Theatre of the Gods
Though the heat has begun, the mornings in our Park are relatively cool and dew-scented. The sun still rises like a crimson-scarlet-cherry-ruby-blood red ball before he realises that he needs to start blazing, then he is all over the place and before you know it, every leaf and branch and blade of grass is wearing a patina of light.
Down, beneath the fig trees, lie squashed ripe wild figs, with the tiny seeds bursting out and covering the ground with seeds and pulp, and the air, with the rich scent of fermented fruit. Underneath the low white champa trees, the grass is covered with fragrant blooms and some kind soul has thoughtfully placed a deep concrete bowl and filled it with water for the birds.
The crows are rather possessive about this watery space and guard it jealously. Small bushy-tailed squirrels scamper down the serrated trunks of the palm tree and scramble to get at the fallen figs. When they come dangerously close to the concrete bowl, the crows let out a squawk: threat level 1. If they approach any closer, both threat level and decibel level go up. Today, it looked like neither of the levels was working.
The crows had got together and formed a war party. The boss bird delegated responsibility and remained in the water, blissfully bathing, supremely indifferent to what her underlings were up to. The other birds were busy cutting off escape routes of the desperate squirrels, some even flying up to their dreys. The squirrels rushed around, their tails unfurled to twice their size, chittering and scolding for all they were worth.
That lasted for all of two minutes. After which every one got bored. The crows bathed all they wanted and flew up to the trees and sat there bidding good morning to all the early-walkers. The mynahs flew down to peck at the fig pulp and seeds, sparrows swooped down and picked up tit bits from the grass. The crows then left in a body to challenge a cuckoo that was inching close to their nests: and the egrets studied the tableau and walked away in lordly disdain.
I look at the sun winking through the trees, and at the pale shadow of the moon still visible in the sky and my heart is full. I am both grateful and lucky to be able to see this, everyday, without the aid of electronic media.
In these uncertain times, with trouble brewing on every front, it is pleasant to reflect that somethings won’t change.
But do we notice these things? Or are we looking at photo shopped high -definition images of the same things on small and big screens?
The choice is ours.
Every summer, Indian fruiterers’ shops are flooded with fruits. We buy loads of ripe mangoes, litchis, strawberries, cherries and jackfruits, between April and July. And every day, we throw the seeds of the fruits we eat, in the park we go to, or any place where there is a source of water, and fertile soil. Every. Single. Day.
It is our way of giving back to Mother Earth.
We planted jack-fruit seeds today.
Plant a tree today.
Tomorrow, our grandchildren might need the bounty of its shade.
