Dubrovnik: A bird's-eye view

Dear Readers,

I hope you're all well and healthy.

Re-sharing an old post today.

A friend shared some photos of her trip to Croatia recently on her Instagram account. Her clicks put me in mind of the time we'd marvelled at Croatia's cerulean skies in 2017.

Here it is then--an old post with travel pictures.

The poetry in the end that I wrote three years ago put a smile on my face today:) It seems like the 2017 me knew I'd need to read these words today. This is time travel in a blogger's world. I sat down  with an agenda for the day: a tad worrisome: mired in a to-do list of sorts; but after reading the post, all I can do is smile. The birds in the garden who have been singing all morning are sounding clear and chirpy now. The fog has lifted. 

Wishing you all a sparkling day wherever you are.

Much love

Arti xx

My morning routine has adapted itself to the hot summer of Doha and the holy month of Ramadan. I don't have to drop my son off to school first thing in the morning, so I find myself in my garden at six: watering, pruning and clicking pictures (when I remember to bring the phone with me). By nine am, the mercury is shooting to reach above 44 degrees, so I cherish this short window of time in the morning when the grass feels cool.

Gardening duties over, I make  my way back to the kitchen. En route, I pinch a few tulsi leaves to boil with fennel seeds and grated ginger to prepare my chai. The husband is packed off with his sandwiches and the son is yet to wake up. I am left with the gift of twenty minutes--too short to sit and mediate or practise yoga or run a wash cycle, but long enough to meet my feathered friends. I cradle my garam, garam chai in my hands and go back out to sit under the fragrant blooms of frangipani and the shade of the mulberry leaves to have tea with the birds.

A mishmash of house sparrows, Spanish sparrows, mynahs, doves and even the odd bulbul play their orchestra of notes while hopping from a branch here, to a leaf there, then to the moist ground to pick juicy breakfast. I've often thought of buying some seeds, but the birds seem content with berries and worms. Sipping tea, while squatting on the grass, trying to be invisible so that I can be part of their world for just under twenty minutes or so is the most special part of my day.

The birds gather here everyday like it's the first day. Their songs herald every day with the same magic, no matter the news, the changing temperature or the moon cycles. I sit and look at them and sometimes my heart flies around with them--free and fabulous.

It's been over a month since I've  blogged. I've been busy doing nothing--yes, that's the best kind of busy. Cleaning, cooking, reading, yoga and walks in Aspire Park have kept me occupied. I've been in a questioning mood (more about it in a later post--maybe:)

Today, after a long while, I feel like I'd like to write and share again. Birds sing, hoot, squawk and squeak.  They hop, skitter, skip and then fly off. I sit and watch and wonder what they make of what they see. So intent are they on their business of being, that they don't seem to have the need to question anything. No purpose needed other than the joy of living. Oh! how blessed are these feathered friends who have no mind to calm, no hearts to open, no chakras to align, no breath to focus on--they know how to be.

Bird's-eye view -- a term used for when you look at something from above--physically removed, detached, like an observer. Maybe that's the secret of the birds' lightness--they observe from a distance, they don't mire themselves in situations and reactions. Maybe one doesn't have to fly to detach, maybe one can sit and close ones eyes and let go. Maybe. Let's see. It's early days, but the journey to be has begun. 

*****

April, this year, saw us exploring Croatia and one of my favourite walks was: walking the walls of Dubrovnik. I urge you to do it if you're able to. The views were stunning, of course, but the peace and quiet up here (at least when we were there) takes you back in time and space. You can be a bird, an ancient warrior fending your kingdom, a princess or a washerwoman waiting for her lover, or a mother carrying a camera:) Up here, your imagination and your eyes will keep you occupied for hours 

All these photos were taken from top of the walls that surround the Old City. 

Dubrovnik: A bird's-eye view

One never knows when ones seams  may come undone;)

And here's a view that's been painted by many artists:

Back down in the old city, who should I see? 

A bunch of birds--colourful, but not free.

Summer heat and political news makes me want to read poems like this one by Emily Dickinson:

Photo courtesy: Google Images.

This is my hope for you dear readers, and in this hope lies a prayer that I send out for me.
Have you noticed how the words our hearts seek
 are the ones our fingers type so our eyes may peek?


I wish you a summer such as this.

May you smell the flowers 
and always caress the grass

May books be read under trees 
laden with summer fruit or leaves fluttering in balmy breeze

May much-too-juicy mangoes quench your thirst for childhoods gone
and may those fleshy cherries make you cherish the lands to which you now belong

May lemonade infused with mint and thyme
fill you up with still and sparkling bubbles of tender travelled time

May jamuns and black berries colour you in their darkness so deep
that you may frolic in merry mischief of those once-upon-a-time afternoons 
when you hoodwinked sleep

May cold and creamy kulfi held with both hands on sticks
melt more rapidly than your greedy, clumsy licks.

