Tagore's Birthday and Flowers of Neem with a dash of #Hindi Poetry

When on Thursday morn, I sat outside

under our neem tree 

with a beautiful book 

and a cup of chai, 

I didn't know it was Tagore's birthday. 

The fragrant blooms of neem were busy 

dropping off its branches and carpeting 

the mat, the book and me. 

A few even plopped into my tea! 

There was something beautiful about that moment. 

I started scribbling a few lines and before I knew it, 

I was typing out an Insta post of poetry. 

The friend whose book it is, called a couple of hours later to say

it was Buddha Purnima that day.

And she added that the 7th of May

is also Rabindra Nath Tagore's birthday. 

O! how co-incidental, I thought.

I had to share that which I wrote, I thought.

A few lines-

I'll call them poetry

Just because:)

They're in Hindi

Yes, that which I wrote.

The title is not.

It's called Flowers of Neem

A translation I feel

will not bring out the flavour

of feelings that only Hindi can reveal

you see there are things:

subtle and sublime;

long lost yet found

ethereal yet ground

almost like water vapour

which one can only savour

in ones own mother tongue

or perhaps--

I am just a rubbish translator!

So, for the readers of English who visit,

I have shared a bit

of Moon inspired lines

plus

some ideas to dine

with an easy recipe of rasam.

You'll find it all after this poem

recited in a voice that is mine:)

A recital: Neem ke Phool

नीम की फुलझढ़ियों
की बेफ़िक्री देखिए
कभी Tagore से उभरती हैं
तो कभी चाय की चुस्कियाँ में डूब जाती हैं

नज़ारा कुछ ऐसा है आज चटाई का
कि बिखर बिखर के वो नादान
सेज सजाऐ जाती हैं
और इंतज़ार की एक मीठी सी
धुन गुनगुनाऐ जाती हैं

पर कोई इन डालियों से पूछे
सबर का सिला
एक मुद्त का इंतज़ार
और फिर बहार
वो भी बस पल भर की
मालूम नहीं मुझे कि वो
किस तरह
अपने सभी फूल नयौछावर कर
धूप के आँगन में खिलखिलाऐ जाती हैं

शायद मुझसे ज़्यादा सयानी हैं
नीम की डालियाँ
वो जानती हैं
अपने फूलों की फ़ितरत
बिखरने के लिए ही तो खिलते हैं वो

--आरती 

The Moon was not yet high

not yet full in the sky.

She was taking time to dress

in her evanescence. 

If lines scribbled in notebooks

could rise and rustle up dishes,

I'd sit waiting for Moon forever

and build delicious dinner castle wishes

in my head and tell the husband to imagine it all with me

but sadly none of that

was going to happen on my mat

under the neem tree.

So, onward to the kitchen I proceeded with my powers

to turn into scrumptious my basket of recently dried neem flowers.

A quick google search was all it took

and a rummage in many a nook

to find all the essentials to cook

dinner of rasam with rice:

jaggery, tamarind and ghee,

plus curry leaves on sprigs that had been picked already

from the tree that grows past my kitchen door

next to the forest of Canna Lily.

Curry Tree and Canna Lily

The fragrance of flowers of neem,

when they turn golden in molten ghee

over a slow flame 

is no less magical than a Moon that is full and supreme.

Rasam dark of tamarind and jaggery,

 boiled and bubbled rather properly.

 I tempered it with hing, chillies and mustard.

"Dinner's ready!" I hollered

'Twas a feast to tingle all taste buds:

sour, sweet, hot, bitter and salty.

I'm told this rasam has many a medicinal quality.

The husband and I:

we went for a walk after 

with our masks on and taking all precautions that matter.

Moon was full and strong

and shone brightly all along

the streets, the houses, the cats and the giant dustbins

 of Doha.

And when our walk was done,

we got back:

washed hands;

 sanitised door knob, inches touched and every other centimetre

while Moon,

shining through the paper blind 

of our bedroom window,

whispered,

"Aloha"

***********

As promised, here's the link to an easy recipe:

 Neem Flower Rasam

What follows is a photo gallery 

of the flower 

of the hour

with four simple steps to follow if you have a neem tree flowering in your vicinity.

