Falling in love with amaltas in the mad heat of Delhi

Amaltas on a road divider in Delhi: Photo by Sanjay Gupta

 

When people say, “May heaven's choicest blessings be showered upon you”—a  popular wish, spoken frequently at weddings—they could be visualizing amaltas, also known as “the golden shower tree.” 

This yellow beauty wears multiple monikers. Indian laburnum and Cassia fistula (the botanical name) are fairly well known. Somewhat less common, but more significant from historical and health points of view, are Aragvadha (meaning disease killer) and Rajavriksha (the royal tree)—both of which find mention in Charaka Samhita, the oldest Indian treatise on Ayurveda.

There are several other names, too. But I'm particularly fond of amaltas and how easily it rolls off your tongue with a lyrical feel: amal-taas.

Different parts of this tree provide different medicinal benefits. It is said to have anti-inflammatory and laxative properties, and is useful in arthritis and skin diseases, among other ailments. Killer of diseases indeed!

For me, amaltas represents soothing drops of nectar sent from above for the benefit of parched souls. Especially for Delhiites sweating it out in the scorching days of May and June.

The signs of delicate yellow on slender, otherwise-nondescript branches of the medium-sized tree begin to appear in April. Come May and the golden shower works its magic everywhere. On trees planted along traffic dividers. In clusters across city parks. In fortunate folks’ backyards. Just about anywhere.

Take one look at the pleasant flowers twinkling invitingly and the heat that has been oppressing you relents a bit. Pause a little longer to drink their blessings and a cool reassurance percolates in your being.

In the sweltering afternoons of harsh city life, the relief that sightings of amaltas bring to me—and countless others I'm sure—is immense. The yellow petals, swaying in the wind, make your spirit soar and put the bounce back in your step.

Trees remain Nature’s most benevolent, most visible marks on a rapidly deteriorating Earth. Let’s give a shout-out to one of their most lovable manifestations.

“Love you, amaltas!”

For the Love of Walking

 

Aldous Huxley’s father considered a walk among the mountains as the equivalent of churchgoing. Walt Whitman spoke of his longing to “walk undisturbed” in a garden of beautiful flowers in one of his poems. And Dolly Parton had once said, “I walk tall; I got a tall attitude.”

Me? I walk because I just love walking.

There is so much joy, so much learning, so much fun in the simple, simple act of walking that I thought it worth my while to write this ode. 

Whether I am walking among the mountains, on the road less traveled, or even in a concrete jungle, there’s something about walking that lifts not just my step but my spirit as well. 

Nature trails are the best for walking, yes. Didn’t the great naturalist John Muir once remark, “In every walk with nature, one receives far more than he seeks”?

Fortunately for me, I’m blessed to receive a lot not only in the midst of nature but also wherever I happen to be walking.

Here I’m sharing a few of my experiences and thoughts on walking in different places and situations. 

Let me begin with nature.

Nature, in my view, works its magic best while you are ambling about, quietly admiring its sights, sounds, and smells.

Years ago, I was going back to our camping base with a bunch of teachers and students. We were staying in a forest in the Himalayas for 10 days as part of a study-cum-adventure camp. It was the best time of the day: morning. The trail we were walking on was flanked by mighty, benevolent trees. The rays of the sun were just beginning to penetrate the leaves and kiss our footsteps. Birds were singing as if for the first time. We were hardly speaking but a lot was conveyed in that long, blissful walk.

Nature, in my view, works its magic best while you are ambling about, quietly admiring its sights, sounds, and smells. Before you know, you hear the birdsong’s echo in your heart. A smile appears on your lips out of nowhere. Happiness rules. And gratitude. And love.

