Category: Personal Memoirs

Rambles Through the Tropical Treasures of Dakshina Kannada

December 30th, 2024

The pandemic of 2020 brought a brief reprieve from the wearying rigmarole of the needless daily commute, a routine that had reduced me to an automaton. It also brought me closer to my hometown, which I had left fifteen years ago in pursuit of worldly aspirations; to its abundant nature and wildlife (the latter, quite literally); to Clancy, the dog I had taken in only a few months before; and to Dian, my husband, whose long journey from his mountainous hometown to be with me evinced an endearment far greater than my feigned coldness merited at the time.

With uncertainty and anticipation, we left Bangalore for the embrace of a hometown where Mother had purchased a flat whose carpentry and painting were still under way, much to my dismay. In the interim, we stayed in the coastal town of Mulki, at Ajji Mane, the humble home of a dear auntie and our ancestral sanctuary, surrounded by sincere love, simple things, and a rich profusion of lush green.

Fascinated by the native flora in Mulki, Dian would amble around and beyond every morning, bringing back a variety of plants to “propagate” them in our respective hometowns and the cities where we worked. Wherever we meandered in the monsoons, the tropical plant kingdom exhibited its variegated opulence. One would find a singular cordate leaf of the Caladium, glazed and speckled with pink and white, rising from dense clusters of other foliage, such as the Colocasia with its matte leaves finely streaked with dark interveinal shadows. Even decaying leaves held their own charm, their brown tissues juxtaposed with the green remnants in an organic mosaic. Withered clusters from teak trees were easily detached by a breath of breeze. One such cluster (called inflorescence or panicle in botany) came to rest on the rooftop of my grandmother’s lonely abode, a stone’s throw away from Ajji Mane. Draped in cobwebs, the panicle looked divine in the sunlight as I twirled it, its hollow seeds evoking the bells of a tambourine. Halfway between grandmother’s and Ajji Mane, scarlet seeds of rosary peas still bejewelled a familiar path by a brook, their continued presence a comfort to the nostalgic.

Caladium Amongst Colocasia

When we finally moved to the new flat, in a new village, I began to adorn the freshly painted interiors with furnishings in the designs and colours that I fancied, my endeavour turning into a project that I now regret undertaking, as I have since moved westward.

Kodangallu is a temple village surrounded by verdant forests where leopards, monkeys, peafowl, porcupines, pythons, and other wildlife live and, hopefully, thrive. I am certain that these creatures inhabit the forests, for I encountered each one of them during my very long sojourn, except for the porcupine, though I did stumble upon its quill.

Most days were spent exploring the unfamiliar village with the eager neighbourhood children, who would never miss an opportunity to join us on our walks, even if it required them to seek permission from their parents. The young bunch was primarily drawn to Clancy, who, having instantly become the cynosure of all eyes, basked in the attention and affection lavished upon him. Among the merry group was one particularly boisterous and adventuresome boy, whose boundless energy seemed to take Clancy’s fancy, as evidenced by the celerity with which his tail wagged whenever the boy approached. The boy’s animated anecdotes also enlivened our gatherings with laughter. In time, with the children’s help, Dian learnt to converse in the local language, becoming a favourite figure among them.

Together, chasing sunsets, we discovered several nameless local gems, many of which we came to inanely christen ourselves, such as a serene grassland frequented by a murder of cawing crows at dusk—referred to as Greenland in our conversations; a hill off the beaten track offering sweeping views of the surrounding forests—nicknamed 500 Hill after Dian lost a 500-rupee note upon its shrubs; another hill from where one could embrace all the glories of a golden sunset—christened Cake Hill, because a section of the hill appeared neatly cut away when viewed from a distance, resembling a sliced cake; and a desolate terrain dotted with shrubs that attracted vibrant bugs such as the Catacanthus—nicknamed Redland for its lateritic soil.