Step 1: Harvest the flowers

Step 2: Wash the flowers

 Step 3: Dry the flowers: spread out on a kitchen towel and find a sunny spot. Keep covered with muslin cloth to avoid dust

Step 4: Store in an airtight tin or jar

Have a lovely, wholesome, sunshiny and fragrant weekend y'all.
Eat healthy and keep safe and smile and read poetry or dance or just hop like a sparrow 
Do whatever tickles your fancy.
But be kind to yourself; for you see--
 there's only one of you in this world: near and far
xx

Holi springs colour

Photo Courtesy: Google Images

Flowers of Jungle flame aka Tesu ke phool

I love colour. Therefore, I love Holi. It's my favourite festival. As a child, drenched in the innocence of small town India, I played Holi with abandon, gulaal (colour) and dhamaal (utter madness).

Gujjia (stuffed and sweet pastry) and pichkaaris (water pistols) and Tesu ke phool (flowers of Jungle flame) occupied my thoughts and senses for days leading  up to Holi.

My sister, brother and I, along with half a dozen kids from our neighbourhood, would fill water balloons -- their rubbery necks stretched around the spout of a tap attached to a tank or any tap that was free to use. It didn't matter whose house we were in. Almost organically, a band of bandits would form. I remember, as a seven year old, I would hang out with teenagers and toddlers and our jhund (band) of mismatched heights and ages would behave like one organism, safe in numbers, with only one goal in mind: to play Holi. Angry aunties whose water supply would be in serious danger of running dry couldn't dampen our enthusiastic balloon filling quest one bit. The entire mohalla (neighbourhood) tuned into a giant aangan (courtyard) filled with multi-coloured faces, white kurta pyjamas and shrieking kids.

70's turned into 80's in Dehradun. Economic progress came wrapped up in plastic. Metal pichkaaris which worked perfectly well were replaced by plastic ones which looked better than they worked. The effect was never the same. The plastic water pistols squirted a frustratingly feeble trickle compared to the roaring jet of the metal ones. The shiny plastic button that one had to press hard to release the jet of water would break within the first hour of purchase. We would then use the fiddly things as mere holders of coloured water and unscrew the top or the bottom to tip the water over friends/foes to play Holi.

The novelty of these toys would wear out quite quickly and in the excitement of all the colour that had yet to be smothered, the poor plastic pistols would lie orphaned and abandoned in some neighbour's garden or worse, in a naali (open drain) somewhere. Until, of course, the mothers and fathers yelled at the children to go look for such an expensive purchase. They would, sometimes softly and often hysterically loudly, explain to you in front of the entire mohalla (neighbourhood) that it was your fault this cheap contraption had been bought in the first place and that it was you who had pestered them to get it by saying your Holi would be incomplete without it. Before long, the neighbourhood would split into us (the children) and them (the parents). Long after we, the children, had forgotten the yelling, heads of parents would be seen shaking to each other to the tune of, "Yeh aajkal ke bachhe...paise ki kadra nahin jaante." Kids these days don't know the value of money.

Collective and public telling off would be followed by 'discipline' in the privacy of homes, after dinner and before bedtime, when the probability of a neighbour dropping in unannounced was almost zero: a bit of ear twisting or a serious sounding threat to never buy you another toy for as long as you live or a stinging slap or anything that was seen as appropriate punishment by the respective parent. It all depended on how strict or kind your parents were.

Don't worry, neither the children nor the parents will remember this next year and the entire episode described above will get repeated, only the plastic pistols will change as those would've been bought new, you see.

Back to the actual Holi -- so when all the blubbery balloon missiles had been used up and almost all the powder colour lay plastered on us or the streets, and none of the pichkaaris co-operated anymore, we'd  resort to the 'balti ka paani'...the murky water in the communal bucket where everyone and their khandaan (extended family) had mixed their colour to fill up their pichkaaris and gubbare (water balloons).

We knew instinctively that once this 'balti ka paani' was over, our mothers would call us  back in to get cleaned up and become human again. In other words, Holi would be shown its 'THE END' slide as soon as the 'balti ka paani'  finished. Magically, the bucket never emptied.

