I am Lucky...

When life gets too much...and yes, it gets too much for the most sane of us, then I retreat to my farm. I am lucky I have a farm outside Bangalore, a farm that yields little - not much grain, little fruit, sometimes vegetables.

Bangalore has been lashed by heavy rains - late this year, too late to save my crop of lentils and millets - the well has been dry all summer long, the earth crumbly and brown.

However, when I approached my farm this time, I saw that the earth was green and blue! The land wore a surreal sheen and clouds floated across the once barren land. Giving a whoopee I ran down the path and plunged into moving, shaky, splashy earth - my slippers got caught in the grime under - had to plunge elbow deep to tear them out - ouch, ouch, ouch, the vile touch me nots were jabbing my feet under water - but no matter! what did I care! Muniamma, my farm help, laughed at my enthusiasm for water and followed me at a more modest step.

The earth at the upper levels was also soggy wet and the water tank that collected rainwater was full to its lip...the barren well was two thirds filled with reddish-brown water - not fit to drink yet - but a happy enough sight..roses bloomed in a hundred shades of pink and the vines were dotted with periwinkle blue flowers. It was time for some serious work - soft earth would make the clearing easy, digging a delight.

While the sun blazed down scorching our backs, we worked, Muniamma and I, clearing, chopping and replanting - adding to sections of the green fencing, mulching with tall grasses, burying seeds, bulbs. I harvested one single tiny brinjal for sambhar, and a few star fruits. We worked till it seemed that layers of skin would peel off in chocolate wafers and sweat trickled down our backs.

And then - sudden dark - clouds rolling in fast - at a touchable height, greay, dark and inviting threatening...we stretched up to gaze even as huge polka dots splashed our faces - no point seeking shelter - we grinned and stuck our tongues out to catch pristine drops straight in our mouths.

I am lucky to have my farm...

A Return to Bhoomi

Over the last few weeks, Bangalore has been blistering, burning, roasty hot! Dry searing heat pours down, charring, crumbling, disintegrating one's sense of self, surroundings. Leaves wither on stems, budding flowers curl up and brown, grasses have transformed from tall, flowing green to a raspy, silky brown. Unforgiving skies blind in brilliant, unbroken, royal blue - no wisp of cloud, no flight of a brazen bird, or a playful butterfly.

Papers carry news about a heat wave - Bangalore is to see a hottest summer in its history. The temperatures are expected to hit 40C.

I take a car to visit my farm. Its been a long six weeks since I was last there and I have been waiting for this return - just how much, even I had not imagined.

The urban scape has disappeared by Tippugundanahalli reservoir, lying wide, calm, intense dark blue. Mammoth trees dot dry, bouldered landscapes - small patches of farm lie fallow, brown. Even as the land changes, so too the skies - monotonous, monochromatic, blue washes give way to tumbling blues, grays - dove to charcoal. Rolling, layered cloudscapes set off the reds of the earth, the greens of the trees. Spring is on a wane, but an occasional tree is still decked in all flowers - red, orange, yellow, blue - a startling bit of intense color. As the car speeds in an ever increasing silence, knots untie, tensions ease, shoulders relax. I have my face to the breeze by the open window to ever changing landscapes. Soon, Savanadurga looms, larger than life, miniaturing everything under it...its strange, this business of visual perspective. What was large and looming is immediately dwarfed. I feel small, insignificant, and therefore carefree.

The village road of Vardhenahalli is being reworked - a usual ploy before any election. I await the bend in the small road. I see the white house with a red tiled roof - home at last, my nest, my haven, the only piece of earth where I truly belong. I know this farm, as much as I know myself, the pile of boulders here, a ditch slicing through, the large tamarind tree, the pit that was to be a walk-in well. And yet, each visit reveals a difference, even like every standing in front of a mirror. Today, the fragrance hits me even before I am half the way to the house. Deep, floral, intoxicating, intensely sensual. I see the coffee bushes are in blossom - branches fully covered with small curly white flowers - no stem visible. The jasmines of three different varieties are in full bloom, open, inviting a closer sniff. Inhaling deeply I still walk - the rose bower in front of the home is bent down in bunches of large blossoms, old panni-roses, each layered in a million fragrant layer. Rangoon creeper bows down in bunches of baby pinks to red-mauves adding spicy, oily notes to this fragrance punch. I smile and twirl. The air is buzzing with the hums of bees, insects; butterflies flit uncertain where to sip; small sun birds swing on swaying branches and chirp. These are sounds that fill my world. Occasionally a loud shout from a friendly farmer passing by- "Akka (older sister), is that you? where have you been all these days?"

