Forever Young

 "You are never too old to set another goal, or to dream a new dream."

                                          C.S. Lewis

There she sat crocheting a scarf, a rich burgandy ball of wool hung limply from one side. "That's really beautiful," I remarked almost instinctively, stopping  to admire her handiwork.

"You like it? I'm making them for the senior center, to be given away as Christmas presents," she sounded excited,  her mind beginning to loop around the festive patterns she could experiment with.

"May I?" I asked, pointing to the empty chair next to hers, a big mug of macha with coconut milk in my hand.

"You don't have to ask, " the gray haired lady smiled, peering over her glasses. 

" When did you learn to crochet?" The embarassed undertone was palpable in my voice. For god only knows how many times, how many peoples'  patience I had tried, in attempting to learn the fine art of crocheting, but with little success. 

"Now, would you believe it, I just learnt it three months ago! Joined the capital region's crochet club and  started from scratch", triumph rang clear from every pore of her being, as she admitted to her hidden genius. 

We sipped and chatted, in the hallowed space of Short and Stout, the new tea shop in our neighborhood, which along with serving an array of tea and snacks, also offered the local artists a forum to showcase their work. The walls flaunting a fine gradation of warm colours, held 25 of my artwork, in watercolors and acrylics. 

I was soon to learn that this vivacious lady radiating enthusiasm was a 65-year-old retired teacher, and had the most musical name: Corrine, with the rs rolled deliciously, the way it is in authentic French. "Do you know I have been to India once, to attend one of my students' wedding? It was a real experience. I even bought myself some gorgeous silk sarees." She paused deliberately, and then added, "But wrapping it around, now that's one thing I couldn't learn". I let out a sigh of relief, secretly glad that I had scored a point there.

Every Tuesdays, Corrine hosted a local book club at the tea shop. On Fridays, she took a cab to NYC, some 160 miles south of Albany to attend a weekly class on ikebana. And, thrice a week, she volunteered  at a downtown literary center. She was a busy retired teacher, considering that she was also helping a PhD student, pass a basic French test, a requisite towards acquiring the degree. 

"What do you do?" She asked me, as I looked up at the clock to see the time. "I am an artist." 

"What do you think of all these fine paintings on the walls? I specifically like the one with the rose...Perhaps, I am partial to it because my middle name is Rose..."

"Those are my artwork," I mumbled under my breath, while she burst into  guffaws of laughter. "Really my dear?"

"Yeah!"

Now, you might think I am telling stories. But, I have always admired people who could paint, especially in watercolour. A few years ago, I bought myself a whole set of paints, brushes, and watercolor paper, with the aim to indulge myself, or find someone to indulge me. But, I just never got down to it. You think you could give me some lessons?"

And thus a teacher became a dedicated student, arriving always on time, armed with her supplies. With an unparalleled combination of jazz in the background, and a steaming kettle of tea in the foreground, together we set out to tempt the Muse. 

I thought her eyes became a bit more sparkly every time she found her hands obeying instructions, learning different kinds of strokes to create small works of art she had only once dreamt of. And she laughed a little more heartily, when I praised her progress. "Do you really think I am getting the hang of it?" She would ask, thrilled by the realisation.

We painted, listened to music, discussed our favourite movies...and over many cuppas  we shared, Corrine poured me many a memorable stories...sweetened with her unyielding zest for life. 

A Love Story

As slumber gradually tightened its grip over him,  he loosened his over me...And then it happened! His dulled, soporific fingers let go, and I found myself plunging headlong towards the concrete floor.  

And that is where I stayed in a state of shock, sandwiched in the tiny space, between the back of the couch and the blank wall. Day after day...night after night, I lay wondering if he was missing me at all, looking for me, thinking about me... Patiently, I waited for that happy moment of reunion, for the palpitation which comes from feeling desired again, and wanted...

One day it seemed that someone did finally find me. My heart gave a leap as I felt a slight tickle, and a shiver went up my spine. Ah, it was Mr. Daddy Long Legs, the Spider. A curious thing for sure. Armed with spinnerets, it crawled all over, inspecting even my dog-ears with utmost care,  hoping to find a nice nook to make its web. And then finally, using me as a convenient buttress, it wove a dandy  home for itself...or, a cache, shall we say!