May white kurtas and cream dupattas bear stains plenty
of tumbles and first kisses when lovers had wished for public parks to be empty

May ice-cream carts ring in all your summers from before
through gates and gullies and welcoming open doors
of orange bars and shared bites
and bursting into neighbours' houses to claim reclaimed kites

May you sing with birds and fly with them too
May you remember to wear sunscreen, shades, hat 
and let not your smile go askew

But, whenever you step out
remember:

May you be you this summer
May you always be you

May you always be you: 
the sum total of memories, dreams and dew
Enjoying every now and then --
your own personal bird's-eye view

*****

Y is for Yellow #atozchallenge

The penultimate post of this challenge wants to be presented in a simple, straightforward way. No hunts for the elusive Y word have been carried out and no digging in closets of memories has taken place today.

It's a post awash with my favourite colour, Yellow.

A favour is all I ask of you my dear readers, please don't tell Turquoise about this post. He's my 'other' love. I tend to wear him more, too. So he may get the wrong idea, you see. Yellow, on the other hand, makes me do things I'd never do for T. Like, go up to complete strangers and ask them if I can click their picture. Or lie flat on my back to take a photo of a tiny desert plant that grows here in Qatar. Or wait for the sunset to capture Y's last radiant streaks. Or set the alarm for 4 in the morning to ensure I catch Y when he's being born.

Yellow, I can't resist. And Turquoise I can't live without.

Without further yakking, let's go and follow that Yellow...

Draped in Kutchch

Resplendent in Qatar--found this beauty on our way to Purple Island

Carpeting Nottingham, U.K.

Hanging in Amman, Jordan

and holding a Green Party, Amman again.

 Keeping Buddha company in Koh Samui

On display in Tbilisi, Georgia

Ready to take off in Washington D.C.

Streaming through curtains

and waiting to be harvested in Rajasthan.

Hanging outside to dry in Ahmedabad

Crossing the road in Split, Croatia

Do you know the name Split comes from a yellow flower that grows in abundance on the hills surrounding Split.

When the Greeks first settled here, they found the hills covered with Aspalatos (the yellow flower),

thus, giving Split its name.

Split is the place where Aspalatos grows.

A very kind lady at a shop I got some lavender from in Split told me this. 

She was such a treasure trove of information. 

I asked her if she knew why Split was called Split.

Croatians call this flower Brnistra. I didn't take any pictures of it, so I'm using this google image:

Van Gogh loved yellow, too.

Here's a letter I wrote to him about...ya right.. Yellow. 

That was in 2015. 

More recently, I met Surabhi, an artist who loves yellow as much as I do. 

Thank you all for keeping me company.

It's been an amazing journey.

One last letter to go.

Waiting for Zee.

Last year's last was Zekreet

What will this year's be?

Do you have a favourite colour?

What might that/those be?

Do share:)

O is for Observing the Ordinary #atozchallenge

Ordinary, I like.
It has no need to impress, like the extra ordinary.

Ordinary lives in the moment; every moment.

Oh! how I love thee:
my very own ordinary.

It's just gone past ten on a sunny Tuesday.
I'm sat here, at the kitchen table, typing out a post for O.
They tumble in, all of them, one by one, my band of ordinary:

His brown eyes when he said bye and left for work.
Sweet smell of Comfort spring dew
on laundry.
Flecks of sun on paper blinds hung on windows--
watching sprigs of basil and seeds of fennel dance
in boil of water.
I add tea and milk and strain the brew.
A touch of honey.
That should do.
I have plenty to call my ordinary.
How about you?

What are your ordinary moments like?
Do they add you up or bring you down?
How often do you observe your ordinary?

*****

When I first borrowed my daughter's camera, almost four years ago, I thought I was going to 'take' pictures.

I was so wrong.

This camera has shown me to look at my ordinary with fresh eyes.

I love the way I've slowed down these days. 

At first, I slowed down to observe a shot, a frame, a picture or a portrait.

When this slowness permeated my life, I do not know.

It was our last day in Split, Croatia. I wanted to pick up a book from a shop before driving off to Dubrovnik. 

The husband was rushing ahead. 

He gets like that when he's on his mission to get from point A to point B on holiday:)

I was at a zebra crossing, looking to cross the road: left, right...hang on...

It was day 4 of the A to Z challenge and letters had been on my mind, but this was surreal.

So, I stood and saw and clicked.

"Did you see the letters crossing the road?" I asked him when I caught up at last.

"What letters?" he asked.

The letters marched on,

 posed,

(Google says this word means smart/clever/wise in Croatian. 