The orchard too has grown. The two mango saplings about a year old and hip-high, wear crowns of pink flowers - some are already fruits - tiny mm long emerald greens. The banana is showing off its long bunch - with a marron flower at its end. The chikku and gauva are laden with more fruits than the family can eat. And the papayas, the small two feet to tall 10 feet are outdoing one another to gifting us fruit. I gently caress these trees - whisper " Please dont be in a hurry to grow up...I am not impatient for your fruits". I caress them, as I caress my children, protective, nurturing, not ready for their swift move towards adulthood.

Admiring India Together

It is hard to describe the great satisfaction I get from reading alternative journalism presented by the 'India Together' team. It is relevant, interesting, appropriate and empowering, unlike the many other genres of written word that pass off as journalism.
Today, the article that caught my eye, made my heart skip a beat, experience a ray of hope, was on Ganesh Mallya, a part time farmer, who was able to convert, with time and persistence, his bit of dry, barren land, into a veritable jungle of food, and trees. Read more about this amazing real life story, here.

I Vote Non-Nuclear

India is on the verge of committing to a US alliance to meet its ever growing energy needs with nuclear power. I have been loosely following the very active and acrimonious public debate between the left and the center about both the value of nuclear energy in the Indian context, and also the US dependence that is necessary to push the deal forward.

I have wondered, at the same time, about my personal stance, if any, on the subject.

As has frequently happened to me in the past, yesterday, I encountered a real life situation, that
resolved my position on the much wider nuclear issue-at least in the Indian context. I was returning home after a long overdue visit to my farm. The day at the farm had been particularly satisfying-as usual, Muniamma's averseness to active labor had ensured that the farm was once again an Eden of weeds-butterflies danced, birds swung on tall grasses, tiny flowers played hide and seek-of course the mango, chikoo, jamun, gooseberry saplings were also choked with weeds which had to be cleared. The day was hot, bright, and very quiet-also very clean-no sight of plastics, garbage, filth, that are routine parts of our daily urban life.

I reached IISc. (Indian Institute of Science), a premier science institute of national importance, where I reside-happy again to be in its green environment and relative quietness, after a messy, long commute on public transport. There I once again encountered a sight that is a common part of our life here. A rag picker was going through the large garbage collection station, near the engineering departments, scavenging for things of value that could be sold outside. She was old, bent, and was going through the waste with her bare hands. Instead of moving on, as usual, I stopped this time-the garbage that she was going through were not the usual plastic wrappers, cartons, thermocols, but brown glass bottles of chemicals, glass specimen disks and, by and large,
lab wastage that had been disposed with regular garbage. Some of the glass containers were broken, liquid spilt in a mess that she was walking through-no footwear. I passed through, as did hoardes of faculty, staff, students...we have all learnt to turn a blind eye-to our own filth. I mentioned this incidence to my husband-he told me he knew the woman I was speaking of by sight-he had even stopped once and given her a pair of gloves.

What I encountered, is not about individual incidence, a solitary small act of kindness - but endemic to the society as a whole - we the people, refuse to acknowledge our waste, let alone deal with it. Maybe, the evil fingers of entrenched class and caste distinction percolate to our present day, developed, educated, psyche to silently accept barbaric practices of letting the 'non-people' handle our waste-human, plastic, toxic, hazardous.

There are far wider consequences to this common place incidence from yesterday-if a premier, scientific, community like IISc cannot, or will not, appropriately handle its chemical and possibly toxic waste-how can we as a nation of loose laws, and looser enforcements, rampant corruption,
expect to handle, safely, by products of nuclear energy. We have absolutely no credibility, historically, for ever dealing with issues of either safe guarding our environment, or our people,
from wastages of our speedy rush towards development. The regulations that safeguard the individual and national interests of the developed nations are missing- entirely - in India. In fact, we have proved, to be non-discriminatory towards our own self interest-we import hazardous wastes, by ship loads, from the same developed worlds that want to safe guard personal interests, and are now offering alliance for our energy needs, future progress.

So, as an individual citizen, who must hold a considered opinion, voice a viewpoint, maintain an individual claim to a side - I side with no-nuclear, for the energy future of India.