As  the monotonous ticking of the clock imprinted itself  on the chiaroscuroed interiors of the house, and winter gave way to spring, the layer of dust grew thicker, and weighed upon me in the most unpleasant way. By now, I had almost coerced myself to forget about him, who had once held me so lovingly in his hands. 

And, then it came: tiny, beady-eyed, and quite cute...from the very start it fell for me headlong, couldn't keep its hands off me for a second... Bursting with passion, it wanted to dig into my very core, maybe even devour my heart. Its appetite was insatiable.  As I lay there, caught in the gossamer thread of loneliness,  I said to myself, 'why not?'. Yes, why not enjoy the passions of this little critter...if this is love, isn't this what I want? 

And, that is when, in my own selfish way, I accepted the advances of that teenie meenie bookworm. 

  

The Old Man and the Hills...

 During our tireless travels for the last twenty years, hopping continents, countries, adapting to new cultures, learning other languages, oft and again, I was reminded of the old man who owned a little tea shop at the outskirts of Dehradun in U.P., India. A sudden cloudburst followed by torrential rains is what had sent us scurrying for shelter into his shop, and right into the wafting aroma of home. We had been on the road for only two days, and were already beginning to miss it. Sparks from the embers smouldering in the earthern stove flew across the cosy little room nonchalantly. A blackened aluminum  kettle sat atop whistling, adding its own trilling notes to the orchestra. It was a perfect weather for some steaming masala tea and biscuits, and the old man seeing us hunched because of the sudden nippiness which had descended over the hills, got down to making it with a sense of urgency.  

Silently sipping hot tea, and munching biscuits which came from a small glass jar, we sat in the tiny room, the sound of  rain on the tin roof drowning every possibility of conversation. 

The rains dissipated with the same vigor and abruptness they had poured down a minute ago, and a patch of blue sky, washed clean, stretched outside, as though hung there to dry. We took the old man's leave, and thanked him profusely for the delicious tea and biscuits. "Come and visit us sometime in Delhi," my father said with a smile, extending him an invitation to his side of the world.

"Sahib, in pahadiyon ko chod kar kahan jayenge", meaning, "Sir, where would I go leaving these hills behind?". 

Even after two decades, I am haunted by his words.  Poignant in their simplicity,  they encapsulate the spirit of a man who was as much a part of his ambient, as it was of him. And for as long as he could remember, he had lived in the comfort of its laps, contented. It was the music descending from  those undulating hills which had lulled him to sleep, night after night...and touched him awake at dawn. There was no parting for him from his beloved hills...

While I was busy circumventing the world, gleaning a few moments here and there, and leaving enormous carbon footprints in the process, the old chaiwala innately understood the beauty of treading softly, the world in his backyard, and eternity at his disposal.

We are all guilty of silence.....

 "While Yogi Adityanath, the Chief Minister of U.P., is striving to usher in Ram Rajya,  the opposition will go to any length to demoralise him and frustrate his plans", claim the supporters of the head priest-turned-politician, a celibate like his idol PM Modi.  "Diverting the media attention from  all the progressive steps being taken in his state, to the rape cases, is how low the opposition parties have fallen," they harp, aggressive in their defence of the guy, whose debasing opinion of women is expressed in the following quote, "women are like energy. If they are not controlled, they can be destructive and worthless". 

The Hathras rape case of the 19-year-old Dalit-woman Manisha, by four upper caste men, has once again brought into glaring limelight the deep-rooted and  pernicious side of our culture.

What is heart-wrenching is the detached, callous attitude of the news channels where even the dead, mutilated victim is being presented as a pawn in the filthy game of political chess. For example,  one leading national daily, while referring to the Congress leaders' visit to the victim's family, says, "The visit seems to have immediate as well as long term political goals. From projecting the Congress as a serious player in U.P., ahead of the 2022 Assembly polls to portraying the ruling BJP as anti-Dalit just before the Bihar election, the party seems to have a clear strategy."

 

For our honorable leaders, no matter which party they belong to, the strategy remains predictable: instead of eradicating the social evils, to get  maximum mileage out of them. Unfortunately, even the media is content to turn their time-bound political objectives into its prime focus, thus letting the real issues wriggle out of the national consciousness.