I was once on a work trip and staying in a hotel in a city I hardly knew. As is my wont, I slipped out of the hotel at the first opportunity in order to explore the area around it in the best way I could think of: on foot. It was evening and getting dark and people were hurrying home in the daily orchestra of routines familiar to cities all around the world. Honk-honk, screech-screech, rush-rush. Pedestrians crossing the roads with quick steps, before the traffic light turns green again. The wheelbarrow fruit vendors agreeing to sell their perishables at lower and lower prices to hard-nosed shoppers in the hope of clearing out their stock for the day. Mosquitoes swarming in the dusk, ready to attack some more than others for reasons best known to them.

For a moment I paused and stood still at a crossroads, watching the drama of urban life all around me. The sun just disappeared with double-quick speed behind a building but its reflection was still visible on another glass giant across the road. The warmth and the light of the yellow star, which looked like an orange ball before bouncing off for the day, would remain for another half hour or so.

In that exploratory walk (I was being a ‘flaneur’ I found out later), I got to know more about that particular area of the city than if I had been running or driving past in a car (though running and driving have their own charms).

When you put your whole and soul into the act of walking, you are rewarded with an indescribable feeling of joy and achievement.

Of late, I have begun to observe how I walk and what happens in the body when we walk. Especially when I go for morning walks. I’ve noticed, for example, that when I keep walking even when I’m feeling a bit tired or “not up to it”, my senses perk up gradually. After about three or four thousand steps, the blood circulation improves and sends my attitude scurrying toward positivity again. What earlier seemed like a burden becomes easy and light as a feather. 

Another observation: when you put your whole and soul into the act of walking, you are rewarded with an indescribable feeling of joy and achievement (something similar happens in running and other sporting activities, I’m sure). If the mind gets pulled into worrisome thoughts about what the day ahead holds, I chide it gently and bring my awareness and focus back to where I’m going; how I’m lifting and putting forth each foot; whether the body in motion is carrying the mind along; whether the breathing is deep and rhythmic enough to be as effortless as possible, giving me more ‘bang for the breath’, so to say. 

I visualize my own reflection in an imaginary, life-size mirror placed ahead of me. When all the elements of walking—the limbs, the thoughts, the breathing—are well-aligned, when the act of walking becomes an integral part of my present being, the reflected image naturally assumes an effortless, innate grace.

You can indeed realize your true self through the simple, serene act of walking.

I tend to think of such graceful, wholesome walking instances akin to the ‘walking meditation’ that the Buddha is often said to have practiced.

I walk some more.

Walking gives us not only the space we so constantly seek but also offers multiple opportunities, in a variety of paces, to slow down for, pause and observe, and touch and experience the beautiful things that otherwise get missed in the hustle of modern, gadget-obsessed life.

At least for me, walking is a way of connecting with our pristine, humane nature. Allowing us to exercise not just the muscles, but our common, inner faculty of joy and wonder too.

Let me end this note with these lovely, thought-provoking words by American singer-songwriter Roger Miller: “Some people walk in the rain, others just get wet.”

Thank you for walking with me.

Of Squirrels and Quarrels

 

At first she completely ignored me, though it was she who made the first few advances in her bouncy gait. And when I extended my hand out a little bit, she scampered away as quickly as she had come. I waited a few more seconds before resuming to read a book I had just bought from the nearby market, hoping that she would come again and stay for a while. I found her kinda cute, with a tiny face, a soft body and quick, jerky movements with which she moved about. In our five-second encounter I had even given her a name: Flitty.

Now, as I took out a bit of roti (a round, thin Indian bread made of wheat dough) from the tiffin box in my bag, Flitty appeared again before me, looking more resolute and sure. Learning from my overzealousness in reaching out to her (How I wanted to shake her tiny hand!), this time I remained calm and unmoved. Emboldened, she took a few more quick hops ahead and stood still, barely two feet away from the park bench I was sitting on. Slowly, very slowly, I dropped the piece of roti at her side, without making the slightest sound. True to her name, Flitty made a series of quick twitching turns, as if to run away again. But no, from the trembling of her tiny mouth, I could feel that she was hungry and wouldn’t mind taking the risk of being so near a human for a sweet little morsel. 