One of the places that Dian discovered through the map for our rambles was yet another hill whose local name, Naayi Basadi, translates to “dog memorial”. While we did find an ancient memorial on the modest hill, that it was erected in honour of a canine companion seemed far-fetched. From here was visible a large granite monolith called Konaje Kallu, which I had climbed as a child with my parents—our only hike together. On one side of the hill sprawled a forest, while on the other stretched coconut plantations where, looking through binoculars, one would find monkeys atop the trees, devouring coconuts or grooming one another. These playful primates were also early risers, as I discovered on New Year’s Eve 2021, when I woke up at dawn in high spirits—as though I were embarking on a new chapter of early mornings—and headed to the familiar hill to proudly watch the sun rise. Barely had I arrived when the monkeys began their ascent up the hill, resulting in my rapid retreat. It was also on this very hill that I spotted a leopard one evening! Though the sighting was fleeting, it sent me into such transports of delight that I remained on cloud nine for days, boasting about and marvelling at such a rare encounter with wildlife. As I recall this incident, I shall also record in writing a late evening when, as my young neighbour and I were approaching the flat, her sudden scream and retreat alerted me to a python lounging only a mere feet from where I stood! While her reaction was one of understandable fright, might I say that I was more exhilarated than frightened.

Some afternoons, the skies were cerulean, speckled with clouds bedazzled by the sun, and some evenings, they were kaleidoscopic and cathartic. The mesmerising ether formed an ideal sight to behold (and time-lapse) when listening to ethereal music.

On one of our rambles in an interior neighbourhood, we stumbled upon a garden with plants whose lush leaves were marked with hues of maroon and pink. Upon asking the owner if we could borrow a stem, she generously proffered several of them—a gesture characteristic of most people living there. I later learnt that this enchanting plant is called Coleus, and that the colour of its leaves depended on the soil in which it was rooted. Of all the variants of this shrub, the one that later grew in our abode was my favourite, for its leaves bore an exquisite pink, and if one looked closely on a summer afternoon, its velvety leaves glittered in the sunlight. I could easily recognise when the plant needed water, for there was a stark contrast in its appearance between when it was thirsty and when it was not. For a botanical novice like me, these little indicators were rather intriguing.

A stray puppy entered our premises, and subsequently our lives, like a radiant rainbow. Our first glimpse of her was in the moment she was struck by a car. No sooner had we reached the spot than she vanished, nowhere to be found. Days later, we discovered her outside the flat: unshaken, safe, and sound, albeit bearing an abrasion. With some love and food, she came to trust us and became our constant companion, tagging along wherever we went and whenever, rain notwithstanding. Full of beans, she was fiercely protective of the older Clancy, warding off any street dogs who approached him with suspicion. Upon this radiant pup, we bestowed the name Radium.

Inspired by Dian, who would bring home an array of wildflowers for me and wild plants for the “propagation”, I began to observe the abundant flora surrounding us, and to collect fragments of certain plants to propagate in our growing collection of vibrant pots. During this period, I also amassed a plethora of pictures of the native flora and fauna. Among the many plants I photographed was a youthful sacred fig, defiantly and beautifully sprouting amidst concrete in a college playground. Her mature heart-shaped leaves exhibited an array of green hues, while her emerging leaves were lustrous and reddish maroon. Each leaf was embellished with delicate dots arranged along her veins, evoking the image of celestial entities scattered across a cosmic canvas. She cradled more buds, each a promise of foliar splendour, until one day, when she was obliterated in the name of weeding, like other cherished elements in our vicinity.

Our next journey from Bangalore to Kodangallu carried a sense of pure relief, for we were, at last, joined by feline passengers, Dora and Mabel. Driving in a modest hatchback with a misunderstood dog and two decidedly mistrustful cats was not disruptive after all. While Dora, ever curious and adaptable, explored her new surroundings (albeit within the confines of the flat), Mabel plotted yet another escape. This time, however, her attempt was successful—she vanished into the wider woods, leaving us to ponder her fate.

Every day, Clancy tried to discreetly befriend Dora, who eventually came to tolerate his presence but never stopped hissing whenever he ventured too close. There was an undeniable joy in watching this one-sided courtship, in his tireless but doomed efforts to win her approval. There was also a certain joy in watching Dora bask in the afternoon sun reposed on a beanbag and take a siesta, in my very native land.