And so, against the highly complex cultural and social fabric of the nation,  the common person is coerced to live in fear, suffering the repercussions of the pervert savageness of a sexually oppressed society, caste system, and the lowly status of women. India and its Hindu population may pride itself in regarding all women as goddesses, but one look around is enough to underscore the hypocrisy of such a belief. For it is a well-known fact, reiterated again and again  in several travel  guides,  that hardly any girl/woman here is spared  from men's lecherous stares, leering, and inappropriate touching in crowded places...

Does it come as a surprise then, that while India is proud to flaunt its supreme status in terms of having the tallest statue, the longest highway tunnel, the most expensive wedding, it also tops the list in the number of rape cases reported per annum? With an average of 87 rape cases recorded on daily basis, India is determined to live up to its name as the rape capital of the world.

What I ask myself is who was Manisha, besides being a young Dalit woman? What did she like? As a little girl that she once was, did she harbour big dreams? Would she have liked  to attend a college, had her parents, their financial situation, and the upper caste people of her village allowed?  Who was Manisha? Can someone tell me?

The ruling party,  bent upon proving that the whole episode is being inflated by the media and the opposition parties, Manisha becomes an unnecessary encumbrance in India's trailblazing journey to superpowerhood.

"How do you like them apples, hon?"

 It is that time of the year again, when I slip into a nostalgic spell as friends from North-Atlantic America begin posting photos of their leaf peeping excursions... the rich reds and oranges of maple leaves, the  glossy browns of oaks, and the lickety lemony yellows of elms... The sense of familiarity lends itself to some solace arising from having been there and done that, and sadness from not being there now to experience the magic one more time.  To be a witness to these colorful leaves completing the last  leg of their journey, and writing their own epitaph with such flair, is a liberating experience in itself.

For us, and for many New Yorkers, the leaf peeping drives went hand in hand with visiting apple orchards to pick bagfuls of our own fruits right off the trees. Having filled our bags to capacity with the 'forbidden' booty, we would lag  them along to the in-house coffee-snack-and-gift shop to join the party of merry pickers feasting on hot apple cider spiced with cinnamon and clove. And for accompaniment, one could dig into anything from  apple pies, cobblers, and pandowdies to crumbles or  warm cider donuts!

Yes, visiting the neighborhood orchards was a sought-after activity by most families, much as driving to countryside farms to find that perfect pumpkin which would adorn their porch to welcome the trick-or-treaters during Halloween. Come to think of it, it was a wonderful way to get in touch with the ground realities of life, as well as to build a rapport with one's own farming community. Needless to say, this little seasonal exchange also gave impetus to the local economy. 

It is in fact remarkable that  despite  this  innocent apple being maligned since  biblical times, because of its association with  the disgraceful fall of mankind, it has continued to enjoy the ranks of the worthy. Mothers, for examples, still call their offsprings, 'apple of my eye', most endearingly, while grannies like to harp on  its medicinal properties, predictably concluding with, 'an apple a day keeps the doctor away'. 

What's more, it had to be an apple falling from the tree, which inspired the concept of gravity and revolutionized modern science. 

Is it a chance that the recording company launched by The Beatles, the  legendary Rock and Roll band, was called Apple Corps? It is said that it was  Yoko Ono's piece called 'APPLE', which consisted of a green Granny Smith apple atop a plexiglass stand, as part of an avant-garde exhibition in London, which caught John Lennon's attention. To Yoko's horror, he picked up the apple, and bit into it, thus committing the primeval sin: relenting to the temptation presented by Eve. The rest of course is history.

To add yet another feather to the controversial, yet consistent high and mighty reputation of apples, today, one of the most innovative and profitable corporation dealing with consumer electronics, founded by late Steve Jobs, is also called Apple Inc. So, what more is there to say? Except that, despite much scheming,  Satan could not succeed in making the apple fall from grace. He did however manage to entice us enough to steer our steps towards the apple orchards every fall, and succomb to temptation, year after year. 

Did you know that New York, the Big Apple state boasts of 24 varieties of apples? Right from Empire, McIntosh, Gala, Fiji, Honeycrisp, to Cortland, Red Delicious, Granny Smith and , Ginger Gold, to name a few that I can still remember.