If you know Croatian, please enlighten me. Thank you)

 paused for traffic,

and made their way back to (no idea where)!

Observe your ordinary and you will see just how marvellous it truly is.

"Perhaps, we'll meet tomorrow with P."

I type

 with

purple stains on greedy fingers 

after harvesting oozy mulberry.

L is for Laundry #atozchallenge

When a newly qualified doctor of Indian origin claimed, "I don't mind washing clothes, it's the ironing that I can't stand." to try to fit in with his white British colleagues in 1974 at his surgery in North London, he failed miserably.

"Odd " was an adjective he acquired that first day at work and it stuck with him for  a very long time.

What his colleagues (who hadn't grown up in the India of the 60s and the 70s) didn't realise was that washing machines were not of a mechanical persuasion back home. They came in human forms: kaam wali bai (house maid) or dhobi (washer-man) or mother or wife or father or brother or your own self. It all depended on the matrix of your family.

Clothes were soaked in Nirma washing powder for a couple of hours, then scrubbed and even beaten with a wooden spatula/bat called dummadi. Then the onerous task of wringing the clothes heavy with water followed. Not a problem if it's a cotton shirt but try wringing water from a thick cotton bed sheet. No one needed a gym those days and everyone was always fit. Last but not least, the clothes were hung to dry outdoors, mostly in partial shade to prevent bleaching of coloured clothes and yellowing of white ones.

Compare the above to choosing a setting on a machine, dropping some detergent and a bit of conditioner in the slots and pushing the button to 'wash' your clothes.

Odd indeed. What you don't know, you don't know.

My mother often told us how lucky we were when we were of 'wash-your-own-clothes' age because Nirma and Surf had surfaced by then. In her time, (sounded as Victorian to me as our time sounds to our children) they used to wash clothes with this bar of soap that removed dirt off clothes and skin off palms without discrimination.

One of my favourite laundry memory (yes, I'm a bit odd like that) is when Mummy used reetha (soap nuts) to wash her expensive cardigans at home. The sudsy seeds of this nut are such fun to play with.

But my most favourite laundry memory is about my Grandmother's dupattas. We called her Beji and I didn't know then but she definitely had OCD. Her pure white chiffon dupattas were always white and bright and immaculate. She wore the ones with lace around the edges.

But before I dive into this and one other memory, let me tell why I picked laundry for L. As some of you know, I was in Croatia when the A to Z Challenge started. Lo and behold--L was hanging right there in front of me--and such pretty pictures it made too:)

Sundays were laundry days when I was growing up. On Sundays, Darji (our Sikh neighbour) would sit in his veranda with his kesh (hair) all afloat in the air, looking more like Santa Claus than Darji to me. His turbans hung around him; the cloth open and spread out at different angles on various charpoys in the veranda or flying like flags from the banni (railings) The soft cotton fabric would slowly harden in the sun as the starch put on it would start to dry. I used to watch Neena didi (his daughter) gather the turban cloth (now stiff like poppadoms) and  make them into turban meringues --ready to be sent to the press-walla (the ironing guy).

Beji (my grandmother) washed her dupattas herself. She would squeeze out the soapy water ever so softly, her wrinkle ridden hands kneading the watery chiffon so carefully that the two gold bangles on her right wrist wouldn't even clink! Then came my favourite part--mixing 'neel' (a blue dye ). I think it's an indigo extract, but I'm not sure. Just a few drops would plop out of the squeezy sheeshee (bottle) and dive into the shallow bucket, half-filled with water. And like ink, neel would swirl and twirl and make hypnotic patterns. My job was to make sure it mixed well with the water, so that when Beji plunged her white dupattas in, the blue would give them the whiter than white glow and not blue splodges!

Six or seven of her bathed in blue (neel mein nahaye) dupattas would sit piled up on top of each other in baguette like forms waiting to be hand dried. Yes, you got that right. They weren't going to be hung like ordinary laundry on wires of steel and ropes of nylon. No, sir. They were Beji's pride and joy. 

Dupatta drying is a two women's job. You need a partner to do this properly.

This was my MOST favourite part of Sundays. My sister or mother or Beji or aunt (whoever was available to partner up) would hold two corners of the wet dupatta. I'd hold the other two (imagine spreading a picnic blanket with another pair of hands). Then both of us (holding to the corners and standing opposite each other at either end of the dupatta) would raise our arms and the dupatta would plump up like a parachute, followed by lowering the arms (still holding the dupatta). Imagine sending-smoke-signal-kinda-arm movements.

Every time the dupatta would come down, it would sprinkle us both with tiny drops of water. I loved that. A tiny patch of dry in the shape of a map would start appearing in the middle after a few ups and downs. Then the dry patch would spread and spread till almost all of the dupatta was dry, except the lace trimmed edges. The corners in our hands would be slightly damp when the adult partner would take over-- swiftly aligning the two edges together to fold Beji's dupatta and deposit it on the pile of other dried rectangles of white as snow chiffon, their lacy rims hanging over the edges.

