Soliloquy

Was it the urgent call of a bird in the woods or the early morning whiff from his mother's kitchen?

He wasn't sure, but it made him tumble out of bed and step outside without stopping to look for his slippers.

It was still early and the sun had not yet warmed his side of the mountain. The rocky yard felt cold beneath his feet. 

Cold - but not uncomfortable. 

He stood there, shaking off the last lingering wisps of his dreams, slowly waking up to the day - the scent of pine in the air, cold rocks, a gentle crisp breeze and curiously - people, posing for photographs.

He moved closer to see what was going on. Perhaps they would include him too.

However, they seemed to take no notice of the curious onlooker and carried on without so much as even turning to glance at him.

He watched in silence, then turned back to go look for his mother. The thought of her brought a cozy sense of pleasure at being loved by someone to whom he knew he meant the world, that, and tea! 

Sweet, hot, tea - with steaming parathas!

But just then, as he was about to leave, he spotted something under the big old tree.

The one growing beyond the far end of the open yard. 

What was it? 

A man? 

Why was he sitting there? 

Who was he - a stranger or someone he knew?

Too curious to overlook his discovery, he carefully started towards the tree. Careful not to step on the pointy rocks, he gingerly made his way down the slope. 

As he drew closer, he saw a man.

A man with white hair and heavy rimmed glasses, bent over a notebook, writing intently. There was something very familiar about this man, thought the boy. So he moved closer, yet careful not to disturb. 

He was curious but very shy and didn't want to attract attention. 

Once more, he stood quietly and watched in silence. The man continued to write - all the while his pen made scratchy sounds as it moved impatiently over the paper.

There was something mesmerizing in the way the blank page was being covered line after line by the squiggly black script.

The writer, saw the little boy approach sheepishly but kept on writing - uninterrupted - he did not want to intimidate the child.

After a while, when he thought he had been scrutinized long enough, he gently lifted his head and smiled at the boy. The child did not return the smile but didn't run away either. Instead, he moved a bit closer - still keeping his gaze fixed on the book. 

'I'm writing stories', offered the man. 

The little boy responded by settling on his haunches and hugging his folded legs for support and warmth.

This was the only indication of his piqued interest.

A naturally polite child, thought the man. This pleased him.

Without any preamble, the man picked a shiny pebble from a day lived long ago and held it out to the boy.

Together, they sat under the tree as the gentleman told stories of stern-looking men brandishing ‘whips’ made out of twigs with which they disciplined young schoolboys, while others who led parades through city streets - puffed up, strutting like peacocks, tossing their gilded staffs up in the air and catching them with a flare to impress the women watching from the rooftops.

Then came the tales about the blush of youth as it hummed along popular movie songs, Dilip Kumar hairdos, blue scented bottles promising the allure of an, 'Evening in Paris'.

Next followed the saga of the first airplane ride which led to many adventures, discoveries of Shahi-tukras, biryani and rooms furnished with not just a bed but a chair in the corner as well! The big wide world where strange revolving doors could trap unwary people and they had to tiptoe their way out to worldly wisdom!

These were stories from a world so vibrant and fast-paced, it pushed the one left behind farther and farther away with each passing day.

A world peopled with ‘princesses’, fair of face and full of grace who would climb out of windows to meet with the waiting prince and dance away the starry nights. Music filled these stories. Music, love and a heady joy of being alive!

There were loves delved deeply into and then lost, others found, celebrated, but then let go...

It was a fascinating account, full of colour and some magic too.

Truths and then some half-truths for good measure, for what fun is a story if it lays bare all?

The man told the boy there was more, but that he had not written it yet.

Then pointing to his satchel he said, 'I found this outside my door today. It doesn't say whom is it from or why, but I have a strong feeling it is meant for you.'

And with that, he pulled out a brown paper bag from his satchel. 

The little boy craned his neck to see what was inside the bag. Suddenly his eyes lit up!

'Those', he said smiling confidently, 'Those, are for me!'  

Now sitting more comfortably, facing each other, they opened the bag, inside they found biscuits.

Biscuits - with strawberry jam centres.

Hawk and the mouse - or was it a dove?

The long awaited summer comes bearing gifts of long lazy days, clear blue skies, bird song and laughter of children playing outdoors.

Sunshine floods the house and a cool breeze jauntily dances across each room.

The nest 

It's a time of plenty. As the trees and shrubs race towards making the most of this season, so do the birds and animals.

In the woods across the road the craggy old nest - the one bastioned in the canopy - is revisited. New twigs are brought in and arranged so as to make it snug for the hatchlings, which are expected.

Cooper's hawk - a huge, graceful bird - glides in and out of the nest through the course of the day. It soars high above, swoops down, catches midair, recovers and flies towards the nest with claws full of food. It's elegant and proud. At times it sits regally on top of a roof, surveying her ‘kingdom’.

Quiet and ever vigilant.

On rare occasion it basks on some quiet balcony, wings spread out, flaunting the impressive wingspan.

making  most of the morning sun

But today, looking out the window, I caught a glimpse of what at first I thought was the neighbour's dog, then quickly realized it was our proud bird from across the road - standing at attention on the ground like a drill sergeant!

It appeared even bigger and more daunting than it did in the sky.