The abundant richness of flora and fauna, coupled with my serendipitous encounters with wildlife, was part of what made the region so dear to me. Equally significant was the chance to share the place and its experiences with my pets and with Dian, who never once minded the impromptu arrangements or the background cacophony during work. Despite never having had a dog before, he seemed to effortlessly understand Clancy (while I signed up for a training on how to read and interpret dog body language), and treated him with a tenderness that I, for all my affection, lacked. In so many ways, he was so unlike me, our differences only shining a redemptive light on yours truly. Until then, the longest time that we had spent together under the same roof was during the pandemic—an isolation that brought us together as we rambled through the tropical treasures.

P.S. During my brief absence from the village, Radium was beaten and banished by a man, because his shoes were torn apart. Failing to find her upon my return, I asked the shopkeepers nearby of her whereabouts, but none had seen her. We never learnt what became of our beloved Radium. The man, whose day job was to safeguard wildlife, had at home a toddler who was teething—just as Radium was at the time. As for Greenland, reduced to concrete, it exists no longer, as many places are, in the name of “development”.
Stung by Sweet Desert Rose

July 2nd, 2024

The more I listen to music, the more I realise how deeply I am enraptured by it. When I light upon a song that instantly appeals to me, I feel thrilled knowing I have more music in the world for my dopamine. I discovered Sting when his “Desert Rose” played on TV back in 1999. The music video features him recording a dusking landscape on a pocket camcorder while travelling through a desert, dreaming of rain and gardens, before nonchalantly making his way into a sizzling nightclub to duet with an artiste singing fervently in Arabic.

Besides books, my childhood home in Kesargadde, India, was filled with electrical paraphernalia, owing to my father’s flair and fondness for repairing and building electrical devices, one of which was a radio he fashioned from a copper wire mesh. I recall an evening when his unorthodox radio, swinging from the ceiling, caught the enchanting “Desert Rose” from the airwaves. Hearing my favourite song emanate from a source other than myself always leaves me pleasantly bewildered, and awakened—literally, like one Sunday morning, when the loud playing of Shakira’s “Suerte” jolted me awake, spurring me to trace the music to its source, only to realise that it was my father’s clever ploy to encourage me to rise and shine. The evening when “Desert Rose” was cracking through the radio noise, my father mused on its fine fusion of Western and Arabic elements. Having since explored Sting’s discography, I have developed a deep appreciation for his ability to blend a myriad of musical styles.

Some years later, I stumbled upon Sting’s other gems on my desktop computer: “A Thousand Years”, alongside exquisite renditions of “Perfect Love Gone Wrong” and “Fragile”—renditions that I failed to find online for so long, as I only recently discovered their official names. Though I favoured a different genre at the time, his melodies gradually grew on me, earning a permanent place in my music library. So, last year, when I learnt of his upcoming concert, I secured a ticket well in advance.

The concert was set in a large wood in an English village. Contrary to earlier forecasts, the evening was bright, without a cloud in the sky. My lack of common sense—glaring when unaccompanied—was evident as I marched to a distant bar, instead of the nearby, exclusive one designated for my ticket type. Spirits increased neither my courage to face the sparse congregation nor my confidence to navigate the social milieu; they only increased my trips to the (wrong) portaloo. On the luminous evening, I longed for the cover of darkness to cloak my series of missteps. At long last, the man who dreamt of rain and gardens in the desert sand emerged ever so humbly and embellished the evening with his very being. Seamlessly seguing from one song to the next with anecdotes, he transported us to fields of desert roses and gold.

As the concert drew to a close and he left the stage, a cluster of attendees near me began singing “Roxanne”, seemingly attempting to coax him back for an encore performance of the beloved song, which would have perfectly capped off their (and my) evening. Returning to the stage, he acknowledged the request while admitting he couldn’t quite discern the song in demand, only to serendipitously launch into “Roxanne” after all.