Small Harvests

Its been a while since I last visited my farm in Vardhenhalli. So, it was with a sense of excitement that I woke up at dawn last friday to catch a Magadi bus. Vardhenhalli handpost is now a prosperous T-junction with three shacks that all offer chilli pakoras and tea-an irresistible combination before ambling along the village road, through its jumble of mud homes, cows tied outside, goat kids skipping, dogs loitering or catching flies, cats napping and villagers sitting out on the jathi calling out to each passing visitor, asking about family, outside world and inviting for a cup of coffee. There is now a sense of familiarity about this village walk- chirping birds have replaced the usual city sounds, Savandurga is now a familiar rock dominating the landscape, there is an ease about the little children that run after me shouting 'aunty, bye,bye' or ignoring Johnny-that hateful dog who still does not accept my presence and bounds towards me for a sharp nip. Soon, even the homes and the children disappear around the bend and a solitary walk bellowing "man anand, anand chayo" in Raag Ahir Bhairav till I cross Prakash's farm with Anna, Akka, and then the tiled roof top of my home. Muniamma, my girl friday, has heard my singing and comes out to greet me with a smile and takes my bags.

This time around, Muniamma has plastered my home's threshold with a slurry of cowdung and mud, drawn intricate kolams in white and scattered marigolds around in honor of the recently past harvest festival. Marigold bushes circle the house, in full bloom, roses are creeping up the entrance, tall, sturdy, thorny and full of pink, red and white blossoms, lemon grasses are now over 10 feet tall, full of red and maroon small grass flowers that attract bugs, butterflies, papayas are in fruit, heavy and laden, and the single broad bean creeper has covered most of the tiled roof, entwined, circling, and dropping bean laden tendrils into the open central courtyard of the home. Time for harvest- a first small harvest.

Muniamma hitches her saree, I tie back my clothes and we both clamber up the roof on an unwieldy, tall bamboo ladder. The world from top encompasses my small farm, dry now for most part, colored in shades of silken straw and brown with a backdrop of the evergreen forested area. Peace and beauty fills my silent world as Muniamma and I start harvesting the beans, slow, careful, she surefooted and I wary of a slippery fall down. We keep dropping the gathered beans in folds of our clothes, now becoming a fat bundle on our back, as we move along. Several tiles have been broken by the creeper, the roof is a mess of shed leaves and decay-we pick it up, sniff and laugh-thats good 'gobara'(compost) thats happening on the roof top. We manage to harvest 4-5 kgs of beans and return to the top to cut down the creeper, roll it over
-it requires the two of us to shove this massive entangled mess down the slippery rooftop. I am thankful that I have not fallen off yet. Then sweeping the top, replacing broken tiles and we are done-ready for the summer and the next monsoons.
A couple of hours on the rooftop in all and I have harvested beans for many kitchens, quietness for my heart, silence for my soul and love for this life of mine, on my little farm

A Farm of Weeds

I live on a farm called "Bhoomi"-or land. I called it Bhoomi because thats all it was-dry, barren, gravelly, rocky, piece of earth-hard,uncompromising, and hostile to supporting life forms-all life forms-or almost all life forms, brown without a touch of green.


I now live on a farm that grows weeds-well, mostly weeds. These are the most important, useful, profuse, and beautiful occupants of this land.They are also entirely non-demanding, non-fussy, friendly, and social. It is only this season that I have come to really appreciate their invaluable role on the ecology and the habitat at Bhoomi-which now supports a thriving residential population of butterflies, dragonflies, beetles, ants, spiders, daddylonglegs, grasshoppers, bees,termites,ladybugs and many other kinds of bugs that I dont know names of, and ofcourse scorpions,snakes,frogs,all kinds of pedes-milipedes, centipedes, and a zillion singing cicadas, orchestra of birds galore-little dazzling sunbirds in inky blue black, flashy kingfishers, busy woodpeckers, long tailed drongos, hooting owls, bright green bee-catchers, and several birds of prey that shriek out at night to startle the wits out of a person. And then there are more rewards in a farm of weeds-under the weeds the soil is darker, softer. There are earth worms- lots of them everywhere you dig-a subtarranean population, working away, and thriving.


The field of weeds is now also a meadow of flowers-all weed flowers-or wild flowers-I guess the same thing! Its also a field of food-I just have to recognise the edible weeds-flavorful, nutritious and entirely organic! So far I have learnt to recognise six.


With the late rains of this season, I have been busy- very busy, digging pits, expanding my fledgling orchard, and clearing weeds! I work long hours of a labourer,digging, cutting, clearing-clearing the "touch-me-nots" is rough- these guys mean business-they cut you up real mean, deep-a reasonable price to pay for interfering with nature's way.

It is with amusement that I realise the enormous effort required to plan food sustainablity for a single family of humans-and the ease with which nature provides and sustains all the rest.