Indian Summer

Beads of sweat 

Trickle down his brow,

The sun overhead,

The farmer at his plough.

Naked children run out,

Jump into near dry pond,

Splash precious drops on black hides

As tails swat flies around.

Brown birds trail the plough

Peck at earth upturned,

Willing the parched soil to dislodge

 A seed or a worm.

Hot breeze stirs dry leaves,

Dust swirls around, picks them up,

Goats nibble at dry stalks,

Bells tinkling as they walk.

The goatherd rests under a tree,

Dog and flute for company,

Tunes float in the hot dry noon,

The cuckoo calls out for the monsoon.

----****----

Making Memories

With the henna on her hands

Adding colour to her vows,

She crossed the threshold

Of her parents’ house. 

Turned back just once

To catch a glimpse,

Of the house that was home

From birth and ever since.

Looked fondly at the room

Many a meal where shared,

Amidst laughter and banter

 And the breaking of bread.

And beyond to the place

Whence aromas wafted out,

As loving hands crafted dishes

For ever hungry mouths.

There was the den

Many a game was played,

Wherein pawns were lost

But the Queen was saved.

Where the paint splattered table

If talk it could,

Told of artwork and projects

And names scratched on wood.

Beyond was that corner

Pencilled marks on the wall,

Were a silent reminder

Of children growing tall.

That spot on the sofa

For Dad they always kept,

As he pored o’er the paper

For Mom, the crossword left.

Those pictures on the wall

Loving moments shared,

And milestones celebrated

With a family that cared.

The tree through the window

Yellow flowers now in bloom,

Creating dappled shade

On the bed in her room.

The bed where she dreamed

Many a dream of this day,

As the posters on the wall

Smiled down as she lay.

Was that the ragged cushion?

Many tears it had soaked

And been flung at each other

With her brother as she fought.

That corner on the rug

The patch worn threadbare,

As Timmy walked in circles

Before settling himself there.

On the shelf the coffee mug

“Dear Daughter” writ on it,

Who would drink from it now?

She would surely be missed.

Her gaze moved around

As memories she absorbed,

Till she could see no more

Her tears her vision blurred.

A hand on her shoulder

As Mom wiped away her tears,

“This home gave you memories,

Now you go make yours." 

-----******-----

Breaking Free.....The Dandelion story

A mid morning Zephyr

Blew through the fall grass,

And poof! Free from the scape

The downy tuft was airborne at last.

It hung around over the weeds

In the breeze now not strong enough,

Teasing the dry yellow flowers

And hundreds of tiny seeded puffs.

Then as if to mock them from above

It danced around lazily in the air,

Then rode the cool friendly gust

Free now…..to go anywhere.

Just ahead was the children’s park

Little ones chasing a purple ball,

A dog unleashed, burrowing head into

Brown, red, yellow leaves of fall.

Spying the puff floating near them

Tiny fingers reached out to catch,

Jumping up in glee to reach

But it blew high ,beyond their grasp.

A break in the gust

And down the seeded puff came

On to Rusty’s cold black nose,

Aatischoo! And it was airborne again.

Up towards the clear blue sky

Sunlight glinting ‘tween the trees,

Floated down to the bedecked gazebo

Satin hearts festooned in the trellis.

Where bride and groom to exchange vows

Among Pastor and friends stood in bower,

There the fairy descended and lay

In the bridal bouquet among the flowers.

Delighted, eyes shining , she pick’d it up,

Placed gently in her palm, blew away,

Silently her heart echoed the thought,

“Make my wish come true some day.”

 And once again in the air, blowball

On a breath of air flew hither and yon,

Towards the school near the town hall,

In thru the window of a class going on.

“Oh look, Ma’am, A dandelion clock,

Blow on it , tell us time of day.”

Excited giggles and attempts to touch,

But it swirled out of reach and blew away.

Carried away on the cool noon breeze

It floated above the red roof tops,

Out to the meadow where it met

Hundreds of floating, fluffy, white tufts.

Fairies sent forth by the ‘dent de lion’

A message to go spread, blossom and bloom,

Some caught in webs, some drown in streams,

Some crackle in the blaze of a bonfire at noon.

And as the sun sets in crimson skies,

Heavy now with the night time dew

The seeded tufts descend to the earth,

To begin once again life’s circle anew.

-------*******------ 

I See God Everywhere

In the crystal icicles

Melting drop by drop

From tips of frozen stems,

I feel His warmth there.

In the azure blue canvas

Turned to crimson, gold and purple

By the setting sun,

I see Him painting there.

In the clay that holds the seed

And then clings to the root

Of the new plant sprouting leaves,

I see Him giving life.

In the plaintive cries

Of a new born calf

Calling out to it’s mother,

I hear His answering call.