"Bunty, enough! Come in NOW!" some neighbour would call out to her son/daughter.

"Abhi balti ka paani khatam nahin hua Mummy!" The bucket is not yet empty Mum!

Dehradun lost its innocence almost as soon as I turned twelve. Suddenly. Holi came with its own instruction manual. Do this, Don't do this. Go there, but not there. Don't mix with those people. Avoid boys at all costs if they were not from your family or neighbourhood.

For the first time, I was warned to look beyond the vibrant haze of Holi ke rang (colours) and take notice of the filth that may linger in the minds of humans dressed in pure white kurta pyjamas wearing colourful smiles.

Words like chhedd-chhadd (eve- teasing) and sexual harassment cropped up like weeds and took root, deep and damaging.

Back then, the burden of growing up was gifted exclusively to girls, innocently wrapped up in tameez (etiquette) and sanskaar (values)

 "Girls should play Holi sensibly beta... Mundya da ki hai (What of boys?)"

This rhetorical question bothered me! What of boys? Why were they never asked to be careful when they turned twelve? What made them different?

Hormones, tameez (etiquette) and riwaaz (traditions) muted the colours of Holi and for a good many years I played the censored version, called insanon wali Holi (the way humans play Holi). It wasn't bad but the rebel in me would look at all the gangs of boys hanging out on the chaurahas (intersections) without any curfews or restrictions and wonder why?

When I got married, my license to play 'jhallon wali Holi' (mad aka fun Holi) was renewed. My husband became my bodyguard and I'd go and play with abandon and dance like Amitabh Bachchan till my feet hurt and still carry on. My husband would hold his glass of thandai or beer and stand near me, not too close but close enough (he's not so keen on dancing). This way I'd be able to have my fun and not get hassled by eager or drunk revelers! Perfect!

The fact that I need a man (my husband) to feel safe among other men when playing Holi says a lot about this land of  Shakti and Kali and Rani Laxmibai and Sita and Meera and Durga.

Although I miss my bhachpan ki (childhood) Holi, to tell you the truth, these days I don't need balloons or colour or pichkaari or thandai to feel its abundant joy. Grateful to be alive, I like to relish the gift of a new day when I open my eyes in the morning to witness another day unfold, another flower bloom, another blade of grass kiss drops of dew, listen to birds sing a new tune or even an old one, watch the sky fold its cover of day and spread the sheets of night, speckled with stars. Everyday is a celebration of colour.

Every now and then, I do get sidetracked by the mundane busyness of the day to day ('functioning as a human' as my yoga teacher calls it) and then some unknown force makes me click on Sadhguru's video and I hear him say how one must smile when one gets up in the morning for it's a precious gift, this life we live.

"Notice the things that you are drawn to." says Anusha when we, her students, look up to her in wide eyed wonderment and some sprinkling of doubt on our quest to find who the real 'us' is.

I pay closer attention to my day. Paying attention brings up even more to be grateful for and even more to be joyful about. Holi no longer comes in a plastic packet of synthetic colour.

Spring sprinkles his colours and shows me the way. I follow with a smile.

Come and feast your eyes on the colours that a patch of green has yielded this spring. It doesn't get more blissful than this:)

Group shot:Onion, neem, cabbage, cualiflower, spinach, fenugreek, mulberry, basil and papaya

Ripe mulberry (almost ready to eat) Shehtoot

 Waiting their turn...the young ones.

Baingan ka phool aka Eggplant Flower

This shiny gem was made into a yummy baingan aaloo ki sabzi by my mother-in-law today.

Velvet and butter...the pretty pansies.

Blooming onion

Tomato flower

and tomatoes

Problem in paradise!

These two are not on talking terms: each waiting for the other to say 'sorry' first!

Yup..they're a couple.

I'm not sure what these flowers are called. I've always referred to them as local larkspurs.

 Zinnia

Lantana

I bought this sapling from a local nursery because I like the shape and colour of the leaves. 

Please enlighten me with its name, if you know this shrub.

Wabi Sabi

 Newly born neem leaves tickling the fluffy sky. 

