"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.

From Raging Over Garbage to Making Garbage All the Rage...

 Even though Satya likes to sum up the journey from collecting plastic trash from the local beaches, to turning it into veritable pieces of art, with a simple abracadabra, it is really his optimism speaking. For actually, it hasn't been that easy for the sixty some members of zerowaste, most of whom are young backpackers from around  the world, stranded in Auroville, after that fateful lockdown in March, in the wake of Covid-19.

"Sure, we did have our own set of trials and errors, but, it  always felt as though we were moving in the right direction", Satya confides with his usual smile. Agrees Jorge, an Ecuadorian, who has been living in India for the last fifteen years, and is 

now the chief engineer for zerowaste's   plastic recycling program, being carried out in Auroville.

Livya and Bea, the two twenty year old Brazilian students are thrilled to be part of such an initiative, even though it means cycling several kilometers everyday. Recently, Livya also made an online presentation for her colleagues in the University of Sao Paulo, in which she spoke about the zerowaste group and its plastic recycling project. "The reception from the student body and the faculty was very encouraging," says a gratified Livya.

"Our objective is not only to clean up the beaches, but also create general awareness on its importance," says Satya, adding, "Do you know more 

than 650,000 marine animals  including dolphins, whales, seals and turtles, are killed or injured in discarded fishing nets each year?"

While some artists expressed interest in all the glass bottles that had been collected, and some others in the bottle caps, no one seemed to have any use for all the other plastic and net bits, which had begun to accumulate. "...This is where Jorge stepped in. Jorge's family has been  running a functional plastic recycling plant in Ecuador for years, and so naturally, he was thrilled to be involved with a similar project in India. 

And thence emerged a small unit on experimental scale. With zero investment,  and plenty of good will and determination of volunteers from all walks of life, the project was set in motion. Different kinds of plastics were identified and segregated accordingly, and rinsed thoroughly in big tubs. This heap of cleaned trash, was then left to dry, and be shredded. "It was hard work...trying to cut all that plastic manually, with pairs of scissors," Satya remembers with a laugh. "Some days, ten volunteers turned up to help, including two toddlers, who tagged along with their parents...and on other days, it was just a couple of us..."

A fully functional oven was built out of some leftover bricks by Venkat and Adhavan, two young engineers from Auroville. While a friend lent  a compressor, some volunteers brought in discarded pots and pans, bowls and cups, from their home, to be used as moulds. And thus began the process of melting the plastic,  pouring  it into moulds, and compressing, to produce beautiful bowls, cutting boards, coasters, wall hangings, chess boards, and several objects, with swirls of melted plastic imprinted on them. "It was truly exciting to see one's hardwork and vision come to fruition, " exclaims Satya, adding, "Imagine, had we just sat around, waiting for funds, we would still be writing proposals, and still waiting..." 

And this is not all. With the group aiming to use a 3-d printer to create everyday objects out of the amassed recyclable plastic bits,  sky is the limit. 

Zerowaste team is delighted that a few local youths have got inspired to help them in their endeavour. "Today, we had a new member join our team: Shyamkumar. He is only sixteen, and has been cleaning up the Kanagan lake in Pondicherry for the last two years," says Satya, a sense of awe clearly audible in his voice. For, to him it only translates into one thing: Hope for the future!

 

Break, Break, Break...

 The two fishermen pushed the boat into the frothing sea,  challenging the sudden rise of ambitious waves, as well as us, a bunch of  urbanites, novices in the art of befriending the elements, and embracing the wild. It had begun to drizzle, and the winds were picking up. 'There is a storm warning", one of them casually uttered, to no one in particular. I immediately fetched some homeopathic pills  out of my bag and passed them around to our party of five. "Just two pills under your tongue, folks, and it should do the trick!", The wanna-be-expert in me chirped, trying to sound ridiculously professional. Bryonia, as these pills are called, were  meant to help us cope with sea-sickness, in case we were to fall prey to it. 

