Fall-ing and Berry-ing in Alaska

 In the last week of August, like every die-hard sourdough*, we went berry picking in Skiland, Fairbanks. It was not only a sought-after fall ritual, but also a requisite winter survival activity. Skiland, which rose high above the ridge, was a vast expanse of undulating mountains, quilted with berries! From the silky and translucent purple low-bush blueberries, and intensely bright cranberries, to deceivingly juicy crow-berries, and bursting with flavours plump raspberries, they made the short Alaskan autumn even more precious. Wherever we stepped, inadvertently we were quashing berries, squashing our own winter dreams.  

Yes, during our very first year in interior Alaska, we were to learn and appreciate the importance of foraging and freezing summer's natural bounty. For, just a dash of these rich colours was needed to break the monotony of endless snowy scapes...and long winter months. A few berries in the buttermilk pancakes, topped with birch syrup could so easily draw one out from a spell of cabin fever. A scoop of freshly fallen snow, a hint of birch or maple syrup, and a scatter of these berries made the best natural slush and reminded us of that last sip of dappled sunshine, when we stood shoulder to shoulder with black bears and grizzlies, each desperately trying to lay claim to what was rightfully his/hers...each trying to gorge on these red and purple and black fruits, rich in antioxidants, and richer as a luxurious bite of the lingering summer days.

Such expeditions to Skiland were invariably accompanied by friends and their families, a picnic basket, and a long lunch break by the shady spot where the mountain jutted out a bit. Along with tubs to store the booty in, we also carried a pepper spray just in case we had a surprised encounter with the ursos arctos.  

I remember lying on a downy soft  mountainside after we had done picking for the day, under the intense blue sky, shimmering with the gold hues of a fall day. A  sudden rush of wind made me open my eyes just in time to catch the tail-end of  of a raven flying overhead.  Letting the migratory guests, such as the tundra swans, sandhill cranes, and Canadian geese take the centre stage,  the ravens quietly retreat beneath the returning foliage, for most of summer. So, sighting one now, was a sure sign of the changing season.   

Everything seems so far away now, so wild, unfettered and old...like a piece of treasure, folded in between fragrant tissue wraps  and stored away...or, more like a bunch of accumulated memories within the fissuring surface of a remote past, jostling to make themselves heard... even as their voices grow dimmer and dimmer.

*Old-time Alaskan

The Conch Shell Solution

 The deafening sound of the conch shells, being blown from Ayodhya by the adherents, is proof enough that the victory is in sight. We would have avenged not only the oppressive rule of the Muslim invaders which lasted for almost three quarters of a millenium, but also won the battle against Covid-19. The certainty with which the latter was being flaunted was visible in the mask-less appearance of the  several VIPs who graced the occasion of the Bhumi Poojan for the Ram temple.  One of the attendees was euphoric as he mouthed his complete faith in our honorable PM Modi, under whose auspices Bharatmata was finally going to regain its spiritual balance and be restored to its former Vedic glory. With free speech being one of the main tenets of every functional democracy, he had all the right to express his opinion, which he did admirably. 

Yet, the 32-year-old student activist Natasha Narwal was denied the same right earlier this year. Charged with inciting the crowds with her speeches, she was jailed in the deadliest of prisons in the country.   According to Natasha's father, Mahavir Narwal, the government is moving India closer to authoritarianism by demonizing anybody who questions its policies. Agrees Minakshi Ganguli, South Asian Director for Human Rights Watch, "Indian authorities are using draconian counterterrorism laws against activists simply for criticizing the government or raising their voices against injustice.”

But, let's not go into bad news. For there's too much of it. Let the distressed farmers cry their crocodile tears, whose crops are either wasting away in the fields, or are receiving such low prices that the paltry financial returns don't justify the back-breaking work. As the soyabean farmer Souratmal,  from Madhya Pradesh says, "we had to dump truckloads of our crop. For the cost of transporting them to the market was too high to break even, let alone make any profit". 

Let the doctors vent out their frustrations as they battle the rising number of Covid-19  cases, against a collapsed health system and deplorable conditions. Let the monsoons rage and 870,000 affected people of Assam scurry to save their Aadhar-voter-id cards to prove their nationality lest they be rendered illigal overnight! Let 200 million people go hungry to bed, their rumbling bellies having grown  accustomed  to such ghrelin (hormones which stimulate hunger) theatrics.

Let the conch shells blow...for, according to an article published in speakingtree.com, the vibration caused by their sound works at a microbial level, purifying the  air, ridding the mind of vices, and killing diseases. Imagine, had our team of experts heading the efforts towards curbing the onslaught of Covid-19 known this, by now we could have liberated ourselves of this deadly monster of a virus, through simply resorting to the wisdom of  this ancient knowledge. 

 So, on the eve of India's independence day, let all patriotic  Indians express their love for Mother India by blowing on conch shells. Let the unemployed youth find a new mission. Let the sound of  this newfound victory resound across the Red Fort! 

And myself, what shall I do when that happens?

I think I might as well go in the earplug business.  

 

 Happy Independence Day to all my compatriots. Following is a poem by Rabindranath Tagore, which comes to my mind oft and again. I am certain that  many of you would know it by heart. Yet, I feel today's  occasion calls on us to reflect over it.

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

"Every feline is a masterpiece"

 As she sat facing the artist, her back to the panoramic view outside the window,  she could feel the mist gathering behind her, shrouding the tall cypresses, which encircled the lake...in her mind's eye, she could still see the path, leading to the bridge, and she itched to bounce off  the chair and flee. "Take the adventure, heed the call, ere the irrevocable moment passes," hadn't she heard the artist read it out aloud to her from his favourite book, in a billowing voice?  Yet, today, he had begged her to muzzle her instincts, and stay still, until he was done with, what he considered to be, his chef-dœuvre.

The artist had been kind and loving. He had brought her home, one stormy night. A stray like her, drenched, hungry, and abandoned. He had fed her, offered her a warm place to sleep, and given her the space she needed. She came and went as she wished. And, she owed him this. In a moment of reciprocation, she tried to calm herself, focus the blue slit of her eyes on the long brush dripping with paint...it was impossible. 

She should not have succumbed to the temptation of  a paltry portion of stilton, and a few affectionate caresses...that was not a very feline behaviour on her part and she regretted it now...

 

The window groaned from the weight of the settling mist. And, a gentle touch of breeze on her whiskers, carrying the whiff of freedom, made her leap towards the door.  

"Mona Lisa!" The artist pleaded after her.

"Meow," she answered and bolted out.

The portrait could wait  for another day. 

 

(A belated Happy  International Cat's Day to us  ailurophiles ( cat people), which happened to be  the day before yesterday, on 8th of August!)