In the birds building nests

Using just their beaks

To weave a marvel from grass,

I see His helping hand.

In the snail on the sidewalk

Curling into it’s shell

At the sound of footsteps nearby,

I see His protective hand.

In the tightly closed bud

That opens petal by petal

Spreading fragrance all around,

I inhale His presence nearby.

In the glow of the fireflies

Which fly by at night

Winking brightly at me,

I see Him giving light.

In the spreading wings

Of the birds soaring

In the open skies,

I see Him giving flight. 

In the silver fish

Which swim the depths

Of the deep blue sea,

I see Him giving air.

In the upturned beetle

That struggles to get onto

It’s feet once again,

I see His gentle push.

In the ray of light

That peeps through

A crack in the dark clouds,

I see Him shining there.

In the first steps of a little baby girl

As she totters towards

Her mother’s outstretched arms,

I see His steadying hand.

In the giving hands

Of kind folk who reach out

To outstretched palms,

I see Him smiling there.

In this beautiful world

I look, hear, feel

All around me…..everywhere,

And I see Him there.

------*****------ 

Holiday homes in the seventies

The Sun was so much milder then. It seems hot and angry now. But during our childhood summers, we spent most of our time outdoors; under the mango and guava trees in the garden. They gave us shade and fruit and surfaces to etch our names on. In return we let them listen to our secrets and be a part of our games.

In the early morning on the first day of our summer holidays, the four of us would trek to the forest nearby. We would carefully select and bring back sticks for building our holiday home. We smoothened out the ground beneath the mango tree using our palms and feet and water. Then four sticks with a Y on top were fixed in four corners. The bottoms were sharpened to an arrow so that they would go easily into the wet holes we placed them in. This was done for us by Dad with a sharp knife. Sticks for the roof were balanced on the Y’s. Everything was kept in place with bits of rope.

The elder brother was the architect and designer; the elder sister more of a supervisor and refreshment in charge. She made trips back and forth from the kitchen to the backdoor garden. Building a summer home was a tiring task and Mom was always ready with homemade cakes, bread with tomato pickle, savouries and mango juice. The younger two siblings ( me and my younger brother) did the menial work…..digging holes, fetching water, sizing sticks. Then came the turn of building the walls with bushy sticks. And finally the piece-de-resistance…a small, soft, red cotton saree which had been gifted to us siblings by our maid servant…for our play times. She had bought it from the nearby village market because we sisters were so fascinated with the saree as a garment, particularly since Mom wore dresses. The saree wrapped perfectly around the sides of the house. The door was big enough for us and our pet dog and cat and whatever other creature we had adopted at that time. The size of the door ensured that Mom, Dad and visiting Uncles and Aunts could only admire our Holiday home from the outside. This would be our summer home for almost a month.

We spent all our waking hours here. We ate our meals, read storybooks, played ludo, did our holiday homework, made tiny clay pots and pans, fought with each other, made up, fought off flies and made repairs to the home when bits fell off. One or two of us could always be found here during the daytime. In the afternoon we cooled down the home by spraying water on the red saree with the garden hose. We cooled down ourselves by sucking on colourful ice cubes. These we made by freezing mango juice in ice trays in the tiny fridge in the bungalow. At night we boarded up the door of our holiday home with a piece of plywood and some bricks so that stray dogs, cats and nocturnal creatures did not take up residence.

The next day would see us back at our holiday home where new childish games awaited us. We tried to be on our best behaviour during the holidays. We knew that mischief or naughtiness could get punished by Mom. And sometimes that punishment could be, “Stay in the house, no going out”. It meant hearing your siblings having fun outdoors and seeing them through the bars on the windows of the bungalow. That was unthinkable. Better safe than sorry.

So everyone was happy, Mom was happy because we were on our best behaviour and we were happy because we loved our home.

A few days before the end of the holidays the red saree would be taken down and given to Mom to wash and store for our next playtime. The sticks would be dismantled and given to the gardener to use as support for the pumpkin and bitter gourd which would soon be planted in the kitchen garden.

And some sticks which had taken root and sprouted green leaves were allowed to stay there. They were living testimonials of a happy summer holiday home for four children and their pets. They were also proof of the sudden summer showers which occasionally occurred, giving root to the sticks and delight to the children inside the (not rain proof) home.

The four children returned to school after the holidays, happy with memories of a wonderful holiday. They were unaware that they had not just built a home of sticks but had also created memories to last a lifetime. All they knew was that in a few months another long holiday and another exciting way to spend it awaited them. But that is another story

The Empty Nest

Ready for the chirp chirp of tiny beaks
The perfect little nest had been lovingly made,
A long time it had taken the parents to be
And their labour of love now hung in the shade.