Cresting the waves in a small trawler,  we were an excited lot, albeit a bit cold, in the middle of September. Tasting the  brackishness of the spuming spray on my lower lip, and the nectarine sweetness of the rains on my upper, my intoxication mounted as we left the shores far behind. The fearful amassment of paranoia, isolation, confinement, and depression I had been harbouring during nearly five months of lockdown, just deconstructed itself and dissolved into the vast expanse which surrounded us. No more a 'mere mortal', threatened by the pandemic, but a part of this rolling, rumbling, exuberant infinity...

This is it....This is what I had purposefully let slip into oblivion: my age-old camaraderie with the ocean. Images of myself jogging on, and on, in the lashing rain, by the tumultuous sea and its stud of crashing waves,  galloped past me, with a sweet fury. 

I was in my element then, as I was in it now...Being rocked by the turbulent sea, the  anchored boat kept us entwined in some sort of daydream. We gazed at a colony of gulls as they drifted on invisible  thermals, now, hugging the misty air, and now...skimming over the wrinkled face of the ocean:  fish slithering in their pale yellow beaks. The resounding crash of the distant surf sought to drown out the shrill wailing and squawking of these animated birds.  "I think I am gonna puke," Bella's strained voice broke the spell, woven by the violent yet rhythmic movement of the heaving waters. I attempted to offer her a couple of more sugar pills from my supply, but she refused. "I just wanna go ashore," she insisted. So, with a few quick movements the anchor was retrieved and stowed away. The motor rumbled to a start, and we took off...A fleet of fishing boats passed by, and we waved at them. They returned our wave with a stoic stare. To them perhaps, we were just a bunch of pampered picnickers. While they had a long day ahead, with hours of arduous work, we had a netful of memories to feast upon, and share them with our friends on Instagram, blog, whatsapp... twitter, and what not!

An Ode to Lao Tzu

 In response to my constant whining about feeling trapped in the daily rigmorale of things, which, in the final analysis, translated into the "great futility of it all", my good friend, Joe, once wrote:

All the things of the world are, as the Taoist would say, this and that. Expecting more seems to be just a "great futility of it all."  Sometimes I stand still and and think, "this is it?" And I realise, yeah, it is! And that won't change. But in that moment, I can also realise the possibility to love what is.  Even from a logical and contemplative standpoint, what else is really left? My body is always going to be doing something, there is really no true value to any particular thing beyond doing it in love now? My Grandmother seemed to be at peace with washing the dishes; I don't think she ever was a spiritually contemplative person; but without knowing it, she taught me that doing the dishes was as meaningful as saving the world from whatever; it was the world, period.  

"Being a Taoist seems a bit of an escape to me", I flung back. "When we fail to grapple with ourselves, with our surroundings, and with the world at large, the best thing is to accept. But, what then of human strife, of what good is the infinite pain borne by great Prometheus, bound to chains, and condemned to eternal damnation? Had he simply reveled in his titanic might, and vied with the gods, we would still be in the caves, chasing the illusion of light", was my answer to Joe. For, to me, a Taoist's 'this and that' was an over-simplification of the complex layers, the sandwiched Life likes to present itself in.

But, then came Covid-19. And, there in a jiffy, Life, as we know it, was stripped off its layers, and was presented to us in its crudest form, paranthesed within asleep and awake, and three meals in between. Acceptance was our only redemption, and our only escape from insanity. I wrote to Joe, saying perhaps we were all Taoists now, in our universal acceptance of the new paradigm.

Only last week however, it was through a chanced glimpse of a goatherd, sitting in my backyard, that I gained an understanding  of what Joe meant when he spoke of his grandma doing the dishes, and its relation to the great philosophy as propounded by Lao Tzu. What follows is a free verse I composed to capture that moment of epiphany.

The old goatherd

sits in the gathering

shade of  a neem tree. 

what goes through your

mind, old man?

what stray thoughts, 

impressions do you glean

while your six goats graze...

...and bleat.

there are no crossroads here,

in these wild, heirless fields

for my  vain quest

to meet the patience

of his crow-feet eyes.

he just sits and watches,

being the moment,

and the time that flows,

the ancient eyes

catch a hint of blue

and green

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!)