Purple Basil in fragrant bloom

 Aparajita or Butterfly pea

Lit up and lighting up -- I love sunflowers:)

May I know how to nourish the seeds of joy in myself every day. May I be able to live fresh, solid, and free. May I be free from attachment and aversion, but not be indifferent.

— Thich Nhat Hanh

Thank you Archana for posting this beautiful quote.

One LAST offering: A ghazal written by Faiz 

sung by Tanya Wells.

Enjoy:)

Thanks Anu for sharing this gem.

Summer woes get a green fix -- in Cyprus and in Doha

Photo coutesy: Archana Bahukhandi

Blades of grass
tickled my naked feet
this morning.

The expanse of green
at the local park
was too luscious to resist.
I yanked my shoes off without untying the laces.
Socks followed shoes
as I stepped on the grass
and let the swords of green
succumb
to the grey weight of my dark thoughts.

Yes, summer in Doha
gets to me.
I feel trapped
in the oppressive heat of forty seven degrees.

Soaring mercury
imprisons
humans in air-conditioned cages of homes and offices.
Cold and lonely
feels summer.

I rise before the sun
to go out,
to breath,
to walk,
to think
and to feel alive again,
despite the seventy percent humidity.

The green rapiers
rip through the web of negativity I've entangled myself in.
A smile escapes.

"Thank you, dear grass."
I say.
"I trample and yet you give.
You are awesome!"

"Spare a thought for the dew drop."
grass replies.
"She touched you too, you know.
I'm here, but she's no more.
Did you feel her cool embrace?"

************

There are people around us who are like those drops of dew-- people who do their 'jobs' without ever being noticed or appreciated. 

Today. I want to thank all the people who tend to the public parks and gardens in Doha-- all those hard working souls who work, despite the heat, so that people like me can enjoy a morning stroll. Thank you tree-pruners, water sprinkler-operators, grass-shearers, rubbish-pickers, park keepers--thank you all for making the summer bearable.

If this scorcher of a poem has made you hot and bothered...let me cool you down with some green pictures from Cyprus.

Natural shade makes all the difference.
Car park: Omodos

Destination: Lefkara

Road-side refreshments. 
No vendors -- a sign, a tin can and bags of oranges from nearby orchards...

We brought a few back home with us--the juiciest, sweetest oranges I've eaten in a long time.

Nature's bounty is common to spot;
 driving down a highway or meandering through a village.

Blooming Rosemary

The sun beats down on green doors

 Bougainvillea strikes a pose 

Lefkara is famous for its lace and silver, but it was this quaint backyard garden at the back of the shop that pulled me in. 

I wasn't planning to buy any more lace, but the lady who owns the business was so kind and her love for her garden brought out the sucker in me. (it's not that tricky, let me tell you:)

While the husband paid and waited, I explored this little gem.

A note for all those who garden in hot and arid places: 
Most of the plants in this little garden are drought resistant. I love the way they've been grouped together for impact.
The terracotta pots are sublime. More about Cypriot pottery in my next post. 

"It's not the best time to visit, you know. It's so hot." said another smiling lacer, sitting under the shade of a fig tree, on the street outside her house.

She wanted us to come in but I had just bought lace and I know me -- I cannot resist handmade gorgeousness.

So, I declined politely and nodded.

"You should visit in spring. It's beautiful."

Perspective, I thought.

The 47 degrees we had left behind was hot. 30 degrees in Lefkara was balmy.

But, not a soul (except us) was out at mid-day.

Except the Bougainvillea, of course.

Crunchy and tangy Greek salad and scrumptious doner kabaabs were relished under the shade here, before we bid Lefkara adieu.

I have to thank my friend Monica, a Cypriot whose grandfather comes from Lefkara, for her priceless travel tips. We managed to explore so many aspects of Cyprus in just four days --thanks to her.

I know I will be heading back someday, hopefully in spring.

It's a beautiful country.

Till we meet again:)

Leaving you with a beautiful prayer by Rupert M. Loydell

Prayer

Teach me the value

of what I own,

of what I eat,

of this earth

and of its people.

Help me to remember

whose world it is

why you created it

and why you created 

me.

Rupert M. Loydell

*******