I assumed that it had caught something and was measured to take off, but just then, it started running in a pattern. As if chasing something. Only, I could not see what it was after.

At each pause it would clutch and tear with its talons, but still, I couldn't see the prey!

Then I realized what was happening…

The hawk could hear some vole or mouse scurrying about – underground.

It was chasing that.

Clearly, there was a lot of activity underfoot and the bird was virtually hopping mad with frustration.

I watched as it ran around, stopped, clawed at the ground, pulled out bits of grass, bolted in another direction, stopped, pecked at the weeds with its beak, listened intently and then ran around some more.

The game of pursuit and defiance played on.

 After a while, I looked out the window again and saw that our bird of prey, master of the skies, was nestling on the ground as comfortably and naturally as a fat old hen.

Clearly it was intent on catching the rodent and seemed to be at peace - in no hurry at all.

I was amazed to see how it focused only on the sound of the creature underground.

All the other noises, that of the delivery truck dropping the appliances two houses down,  the rustling of the dry leaves which the swift morning breeze had teased out from under the hedge, or the humming of the traffic from afar, all those sounds were filtered out and the bird was listening only to the whispers beneath the grass.

I liked the way the story was unfolding thus far and decided to think up of possible outcomes also, preferably, a moral to the story as well.

I thought if the bird eventually catches the mouse it would be justly rewarded for its tireless, single minded pursuit.

Thus, dedication and conviction bear fruit.

But, if the mouse outruns the bird's patience and manages to evade the sharp claws then there is something to be said about the timid, yet safe, mode of existence.

Hence, there is merit in clinging to the familiar and comfortable.

I had neatly tied up the endings and was feeling quite smug with myself.

But just then, as I looked out one more time, I found that nature had thrown another interesting twist to the story.

Gingerly perched at the edge of the terrace banister was a delicate, very nervous looking dove.

It was all too aware of the hawk and the hawk, too, eyed it with obvious vexation - she was torn between choices now.

I did not see this coming.

There was a knock at the door.

When I rushed back to the window. Both the birds were gone.

Go figure!

My dad

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One of my fondest childhood memories is that of me and my father sitting around a table where he has spread out many sheets of paper, each one with a slightly different texture. 
There are charcoals and pencils with different markings on them.

The care and delight with which he handles these things makes me feel that I'm about to witness something very special.

Then, he makes the first mark on the sheet and right before my eyes I see him transform - he is smiling like a child. He is my age!! 

He sees only his work and is oblivious to all else.

On the paper, I see random dancing lines. They run towards each other, pause and dart into different directions, loop back, intersect, get tangled, only to bring out the story of a donkey carrying laden baskets on either side of it's back. 
Next to it is his master, a man with a very proud yet gentle face. He is carrying a big staff in one hand and from the place they appear on the paper, I can sense that they have walked a very long distance.

I watch with rapt attention as little details appear.

My dad looks up, we smile together.

This is such a lovely way to spend our afternoons together!
Afternoons - when we looked at how other people drew and painted, when I learnt how to take care of the tools or how to appreciate good craftsmanship. Most importantly, to relish the joy of diving headlong into the wonderful world of imagery.

Then we moved house - many times. My father was in the army.

Each new city brought new things to adjust to and each move added a slightly different rhythm to our routine.
Me and my Dad were like travellers who, when they met nodded at each other, comfortable in the knowledge that they were old buddies and were only waiting to get to a place where they would finally settle down for a good long chat .
It got busier and busier, I cant remember when we made the switch. 
Now I drew, and he watched.

Time for me seems to flow in many different directions all at once. 

There, I find myself living in Oman listening to my Mom over the phone, telling me very excitedly that she and my Dad were coming to visit us. I remember I was more nervous than excited.
It was the peak of the Middle Eastern summer and I was concerned that after the first few days my Dad would find himself miserably confined to the indoors - all the outdoorsy things he loved were quite difficult to pursue.

Then a flash of inspiration!

When they arrived, my Dad found on his side of the bed a stash of painting supplies and a book about the birds of Oman. It had beautiful photographs by a brilliant wildlife photographer. On top of it I had left him a note, which retold the story both of us knew very well, and a request to 'come meet me halfway'.

He ended up painting a series of four beautiful, vibrant surfaces! 
Getting him to peel away from his painting to join us for lunch was always a challenge.

Next, it's Canada. I catch a glimpse from a year ago. I was working on a painting of ducks in a pond. I had spotted them on my walk and told him I was fascinated by how they stood in the near freezing water of a shallow stream. 

Each time we skyped, he wanted to see the progress.
He was very keen to see how it would go and actually persuaded me to skip the finishing up of another painting because he was impatient to see how certain birds in the composition would turn out to be. 

We didn't know that this time around I needed to work faster than usual. 

Today, 'we' start again... 

Me by dipping my brush in the same oil well I got for him on his visit to Oman.

I had found it amongst his things when I was tying up as neatly as I could his personal belongings - each one a souvenir of a whispered story. 

For now this is a new painting, the 'ducks' lie in waiting.

I've found the oil well and the sticks of charcoal. In time, I'll find
my way to the ducks as well.

Ps. I wrote this a couple of years ago to 'introduce' my Dad to a very dear friend. As I'm almost ready to 'publish' my website, I felt it only appropriate to have this as the first post on my blog.