What was your last laundry like?

Any mishaps you'd like to share?

Leaving you with a picture of a lighthouse...as long it's L, it'll do.

These pictures were taken in Split and Dubrovnik in the first week of April, 2017

Make hay when the sun shines or enjoy a Martini if it doesn't.

Meet you here tomorrow:)

I is for Island of Brac #atozchallenge

The penultimate day of our week long holiday in Croatia turned out to be dark, cloudy and moody. I'd set the alarm for 4.30 am to write about 'D' for this challenge. By the time the rest of the family woke up, I was on my third cup of coffee and the sky had turned grey.

Upon waking up, the husband announced his desire to go shopping (extremely out of character) instead of exploring an island nearby (my desire) which we had planned to do before going to bed the previous night.

We reached a compromise over bowls of muesli and decided to explore first, shop later.

The boat was scheduled to depart at 11. So we bought some good coffee (coffee is great everywhere in Split) and sandwiches and ate on board. Brac bound...(btw, the c is Brac sounds like ch)

Forty-five minutes later, we arrived at Supetar. The husband disclosed his plan to head back on the 2.30 ferry. I wasn't too pleased. His practical brain was looking at the weather forecast. My romantic heart wanted to stay longer.

What to do? 

The lady at the tourist information office thought like my husband and advised very wisely that we should take the heritage tour she was handing us a leaflet for. It would take about an hour and leave us plenty of time to have a coffee or garb some lunch before taking the 2:30 ferry back to Split.

Why do I find it easier to see reason shown by strangers?  

Come along then. We don't have all day...let's explore Supetar.
No silly,  not on this fancy red scooter, we're gonna walk...

Spring wasn't hiding.

I wasn't seeking.

Cherry blossoms nodded.

But Iris stood quite still.

Baby figs are waiting to fatten up before Summer arrives.

Wisteria cooled air conditioners

and a stone full of yellow flowers (I don't know the name of) held up a stormy sky.

It didn't rain while we were out.

 Pots and pans, a bird in a cage and a colourful curtain alluded to human history:

Apart from the restaurants and coffee/ice-cream shops on the main street, not much else was open. Drilling sounds and whiffs of paint told us that the island was getting ready for summer or for May, when the tourist season starts.

A stall selling things made out of the white stone, Brac is famous for, was open. I walked up. The lady owner of the stall (whose name I forgot to ask) is a local who was selling things made by her son-in-law. 

"He graduated from the stone masonry school up here." She sounded proud."It's not easy to get in or to graduate from this school, you know."

I nodded. (I googled after getting back home and realised why she sounded so proud)

She had an impressive selection of pestle and mortars, candle holders, beads made of stone and lots more.

"Do you know the White House is white because of our stone?"

"Really?" I asked.

She took out a newspaper cutting slid inside a plastic pocket. I couldn't read it but she carried on..."Yes, of course, they didn't want to acknowledge it but a piece of paper was discovered a few years ago and now it's official. Our stone was used to build the White House."

She counted a few other important buildings in Austria and Georgia where the white stone from Brac has been used.

I chose a pestle and mortar to take back with me.

She explained the different names the stones are given. 

"This one is called happiness." She pointed to the one I was holding. "It's softer and the little grey specks you see are sea shells and fossils." 

"And this one is called vinito , you see the grey veins? That's a bit of volcanic stone."

I was fascinated.

"This stone is very special. Its antiseptic quality makes it perfect to grind herbs and medicinal plants." she offered as I paid for my purchase.

"I'll use it for ginger and cardamom for my tea." 

She smiled.

We continued chatting.

"You know they think we have Scottish blood in us. And like all the jokes in England are about the Scottish, all the jokes in Croatia are about us. I used to get very angry about it when I was younger, but now I don't mind. I feel that's who I am. I'm happy here."

 It did rain that day, but only after we had reached our apartment in Split. Shopping didn't happen!

If you like history, then check out Stone from Brac.

This short extract is from the link above (an article in the Herald)

"The ancient hilltop hamlet of Skrip on Brac was the home two centuries before Christ for the Illyrians, who settled atop hills to defend themselves against Greek invaders. Romans arrived in 167 BC to begin quarrying stone for the mansions they built.

Roman and Illyrian artifacts now are showcased in a small hilltop museum there.

The museum curator tells us islanders on Brac consider themselves Highlanders, in much the same way that proudly independent mountain-dwelling Scots see themselves as different from their countrymen. "We're very independent and we even speak with something of a brogue," she told us."

en-Joy your day and I shall join you tomorrow:)