So Flitty stayed, snatched the piece of roti lying on the grass with her dexterous hands, and nibbled at it vigorously amid jealous screeches from three or four fellow squirrels who had scented food and were now gathered around us.

Soon enough, besides Flitty and friends, a flock of mynahs and about half-a-dozen crows were chirping and crowing around the trees that surrounded the bench.

I was tempted to throw some biscuits in their direction but held myself in check: it’s generally not advisable to give cooked or processed food to birds and animals as it can upset their health (besides spoiling their habits).

Instead, I sat back and watched the fun riot of squirrels and quarrels all around me.

There was a little mud pool into which some rainwater had collected. The crows, realizing that no food was coming their way, headed toward the pool. One fella hopped inside and splashed the muddy water around, followed by another black dude who seemed quite amused by the spectacle. Their numbers soon swelled into what would collectively make them into a murder of crows—though, obviously, it was frolic rather than murder on their minds. Not that there were no squabbles. Some people just want to grab opportunities out of turn, you know. 

Not far from this frolicking was a string of robust-looking garden ants making their way to the roots of an Ashoka tree. I could see a hole at the bottom of the tree trunk into which they marched and disappeared. From the same hole, another string of ants quickly emerged, carrying bits of rice on top of their heads. This seemed like an efficient supply-chain operation in which the rice thrown by someone near the tree was being supplied to where it was truly needed through a chain of smooth operators.

Like all supply chains, though, there were hiccups. I saw a pug separated from its owner chase away the ants hurrying toward their destination with a snort of its nose and some scratching of its paws. The thought must have entered its head somehow that this rice-redistribution operation must not be allowed to go on. Or so I felt. 

The dog owner soon came looking for his pet, caught hold of the leash, and gently dragged it away. Even as the pug went away, it turned its head and wistfully looked back to where it was having so much fun.

The ants barely broke a sweat and resumed their work on the double.

High up into the thicket of branches of a mango tree, a couple of parrots were fighting with each other—possibly about who had the right to the first bite of a particularly luscious mango. In their apparent struggle to peck first at the fruit, the ripened mango broke free and came to the ground with a soft thud. There it lay for a while, before it was picked up and carried off by a little girl, probably the daughter of one of the laborers working a few meters away with their tools on repaving the footpath.

The parrots came looking for it and, realizing that the object of their affection was claimed by someone they couldn’t fight, shrieked away into the distance.

I buried myself in the book once again, quietly laughing.

Image: Pixabay.com

Why Things SHOULD NOT Go Back to Normal after Covid-19

When John Galt, the brilliant protagonist of Ayn Rand’s powerful book Atlas Shrugged, resolutely said that he would “stop the motor of the world,” neither he nor his creator Rand could have imagined living in the times of novel coronavirus.

And as billions of people across the globe remain locked down in homes and shelters, the virus does seem to have turned John Galt’s fictional words to reality—albeit with different philosophical connotations.

The world’s motor is sputtering, if not completely halted.

In the middle of a lot of human misery and thousands of deaths, the lens through which people see their place in nature is casting some cathartic visions of the future.

The questions that are bubbling up in people’s minds are as varied as our existential needs. Whatever will happen to the world economy, already facing downturn in several regions? How will people be fed if there are not enough food provisions during and immediately after the pandemic, especially as agriculture and manufacturing remain in dire straits? Will people lose their minds (besides jobs) after prolonged confinement? Is this all due to some god’s curse and we are getting the disease as a punishment for our past sins?

Needless to say, as the world waits with bated breath and sanitized sneezes, a majority of denizens are raring to go back to the life of rampant travel and conspicuous consumption they have gotten so used to. Especially in the decades past World War II, as industrialization took a global strangle-hold, oil flowed freely, and factories churned out objects of desire frenetically, generation upon generation gorged on the world’s newfound prosperity. Hedonistic optimists hailed productivity gains, ever-faster computers, and shorter product life-cycles as the arrival of the Age of Abundance.