To witness in real life the person behind the songs that were a balsam in one phase and a wistful reminder in another was gratifying an experience, for it added a tangible dimension to my relationship with his music, deepening the connection. Going to Sting’s concert was akin to going on a pilgrimage, and might I say I was stung, to my heart’s content.
One and a Half and My Common Sense in Tatters

February 6th, 2021

My level of silliness both amazes and amuses me sometimes. It is no wonder that I am—rightly—the laughing stock of my family. Last evening, I was at a neighbour’s to celebrate her birthday. One of the invited guests was a toddler. No sooner had the toddler arrived than he—squatting down—opened a box of toys containing kitchen paraphernalia. As I watched him play and respond to others who participated in his game, I wondered how old he was—a question that typically arises in my mind when I watch a child. Unsure whether the question I would pose to his mother concerning her child’s age should mention the number of years or the number of months (as is typical to be mentioned in such a question in the local language here), I continued observing the child to ascertain his approximate age and also, in the meantime, to frame the right question in my mind—that is, a question that would not reveal my idiocy and ignorance. Finally, I asked the mother simply, ‘How old is he?’ She replied, ‘One and a half’. I remarked, with no delay, ‘Oh, okay’.

I must abashedly admit that I believed the child was one and a half months old, until I went to bed that night, when—as I was evaluating my demeanour at the evening gathering—I mortifyingly remembered that I had first seen this toddler five months ago, and hence he was one and a half years old!
An Unpunished Sisyphus

May 15th, 2020

When I first stumbled upon a depiction of Sisyphus on the Internet, I failed to comprehend his predicament—might I say, its supposed dark humour was lost on me. Five years later, in the context of my own abode, I have come to perceive the absurdity of his situation—alas, I am the unpunished Sisyphus who never ceases scrubbing her premises.

Last October, the days leading up to my mother’s arrival—she was away for a long time—were spent cleaning the house vigorously and more comprehensively. The domiciliary articles that were not spared included, but were in no way limited to, the grilles of the balconies, curtains, rugs, fans, and vacuum cleaner filter. Now one might presume that Mother is a stickler for cleanliness and that I am the languid inhabitant of the house. The fact, however, is that I clean my living space and beyond every other day, for I am obsessed with cleaning—a problem that I attribute to my flawed reasoning, to my preposterously skewed sentiment about guilt-free pleasure: I feel that I am not entitled to indulging in my favourite pastimes if I have not put myself through some rigorous manual labour prior to the indulgence—an indulgence I shall have then earned. (There, I finally wrote it.)

Further, cleaning, at any given time, is equivalent to purging my mind of a self-imposed baggage of procrastination. This notion of procrastination, too, is hollow, considering that I find myself impulsively engaged in the deed, rather, every day—often before commencing a relatively desirable or important task such as eating a meal (I look forward to it) or creating technical content (my day job, so to speak); and not too long ago, soon upon reaching home after a two-hour commute from a former workplace. (How or why I came to thrust upon myself such needless baggage is yet to be determined.) When I am on edge, the deed also becomes an act of expunging unpleasant thoughts: watching a space scrubbed clean is akin to sanitising the mind. And oh, I also derive a vicarious pleasure from seeing a floor mopped.

One night, before last October, I was decluttering and cleaning Mother’s room in her absence, until after midnight, on an empty stomach. The visual result was one that filled me with pride and called for such a pat on my back. Nonetheless, the next day, when Mother saw the transformation, the hoarder in her was furious. And shortly afterwards, she scavenged the dustbin for her “precious” items.
574213: A Lost Hometown

December 25th, 2015

I am in Kesargadde, the village where I grew up. Presently, I am living in my father’s ancestral house, where the passage of sunlight is narrow, owing to the design and location of the windows. The antique bathroom located outside has a doorless window through which I see the banana plant and wonder if the very sight could be frozen with the help of a camera.

One evening, I took pictures of the bathroom, along with the copper cauldron, which was warmed by the fire kindled by dry coconut leaves, among other kindling. The photograph of the banana plant captured from the opening failed to look as lovely as when seen in reality. In the backyard behind the bathroom, the sun gleams illumined the leaves as they peered through them, sometimes forming rays of light along the contours of a papaya trunk and a banana inflorescence. The same evening, I l eft the town to visit my pregnant cousin.

Today, Mother and I visited our old neighbours in Kesargadde. I was pleased to see them after a very long time. They showed us a video of a recent wedding in their family. They gave us sweet flatbread, banana chips, and ice-cream cones. Their calico cat has three kittens. Ramlat, one of the family members, told me that Dora, my blue-eyed kitten, was chased by a dog, ten years ago. I took pictures of them, and with them.

