Eternal cycle

L ife and death go hand in hand in the garden at the back of my house. This can be best seen in the first half of March. First, the mulberry tree growing alongside my boundary wall that had been looking like a dead cluster of branches without a single leaf on it sprouts green dots, which cover the entire tree before the end of February. By Holi, caterpillar-like shahtoot fruit — some green, some purple, begin falling on the ground. My neighbours pick up what falls on their side, I gather what falls in my garden. It is the prelude to the drama that follows.

The kusum which stands like a mighty sentinel beside my back verandah and has been a thick cluster of green leaves all the year, giving shelter to a variety of birds, starts looking sick by February-end. By the first week of March, it begins to shiver, as if stricken by fever, and its leaves begin to fall. Leaf-shedding gathers speed — from one or two a minute, it turns to a shower. Every gust of wind brings a cascade of yellow leaves floating down on the lawn. Every evening, there is a carpet of dead leaves on the ground. My gardener sweeps them into heaps every morning and takes sackfuls home. This goes on for more than a week till the kusum is denuded of its greenery and looks like a beggar beseeching alms. Its pleadings are answered by way of bright red leaves sprouting on bare branches. Soon the whole tree looks like a pyramid on fire. I sit in my verandah for hours at a stretch, watching the miracle. Will I be there when it re-occurs next year?

The pride of place in my garden belongs to the kadam. I planted it around five years ago, when it was barely knee high. Today it is around 20 feet tall and stands right in the middle of the garden, as if it is the reigning monarch; the main stem straight as ramrod, branches at regular intervals, broad leaves beautifully shaped. It has not yet flowered but it is a sight to behold. When the kusum is not displaying its fiery beauty, I fix my gaze on the kadam. Will I be able to breathe the fragrance of its flower before I go?

A similar drama is enacted by the birds that visit me. Sparrows, which used to be the most numerous and noisiest of them, have disappeared. Now I see the tiny tailor birds, with their tails sticking up, come bobbing around to pick up thin strands of twigs to build their nests. They are followed by a pair of red-whiskered bulbuls on a similar errand. The most common sight is that of a flock of rock pigeons. An extension of a kitchen of a flat two floors above mine on the other side has become their favourite roosting place.

There must be some others that I cannot see because there are dozens of them flying from one perch to another. They look alike and I wonder how they know one another’s sex. Watching their behaviour, I can guess. The one that moves little is the female guarding her nest. The other she allows to come close to her is her husband. If a third pigeon lands on the same platform, he or she is beaked off by the husband. On the railing below and strings on which clothes are put to dry, the one who keeps going round and round uttering, “Gutter goon, gutter goon,” is male, the other which sits still watching its antics is female. Soon they’ll build their own nests. By next year there will be many more rock pigeons around my garden. Will I be able to watch them?

In praise of irony

M.F. Husain is no longer an Indian citizen

What a great victory Indian democracy has won!

A shining example of artistic freedom

A tribute to our freedom of expression

Well done, my country, very well done!

What need we poets and painters for

These mad men who only our image tar

These sculptors, thinkers, writers all

Who show us the mirror and a spade a spade call!

Nonsense

They do nothing except prick our conscience,

They are a burden on society

That’s why

We have hounded out Husain

And without a moral scar

Thrown him out to Qatar.

(Contributed by Kuldip Salil, Delhi)

Difficult balance

Santa and Banta found a thousand-rupee note on the road. Santa said, “Lets divide it fifty-fifty.”

Banta: “That’s fine. But what will we do with the balance of Rs 900?”

(Courtesy, J.P. Singh Kaka, Bhopal)