Introducing the long-tailed tit

Ever since it sneaked into the tenth position on the RSPB’s garden bird watch we always wondered why we never got a visit from one. Some of the reasons were obvious like we don’t have a garden and also the fact that blue tits, robin, chaffinch, great tits and blackbirds have often visited our second floor balcony in itself is some kind of good fortune worth celebrating. So why overstretch your luck? But still we wondered and sometimes looked out to the wide world and, for no reason, sighed.

Then one day something felt a bit different. There was no special zing in the air or chime of distant bells but just an odd flurry outside the window. And lo and behold! Wishes do come true and all the sighs sent out into the wide open do find a benevolent ear. Yes, it was a long-tailed tit. Finally. It sat on the ledge and watched the birds on the peanut feeder. Flew across the balcony once or twice and then off it went. But that was time enough to take a few photographs as proof of the great event that had taken place.

After that first spotting we have spent countless evenings with countless long-tailed tits, cause they never travel alone but in flocks of 10, 20 or more and have found the neighbourhood park a good enough spot as any to spend their time in. And every time we see one, we always remember that thing about wishes and the benevolent ear.

On a winter morning, perhaps a traveler.

Goodbye, blue sky

To see the Summer Sky
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie-
True Poems flee -
(Emily Dickinson)

London Diary: Bleaker than the bleakest day

Oh damn! It looks bleak. Bleak enough to evoke a thousand curses on the way to work. So, bleak that it inspires many FaceBook statuses moaning the bleakness. Bleakness that is grey-black clouds and cold steely rain. Bleaker than the bleakest day remembered from the years long gone. But the world outside my window is green.

I watch the rain and wind command the trees through a cycle of impossible calisthenics. As the misty blanket engulfs and obscures the towering grey man-made giants. Till all that is visible is the trees and the lone grey heron waiting and watching, as is his destiny. No sign of humans; even the drone of traffic is subdued by the shrieking gusty wind.

Outside my door the geraniums and petunias revel in the rain. Birds flock to the lone feeder hanging on by a black shoelace. A blue tit impatiently awaits its chance to get a footing on the mildly swaying feeder. A blue and yellow speck dashing among the magenta fuchsia while the others nibble. Amidst the vague calls of tea-cher, tea-cher and other sihishishishi’s. Finally as the rain falls down by the fistfuls and the hordes fly away, the tenacious one grips tightly onto the perch and merrily pecks on.

Yes, the world outside my window is quite the opposite of bleak.

The Good Daughter

When people timidly proffered banal opinions about good and evil. Sometimes gathering enough courage to quote from Richard Bach or Reader's Digest. Expounding more clichés than one’s brain can consume in a lifetime. A cacophony of mindlessly droning human voices going on and on about nothing. In that summer before our last year in college you gifted me ‘Summer in Algiers’ by Albert Camus. You said I’d like it. I knew about Camus, had read about Camus but had never felt it essential to read a single word of what he wrote. But that is what after school education does to you in India. You know everything related to the subject except the subject itself.

And you were correct. I loved the essay. I loved the vivid description of the people and the place, almost real, mostly nostalgic like some faded Polaroid. For days I ruminated over, “…Algiers (together with certain other privileged places such as cities on the sea) opens to the sky like a mouth or a wound. In Algiers one loves the commonplace: the sea at the end of the street, a certain volume of sunlight, the beauty of the race. And, as always, in that unashamed offering there is a secret fragrance. In Paris it is possible to be homesick for space and a beating of wings. Here, at least, man is gratified in every wish and, sure of his desires, can at last measure his possessions.” And I ruminated over what it was like to know. To have knowledge that comes from direct experience, knowledge that is ‘sure of its desire’, and knowledge that is lucid - self-expressed.

Just like today I ruminate over you and the books and thoughts we shared. And wonder how you are. Hoping you have managed to come away unscathed with your intellect preserved. Though somewhere in my mind a tiny voice offers some nameless misgivings. And when I look back to that and other such terrible summers in Delhi I can’t help but wonder how did you manage it even then. You, who could quote from Plato and Nietzsche, stuck in a quagmire of familial ambitions squeezing every last bit of oxygen; making all the books and quotes fall lifeless. Become meaningless. Feel homesick for space and a beating of wings.

Could we have known it then? Do you know it now? You could have been an artist, an intellectual, anything you desired if only you had not chosen to be the good daughter.

Yellow

Colours: part 1

Life According to Birds

Chapter 83: Dance me to the end of love performed by The Woodpigeons

Kindness of strangers

All that remains is two glasses on a vacant table. One half full and the other empty. And the echo of parting words, “Enjoy the best years of your life.” They are gone. Poof. They almost vanish in thin air and you wonder did it really happen, where they even there. And then you see the two glasses on the vacant table. By and by the entire interaction, even the minutest gestures walk in to firmly establish their place among the memories of people you meet for a few minutes in some obscure corner of the world never to forget again.

They travel in the bus with you. Or occupy the seat next to yours in the airplane. And sometimes they are just people whose conversation you eavesdrop upon as the train whistles past vast blue skies filled with fat cotton ball like clouds while the hay bales roll by. They could be talking about the trenches of the first world war revisited and the horrors relived while the border collie travelling along struggles to get up onto the girl’s lap to press his nose against the window pane. Or they could be debating the finer points of theoretical physics in a village pub only to pause for the young waitress to serve them their pints. And sometimes you meet them as you struggle for breath at the end of a long trek to the top. With a smile, a laugh and a nod they admit you into the communal experience of shared emotions and exhilaration.