Now, with all that prosperity in retreat and a vaccine for the virus months away, the world appears headed toward gloom and doom.

But something else was also noticed—and appreciated—as the current lockdown lengthened from days into weeks. As the roads remained empty and the chimneys stopped billowing tons of carbon into the atmosphere, both birds and people cooed in unison. “Look ma, no pollution!” Pictures and videos of never-seen-before behavior of birds, beasts, and mother nature were shared enthusiastically on social media. 

This dichotomy presents an opportunity disguised as a threat. The challenge is, how to crank up the industry and the economy back to normalcy without losing sight of those wonderful pictures of nature reclaiming its glory? If anything, statesmen and economists would argue, the months lost to Covid-19 need to be made up for by pressing the pedal on production and growth. “Stimulus” should be the key word, no?

Without a moment’s hesitation, I must say, “No.” Instead, let’s use the pause button we have already pressed as a real moment in our relentless economic march to reflect, reset, and restore: Reflect on our ways of achieving growth and producing tons of unnecessary or non-durable stuff, reset our needs to responsible consumption and behavior (something we are learning in lockdown but can practice in freedom as well), and restore a bit, just a wee bit, of the majesty of the natural world around us.

This, I know, will not be easy. But we must make a start somewhere—and the current moment seems apt. By pooling the best technical talent and advancements, as well as the resources of governments and philanthropic billionaires (some of whom are showing exemplary initiative and kindness of late), we must attempt, at a global scale, to live more in harmony with other beings who...Also. Breathe. This. Only. Living. Planet’s. Air. Just as we do. But who are not in a position to change our overall collective destiny through small but significant tweaks in behavior—by stopping to eat human beings for crave’s sake, for instance.

Let’s bat for all life on earth.

How to be One with Nature—Really

Each day as I drive to work or roam around the streets of Delhi I come across tens of thousands of enlightened beings. Humans have given them a simple, elegant name: trees.

No matter how crazy the traffic or hopeless the mess in the city, trees bring not only a breath of fresh air but a sense of calm and serenity.

Wasn’t it the poet Joyce Kilmer who wrote “But only God can make a tree”?

Well, this post is not about God but about nature—though for many, perhaps for me as well, the two ideas are inseparable. And the most immediate, intimate symbol I think of, whenever I think of nature, is the tree.

Recently I came across the phrase “to be one with nature” for the umpteenth time. And lo and behold, the image of a magnificent, lush, life-giving tree sprang to my mind.

But what does it really mean to be one with nature? And how do you do it, especially in a world where, increasingly, people live in concrete rather than green jungles?

First off, I thought I would say something about the origin of the phrase “to be one with nature” and sought Google’s help. Several combinations of keywords later, however, I realized that the search giant was as clueless as I—although I must thank it for the rich harvest of articles mentioning the phrase my search turned up.

Never mind the origin. Let's talk about its prevalence and effect.

I suspect most of us intuitively know what we mean when we want to be one with nature or hear someone express this wish. But have we tried describing it? And do we all experience it in the same way? What happens in that moment, really?

The most obvious, and perhaps most awesome, way to be one with nature is to go on a nature trail in a pristine forest. Where the greenery is thick and the scent of dew permeates the atmosphere. Where the sun's rays play hide and seek with the leaves. And where the sound of water gurgling in the brook next to you lulls you into a peace you never knew existed.

In such a serene backdrop, being one with nature possibly means the feeling of freshness and quiet and connectedness to everything alive around us.

Yes, I've felt it, this right-in-the-lap-of-nature kind of being one with nature.

But there have been other occasions as well, when I think I have been touched by that oneness without the luxury of being wrapped in nature’s majesty. 

