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.

The Other Indian Side

Check out two reports at

http://www.indiatogether.org/2008/jul/psa-finebal.htm
http://www.indiatogether.org/2008/jul/psa-mumbai.htm

A Bus Ride To Vardhenahalli

There are ways and ways of experiencing "the world go by". Some of you have probably romanticised about outdoor cafes in pleasant European cities, say Paris, Florence, with affluent,and beautiful people walking by while you sip on your expresso. And then, there is a bus ride one can take to Vardhenhalli-at the other end of the experiential spectrum. This ride is neither for the romantic, nor for the faint hearted.

Vardhenahalli lies on Magadi road that leads only to Magadi- a small, bustling, inconsequential town. The route from Bangalore gets increasingly provincial to rural-as in mud roads, mud homes, increasingly pleasant and untouched landscapes-fewer vehicles, higher hills,curvy roads, dams, bridges,boulders and the great Savandurga dominating the landscape-like a sleeping elephant.

This is the road a bus takes. And in this bus one encounters a different world-more tangible,cacophonous,garrish,entirely human-too much so-too much physical, emotional. A seat that can take two is occupied by three adults, two children, luggage-never mind whose children, whose luggage. If then one makes the mistake of meeting a gaze, there's always that sweet, entreating smile with "Solpa Adjust Madi" (some,adjust,make)-i.e.make space for a little more. A request thats difficult to refuse. And then, when you are sure that the bus can hold no more, it still makes a stop for a large pedalled sewing machine, a diesel generator, a couple carrying bundled, sqwaking hens like some upside down bouquets, and many more passengers.Its also perfectly normal for passengers to reach over people, stick their heads out of the window, to spit, throw up, and dispose of various bodily and other non-wantables.

On such a bus, a smallest disagreement leads to open warfare-to the enthusiastic, and encouraging support from spectators.The winner is always the one who can garner most support-never mind who is right. And all this happens as the bus hurtles at a neck breaking speed, clanging through potholes, speed breakers, near misses of cows, goats, pedestrians, road side market stalls, taking U-turns, slippery downhills, to finally volley you out -dazed, giddy, with your luggage at your destination-Vardhenahalli. And all this, only for twelve rupees??