So you stare at the two glasses, one half full and the other empty and recollect a man amused by his struggles with his memory and a woman joking about warmer climes and appreciate a life fulfilled. The culmination of all tribulations and happiness. That elusive secret passed onto two complete strangers who wait for dinner to be served. Invoking a blessing. May they enjoy the best years of their life.

This random kindness of strangers and moments of bliss shared with people unknown. This sudden uplifting of spirits and the calm light that enters the eyes. Hope makes an elegant entrance and chooses to grace us with its presence, even if it is only for a while.

London Diary: Summer's last stand

It filters through the leaves


It colours the skies


You can see it reflect in the robin's eye


As the great tit contemplates the days gone by


The grass sings it isn't time, as yet, for goodbye


It is still summer: it's summers last stand with its head held high.

Life According to Birds

Chapter 76: How to make a perfect circle by the young Mallards

A pause to think

Student of clouds

(all photographs by Anvita Lakhera)

Student of Clouds
by Billy Collins

The emotion is to be found in clouds,
not in the green solids of the sloping hills
or even in the gray signatures of rivers,
according to Constable, who was a student of clouds
and filled shelves of notebooks with their motion,
their lofty gesturing and sudden implication of weather.

Outdoor, he must have looked up thousands of times,
his pencil trying to keep pace with their high voyaging
and the silent commotion of the eddying and flow.
Clouds would move beyond the outlines he would draw
as they moved within themselves, tumbling into their centers
and swirling off at the burning edges in vapors
to dissipate into the universal blue of the sky.

In photographs we can stop all this movement now
long enough to tag them with their Latin names.
Cirrus, nimbus, stratocumulus -
dizzying, romantic, authoritarian -
they bear their titles over the schoolhouses below
where their shapes and meanings are memorized.

High on the soft blue canvases of Constable
they are stuck in pigment but his clouds appear
to be moving still in the wind of his brush,
inching out of England and the nineteenth century
and sailing over these meadows where I am walking,
bareheaded beneath the cupola of motion,
my thoughts arranged like paint on a high blue ceiling.

(Constable's study of clouds can be viewed here)

London Diary: A year in Music

(All photographs by Anvita Lakhera)

It actually starts in Amsterdam with tickets to two shows: Mark Knopfler and Gogol Bordello. But the move to London coincides with both. A day after we fly out Mr. Knopfler performs at the Heineken Music Hall. Damn! But we manage to catch up with Gogol Bordello in Hammersmith. Good band. Bad venue.

How can you sit and listen to “Start Wearing Purple”? Clearly someone had not heard the music before selecting the venue. A more appropriate setting would have been Victoria Park. Radiohead plays at Victoria Park. It’s a stone’s throw away from home. Love the Park. Love Thom York’s commitment to the cause. Then there is the music…

But next came Leonard Cohen. A man after my heart. A concert that will be remembered for ages. Or at least for as long as all those who attended it walk this earth. The grace. The dignity. The voice. The words. And an atmosphere resonating with all that is good and hope inspiring about the human race.

Naturally when he came back we were there again. And sang along with an audience that broke all age barriers, “It’s time we began to laugh and cry and laugh about it all”.

Then came the big one. What would be considered the biggest event of a musical lifetime. Bob Dylan Live. But we had been amply forewarned. Big venue, moody singer-well prepare to be disappointed. And so we were. Disappointed.

That coupled with the fact that the big screens were covered and so most people didn’t even get a glimpse of the man…much like listening to Dylan at home but with people going out to get another beer every few minutes.

Then Pearl Jam. And what a contrast. What a concert. Everything that one expects from music and musicians. Great songs. Good, solid performance. Interaction with the audience. Love. Humility. Respect. Gratefulness on both sides. And a minor act of protest.

Plus the fact that Eddie Vedder is the coolest man. Ever. And you can't find a better man.

The fear of questions

As you put down Emily Gravett’s ‘Big Book of Fears’ and look at the white mouse peeping through the mouse-chewed hole in the cover I see the look of worry enter your eyes. I ask, putting on my most sickly sweet voice to keep the situation light, “So, what is your biggest fear?” You answer automatically in a tone devoid of all emotions, “The fear of questions.” And immediately add, “Especially those questions to which I have no answers.”

I try to imagine snarky classmates and sadistic teachers and cold steel striking boney knuckles. But am assaulted by the fear of the next question waiting in line to which I honestly have no answer, “What is the fear of questions called?” And a flush of embarrassment, the kind that momentarily and involuntarily comes over when one is confronted by the unknown, starts to colour my face.

Putting my hands on your shoulders I say, “Remember what the book says, ‘A Fear Faced Is A Fear Defeated.’ So, if you have any questions don’t hesitate to ask. Maybe people will laugh at you. Maybe others will call you a fool. Or maybe there are other people asking the same question too. And maybe someone has the answer. But how would you know if you don’t ask?”

And I smile as we share our special look, “Do you know what the fear of questions is called? Well, neither do I. Come on let us look for the answer together.”

Another day that is not Sunday

The wind surges through the trees. The leaves gush and bubble. The dandelion seeds quiver clinging to tiny white parachutes ready for adventures unknown. A ladybird flies right into the center of the flower. A bold explorer. A deep red jewel enclosed in a lacy white box. The bee finds succor among the lavender. Gossamer like wings glinting in the sunlight. The heron silent for an eternity suddenly stretches his wings. First left, then right. While the mallard scratches and shakes and preens. Then starts all over again. And in the pond a lily cracks open its first petals. The air gets electrified by this magnificent debut.

Meanwhile you pass by thinking today is just another day that is not Sunday.












(All photographs by Anvita Lakhera)