I recently spent a year in Mumbai, working for a media company. There was a nice terrace, overlooking the railway lines, on the ninth floor of the office building. In my tea breaks, I would often stand there and watch black kites circling nearby. Once in a while, they would spot some prey on the ground and swoop down to catch it in their talons. But mostly, they would just swim around in the air, making spirals from high up to down below and then up again. Their motion was graceful and their outspread wings magnificent. I sometimes stood motionless, admiring their skill and poise.

A similar feeling of oneness fills me when I watch children play. Children are at their natural best when they laugh—and nothing brings me more joy than a bubbling bunch of kids laughing together. When I was in school, I often got punished for making other students sitting around me laugh. Needless to say, I never minded the scoldings.

I remember there was rain and hailstorm a few years back in Delhi when I, along with a few other office goers, caught myself scampering for cover. I took refuge in the colonnade of Connaught Place’s inner circle. There, I saw four or five boys in their preteens making merry in the downpour—completely in the buff. But they had no awareness of their naked bodies, drenched as they were in their natural tendency to extract happiness from whatever life brought them. Impulsively, the most adventurous of them slid down the ramp around a lift built for Metro passengers. The others soon followed suit, sliding down the smooth, granite-paved surface with an abandon only children know. My heart skipped a beat and a smile appeared on my previously somber face.

Sometime in high school, when I took to the more serious pastime of reading, being one with nature had an echo in me through the beauty of the written word. It still does—when the words of an author resonate in my mind long after I’ve finished a passage or a book. Sometimes, I wonder who wouldn’t be moved to ‘oneness’ reading or hearing such beautiful prose or poetry. Sample below some of my favorites:

In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.

- Albert Camus

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

 - John Keats

Siddhartha listened. He was now listening intently, completely absorbed, quite empty, taking in everything. He felt that he had now completely learned the art of listening. He'd often heard all this before, all these numerous voices in the river, but today they sounded different. He could no longer distinguish the different voices—the merry voice from the weeping voice, the childish voice from the manly voice. They all belonged to each other: the lament of those who yearn, the laughter of the wise, the cry of indignation and the groan of the dying. They're all interwoven and interlocked, entwined in a thousand ways. And all the voices, all the goals, all the yearnings, all the sorrows, all the pleasures, all the good and evil, all of them together was the world. All of them together was the stream of events, the music of life.

- Hermann Hesse

To say “I love you” one must know first how to say the “I.”

- Ayn Rand

Everything about him was old except his eyes and they were the same color as the sea and were cheerful and undefeated.

- Ernest Hemingway

And then, there are several tiny little things that can lift my spirits into that wholeness, that unity. 

Listening to a piece of soulful music is one such. When I listened to Blue Story by Deep Forest for the first time for instance, and I mean really listened and not just play it casually on my playlist, I felt a tributary of calm flow inside me that went meandering alongside its soothing notes. I felt fulfilled. Rejuvenated. Eased. The song has stayed with me ever since as a constant companion of quiet happiness.

Another is sipping tea or coffee, either in the quietude of your personal space or even amidst the white noise in a cafeteria. You sit down in comfort, holding the warm cup snugly. Then you put your face to it, smelling the aroma and letting the little clouds engulf you and mingle with your mood. And then you take the first slow, deliberate, lasting sip. The sweet warmth fills you with sheer joy. What more can one want in life?

A lot, apparently :)

That’s why most of us spend the major part of our life running after and acquiring things we may want but not necessarily need.

And sometimes, smack-dab in the middle of all that stuff, we overhear ourselves say, “What would I not give to be one with nature?”

As for me, I sit down every single day and explore what I think is possibly the best way to be one with nature—and oneself. It’s a ritual that’s been done and refined over thousands of years as practiced by novices, experts, Buddhist monks, and (true) spiritual gurus: meditation. Not only does it allow me to enter a unique realm of peace and quiet, it often uplifts my spirits high enough to feel drunk on the nectar of life.

Meditation, I feel, is a walk in the garden of spiritual delights. Call it my daily dose of being one with nature if you will. 

May the force of nature be with you.