To walk on the same road, under the same moon, among the same trees, after eleven years, was comforting. Photographs of the moon encircled by the branches of a tree that stood beside an electric pole were taken, sometimes with the speeding vehicles in the foreground. I will have several pictures to edit, when I return to the city.

The reminiscences of growing up and the minutiae associated with this place are holding me together, as it seems, in a phase of life when distractions are sought. The shape and the vividness of the moon, as seen from here, do not seem to have altered to my eyes. I used to like walking in the moonlight when the village was asleep.

The unceasing drive of vehicles on the road here reminds me of the song Sand in My Shoes by Dido. The knowledge of losing this green space to a national highway is disheartening. What may divert dejection is the prospect of uniting with the place—the golden fields where we role-played detectives, the forest where we role-played scientists, the stream where tiny fish swam during monsoons, the fen where an exotic animal lived—in the distant future, hoping all of it is unaltered, like my memory of it.
A Road Trip With Cousins

February 19th, 2015

With our winter gear on, we left the city in the wee hours of December to spend the next two days in Wayanad, Kerala. As a car driver, it was my first interstate road trip. The thought of manoeuvring the hair-pin bends fretted me, although it had been decided that my cousin Bubba would be at the wheel all through the bends. Once again, I ensured that all the documents pertaining to the car, and my license, were present in the dashboard. The journey began with my wobbly hands steering the wheel.

When we reached the outskirts, we stopped for a quick tea at Bubba’s request. He, who had just learnt that I had acquired a friend’s DSLR camera, treated every moment as an image that was meant to be captured. Thus, pictures of us shivering, sipping tea, chatting, and even paying the stall-keeper were shot ceaselessly!

The drive was resumed amid his exaggerated remarks that reaching the destination would take a day if I was to continue driving. When I finally gave up, I took the opportunity to criticise his hasty driving.

At the crack of dawn, we stopped opposite Mysore Palace to capture the magical light of the rising sun (which I do not see on most days owing to my nocturnal lifestyle). The pictures taken of the first light did not need any digital alteration, for they looked lovely with natural tones of yellow, pink, and orange. On moving further away, I so desired to frame the lovely sights, which brought my sleep-deprived self to life—spaces inhabited by slender and stout trees with their striking branches, and, telephone and electric power poles with their intricate lines. My earnest requests for pulling over were brushed off because they were rather keen on reaching the destination without needless delay.

Throughout the journey, Bubba and I fought over what music was to be played. Later, it was agreed that trance should be played when I was behind the wheel and pop when he was. Watermelons and corns that Mother bought on the highway occupied the trunk, along with our baggage. I insisted on driving the car through the Muthanga Wildlife Sanctuary, where we hoped to catch a glimpse of some wild animal. Speed-breakers erected every fifty metres ensured that drivers did not over speed in the wildlife zone. As I was leisurely driving through the serene forest, my cousins spotted a herd of deer! In our excitement, we quickly left the car to find the deer looking back at us for a few seconds before they coyly quitted the spot.

One of the places we intended to visit that afternoon in Wayanad seemed packed even before we reached it. The outgoing drivers warned the incoming drivers of the lack of parking space. Thankfully, a neighbouring road was within the tea plantations, offering one a chocolate-box view of the place. I remember how fervently (and incessantly) I shot pictures of the pretty backdrops from the moving car until twilight depressed the quality of pictures. That night, all of us had a good night’s sleep in a dormitory. The second day was spent seeing touristy places of Wayanad. We left on the third day.

During the return journey through the same wildlife sanctuary, we spotted a spotted deer! This time, Bubba made sure that he got a picture of the animal, with him in the foreground. Our next stop was on the highway where a variety of vegetables that lay on one side of the road drew Mother’s attention. On the other side of the road was a plant nursery with a display of showy flowers. The trunk was loaded with beetroots and radishes, this time. Catnip would have accompanied them had I found one in the nursery for my two wayward cats.

Bubba, for whom driving a car on the highway is akin to playing a car-race game, grabbed the wheel before I got in. Yet again, I was bitten by the bug that compels me to constantly capture images of trees from a moving vehicle. It took the drive through the hairpin bends of Bandipur to end the impulse and enjoy the beauty of a deciduous forest seen for the first time in daylight.

