us younger siblings . We were three of us . Three fistfuls , and her rice mound would disappear , by the time Maa came back with dal or curry . Surprised , more rice would be piled onto her plate , and we all would be in stitches , rolling on the floor .

My father worked in a far off metropolis . He would come occasionally . So , whatever he said or did , however ridiculous , was considered sacrosanct . Not so in our eyes . We were growing , rebellious teenagers , and looked at everything with curious , unsullied , critical eyes . 

So , when he sliced tomatoes , we would wait with bated breath and true enough , he would either squirt tomato juice onto my grandmother's hitherto unsullied kitchen walls , or send one half tomato rolling down our cricket pitch . 

We would all disappear to burst into giggles , some place else , as we were not allowed to make fun of my father in plain sight . 

Best days were the poori days . When my mother served us with hot mini balloons of delight , crisp , sizzling . To go with heavenly coconut laced chana dal . 

What's that smell ?

 It is late evening . Babblers are still arguing about the best perch in the tree . Some kid runs past , curving full tilt into his garden , hooting all the while . Mothers on phone are checking phones and absently pushing prams on their way home . An old man with his arthritic wife walk slowly ahead .

Somewhere , off the road , in some kitchen , potatoes are being fried , with garlic . To go with crispy paranthas . Both the smells waft out on the road . Seductively intertwined . Snaking into the still summer air , sitting there , heavy with promise . Hastening people’s footsteps . Dieters , who want to avoid the smell , foodies welcoming it . The aroma of nostalgia for some .

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December morning , fog and sweaters . Mom in hospital . Tiffin has been packed . My poor sister made jam sandwiches while it was still dark . 

After hot water bath , I wear my uniform . My sister combs my hair . My mom's sister is at the helm of the affairs . She is strict about my cup of bournvita in the morning . 

But wait . What's that smell? It is fried arhar dal . My favourite . I burst into the kitchen . Maasi is stirring a pot of yellow deliciousness . She sees me . Pinches my cheeks . I redden . Missing mom more than ever . Papa enters the doorway . He sleeps in the hospital , next to Maa . There are lines under his eyes . He too brightens up at the smell of the dal .

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