One by one they had flown down from the branch,
The ideal spot they had carefully chosen,
Collecting pieces of dried yellow grass
For the nest they had carefully woven.

Tiny beaks were their only tool,
The design and plan was all in their mind,
Each knew how to weave the yellow grass
They had flown all around to find.

Skillfully the beak wove the grass in and out,
Pulled and tugged and set it right,
Then hopped to the opening and waited there
Till the partner,grass in beak, was in sight.

They lined the egg chamber with cottony down,
Soft and white and ready to cocoon
The precious eggs that would soon lie there,
For them it couldn't be a moment too soon.

And then it was ready, not a twig out of place,
A marvel without, a home within,
And in it lay two little shells filled with joy
Safe in their home and under Mom's wing.

Warmed by the warmth of her love and her breast,
The eggs soon cracked and out popped little heads,
Eyes half closed, all sticky and wet,
Two hungry beaks demanded to be fed.

Turn by turn they came back to the nest,
Beak to beak passed the squirming worms,
Nudging and jostling each other as they moved,
To fly, the fledglings were soon ready to learn.

Hopping and beckoning from a branch nearby,
Coaxing the little ones to try out their wings,
The sun peeped out from behind a cloud,
As if to herald a brand new beginning.

The moment of truth as they boldly took off,
From tree to tree chirping in joy,
The wind beneath their tender new wings,
Doing what they were born to do.....fly.

And so also with us human beings,
We build a home, raise our children,
Knowing that they will one day fly the nest,
A new journey, new life to begin,

And as loving parents we can only say,
"Fly on dear child, soar high loved one,
Your wings are now strong,
Go forth, find your place in the sun."

 ------------********--------------

The Big Fat Pencil

The letters R and F were neatly cut into one of the sides of the biggest pencils you had ever seen. It was too fat to be held between a child’s short stubby fingers. But when held there, firmly lodged between thumb and forefinger, it extended way beyond the child’s elbow.

But R and F !! Were they the initials of the owner? If yes, then there were four contenders ......Rosemarie, Ryan, Rebecca and Ronald, siblings who all shared the Fernandes name. Well, that certainly helps! Now who did the pencil really belong to?

It belonged to all four of them. They were co-owners of the beloved pencil. How the pencil in question came into the household is not important but the fact was that there was only one pencil and there were four claimants for ownership. Sharing, inevitably led to squabbles, until Mom would intervene and confiscate the big fat pencil. Then it would be out of circulation for sometime, hidden away in her cupboard. It would be brought out again when one of the four children needed to be rewarded for a good deed.

This went on for some time. But with the joint ownership, none of the four RF’s felt particularly happy. They weren’t able to take it to school to show off to friends because that would mean getting permission from the other three. It was always a NO.

One of the four children hit upon a brilliant idea. This idea must have been inspired by the constant drumming of words by Mom that ‘Sharing is important’. And so it happened that three of the co-owners presented the Big Fat Pencil to the lucky fourth one on his birthday in May.
 “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” they chorused, extending the long, slender,brown paper wrapped package to the beaming birthday boy.

There were no prizes for guessing what the gift was but even after the birthday boy opened the gift, he ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ and thanked his siblings for such a wonderful gift.

Pleasures were simple in those days.

The gift in question came with some preconditions.
a) It was to be presented back to the sibling who had a birthday coming up next and
b) On no account was it to be used or sharpened to such an extent that there was nothing left for presenting.

The birthday boy accepted without question, happy that the big fat pencil was his from May to August. And thus the pact was sealed amongst the siblings.

Come August and the big fat pencil was once again wrapped in brown paper and fastened with rubber bands. Three smiling young children wished their elder sister a Happy Birthday. She accepted the gift with a blush and a smile.

Then came the October birthday and the whole happily planned event was repeated on the morning of the birthday. This was the birthday of the brother who loved to draw and sketch. So he was dutifully reminded by the other three that he mustn’t sharpen or use it too much. There wasn’t much chance of that however, because the next birthday followed immediately in November.

It was mine. 

I waited with excitement and anticipation the night before. I knew what my gift would be and that’s what made it so special.

On the morning of my birthday, I thanked my siblings and opened the brown paper wrapping with such wonder in my eyes that anyone would think it was the first time I set eyes upon the big fat pencil.

I was the luckiest because I got to keep the pencil the longest. It would be with me till May of the next year when the whole process of gifting would begin anew.

Years have passed and we have only memories that remain now. But the big fat pencil wrote such a strong bond amongst the siblings that even today a mention of it brings a smile to their faces. Surprisingly the pencil always remained big and fat. It never became a small stub. It was never sharpened unnecessarily.

As time passed and they grew up, the big fat pencil was forgotten. But the memory of those birthday mornings remains strong.
                                                   --------------**********-------------