Busy monkeys on a food-hunting spree moved along excited tourists at the Bandipur National Park. They were found emptying bottles and upturning dustbins, besides ripping the pillion of a parked motorbike. One of them snatched a bottle of mango juice from Mother’s hand while we were surveying the Information Centre. Amidst such surroundings, I saw a monkey, seemingly wary of human presence, clutching her baby. I was so inspired by all the information I had gathered during our interval at the park that I fancied working in the forest department as a wildlife biologist!

On the next highway, we found a decent restaurant with outdoor swings. After quick refreshment, we swung on the swings and left the place a few minutes before sundown. When the atmosphere was painted with the golden light of the departing sun, I pulled off the road and ran across to a barren land with my cousins to bask in my most favourite light, while Bubba and Mother stayed in the car. Before long, we were summoned by Bubba, who walked towards us with a solemn expression, but when asked to pose for a picture, forgot why he had come.

During the drive, he had us rolling in the aisles when he confidently said that elephants and tigers are domestic animals, and argued that Mysore Palace was built by Tipu Sultan. How could, then, my cousin Anusha not transfer the title of ‘Asinine Cousin’ from me to Bubba?

He considered every car in our vicinity a competitor in his fabricated game of car race. He also presumed that other drivers were building strategies to defeat him in the race. Dipper was used constantly. Certain maneuvers had us yelling at him. It was only when he emerged as the winner that he seemed to be at ease. His fixed jolly disposition made the road trip merrier.

Before I forget, we never encountered hairpin bends during our journey.
The Warmth of His Muffler

February 18th, 2015

The Embrace at Dusseldorf

Last October, Unam accepted an invitation to know a stranger with the mutual intent of determining whether their correspondence would lead to a romantic affair—they fell for each other. Six months into it, she grew wings to fly to see him, in flesh and bone, for the first time.

No sooner had she descended the final stair of the escalator than the train bound for Dusseldorf left Frankfurt. Subsequent delays of the next train subdued her spirits and had her consider the futility of her journey—she wondered if she would be stranded in Frankfurt. After the train finally arrived, she felt her excitement grow with each passing station. As she alighted at the Dusseldorf station, she sought the sight of the man with whom she was in love and for whom she had made this overseas trip. Upon recognising his tranquil countenance, she found herself running to embrace him. They had finally met in person!

In his attempt to acknowledge her physical existence, he caressed her hands and kissed her cheeks and would not avert his gaze from her. His bag contained a cup of cinnamon tea and cookies, which he had brought because she was cold and hungry. As one of his many tender gestures of fond affection, he removed the muffler from around his neck and wrapped it around hers. The warmth was, at last, tangible.

Constellations and Romance

A towering, magnificent tree lives near the Mülheim River. Her pale beige bark is smooth and speckled with white sapwood. One must halt and pause to behold her with admiration, for her imposing figure merits more than a mere passing glance. And how high must one raise his head to glimpse her crown!

That crisp and hushed evening, they watched swans tranquilly drift down the river. As dusk grew deeper, her lover marked constellations on the sky using a mobile application. That he used one was one of the many seemingly peripheral, yet appealing, personas with which she was acquainted in the wake of their physical coexistence.

He took her to a river-side restaurant, which was festooned with fancy rope lights, and where she devoured her first Flammkuchen, which would become her first choice in any eatery they visited in Germany. Back in their humble abode, he burnt many an aroma candle in the living space to create an ambience of romance. The night was spent nestling and slumbering in each other’s arms.

A Deluge of Flowers

Whenever he stumbled upon flowers, he deluged her with them. One evening, subdued by their differences, they were leaving the riverside when he saw a tree with a rich profusion of pale pink flowers. Given the apparent discord for which she was the reason, she wondered what he would do with the numerous clusters of flowers he was childishly picking. To her astonishment, he proffered them all to her. When she asked him what she was to do with so many flowers, he replied, ‘Get creative’. The following day, while he was away for work, she wrote him a letter, which she adorned with the very same flowers and hid among his research files, hoping that the hidden letter would assuage the momentary loneliness he may feel after she departs from the space where the two twined beautiful memories for life. Thus, she indicated its existence only after she had left his residence.