The Hues and Tunes of Spring

In nature, seasons change and festivals the world over celebrate the change in seasons. Festivals are a melting pot of social and cultural traditions of different communities and ethnic groups and they are always celebrated against the backdrop of different seasons, while denoting the underlying resilence and toughness of Mother Nature; resilent yet yielding, tough and yet tender.

    After the chills and  desolate landscape of winter, the nascent sun, shines mild and gentle, bathing the budding earth with its brilliant orange tint. The blossom peeps out enquiringly, the early bird chirps. Nature is now in full bloom, the proud peacock dances, displaying its multi coloured plume. Spring is the season of rejuvenation and rebirth . The old order changeth, yielding place to the new. Even as old, dead leaves fall in woody heaps, trees cover themselves in a colourful canopy. There is celebration in the air: the mild fragrance of flowers invigorating the senses. There is celebration in nature, a  dreary landscape slowly comes to life.

People, young and old, strong and the feeble join nature in her dance with joy and cheer.  In north India, Basant Panchami and Holi celebrate the advent of spring in an aggressive flash of colour and wild abandon.  In South India, the birth of  Rama is celebrated in milder moods to the accompaniment of gentle devotional music. Music fills the air even as the heady, woody fragrance of the Sampangi and the Mallige permeate the senses engulfing  all in their refreshing, scented fold.

It is a time of celebration , joy and gratitude. Gratitude for the bounties of nature uplifts the spirit which soars like a bird in the sky. There is hope in the heart and happiness in the visage. Seasons signify the constant flux of life:  Winter is the season of death and destruction even as spring embodies fruitfulness and the hope of the human spirit.

The early mango and mallige vie with each other to sanctify the air. The  Mysuru Mallige is like a queen welcoming all to her heady, fragrant bower even as the tart, pungent scent of the unripe mango heralds a season of abundant fruitfulness.

Fragrant hues are here, there and everywhere. They fill our mind and our senses  as we chant the name of Rama and sing Bhajans in his praise.  Colourful Pandals are gaily decorated with lights, with idols and pictures of the God, beecked in fragrant garlands of the season. Festivity is in the air and spirituality in the aura.  The serenity and happiness that one experiences on hearing a Ramanavami concert In an open air venue, under the cool, summer sky and glistening stars  is to be savoured.  The air resonates with the vibes of like minded souls in a prayerful communion. In the words of Shelley,

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need

Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud

I fall upon the thorns of life1 I bleed!

  Like the poet, the languorous human spirit, along with nature, wakes up from a slumber deep and dreary to unify into  a fierce spirited force to take on the tumults of life and become “ my words among mankind------- to unawaken’d earth”. Along with the West Wind, the human spirit becomes the trumpet of a prophecy- If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind.

The Dealmakers

 For some inexplicably strange reason, human beings as a rule resist and almost resent change of any kind. Time was when people believed that they don”t  make them like that anymore.Of course, such people always have  irrefutably logical reasons for such an attitude. An oldie but a goodie. Diehard tendencies to cling to the hoary past including material possesions  have provided many a hearty laugh, going forward on a positive note..

The old order changeth, yielding place to the new. But there are instances when it doesn”t. The rice ladle and the idli kadai  that I bought from the store lost their handles within the year and became unusable, But the cookware and utensils that  mostly comprise  my kitchen  have been given to me by my mother as trousseau. She in turn got them from her mother more than half a century back,Many a tumble, many a knock have they taken, but not a dent , nary a scratch, They have lasted a lifetime and are good for many more years to come. Modern cookware is sleek and stylish but sound of body and sturdy of constitution, these oldies can well stand on their own.

Old folks are old fashioned. Being old fashioned has got to do with being  traditional. Old fashioned in atttitude, upbringing, value systems, lifestyle choices etc.etc. Being traditional and old fashioned  was the core of middle class  social climate of thirty years ago. Not misuse and throw but save  and stretch available resources to the maximum to optimize utilization. It was this mind-set which led my mother to lovingly preserve her mixer grinder for years on end.” No offers on exchanges for me”, she would say.” I won”t trade this trusted one for some new fangled,unknown one “.” My seasoned kitchen - mate  ”, she would proudly tell her friends.” It has a long way to go hopefully”.

As if to give the lie to her words, soon after, the mixer packed up, that too while mother was in the midst of her kitchen chores. The old faithful sputtered and shuddered before collapsing totally. The mechanic came and pronounced that the motor needed to be rewound. “ A costly affair”, he said. “ Better go for a new one”. But mother was unfazed. “ I’ll call in my brother S to help. I’m sure the mixie doesn’t exist which he can”t repair”.Now a word about Uncle S. Uncle was the biggest collector of old electrical gadgets. He specialised in bread toasters and mixers. The greater the degree of breakdown, the better because  he could occupy himself pottering around with it. All the household gadgets that were faulty found their way into his collection, plus the hand -me-downs from friends and relatives.

It was one of these “ eccenteric “ gadgets that Uncle offered generously to mother in her hour of need when he came to collect the mixie for repair.. Of course, he duly warned that sometimes the lid came off the jar while grinding  and flung the contents onto the user”s face!  Predictably, Mixie  No.2 did not work for mother and she went after Uncle, hammer and tongs. Amidst this state of kitchen chaos, there were exasperated sighs all around, with father  persuading mother to buy a new one. But mother stuck to her guns.  “I’m sure S can repair it. Why waste money on a new one?”

Then one morning, Uncle S turned up. “ I’m sorry my mixie conked out on you, But don’t worry. Your mixie is as good as done because I’m going to Delhi where spare parts will be available at Ajmal Khan Road. Meanwhile, as a stop-gap, you can use Mixie No.3 which actually belongs to my sister in law. She’s moving abroad and she couldn’t bring herself to dispose with her mixer, which she won in a cookery competition years ago. Knowing my partiality to oldies, she has left this mixer with me”. And with that grand announcement, he plonked Mixie No.3 on the kitchen table.” I’m sure it will serve you well till I return from Delhi with your kitchen-mate”, was his parting shot.

Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without. Three cheers for a generation that sincerely believed that they were saving for posterity and went all out to get a good bargain.

Cruiser Comet

A Regular Warhorse

 Uncle K was a distant relative. An ebullient, kindly soul, the only passion in his life was cars. Like vintage wine, he liked them old and seasoned. “Nothing like an old warhorse”, he would joke. Uncle K was an old time resident of Bangalore Cantonment. He lived in a cute, little bungalow with a stately portico. All old Bangaloreans possessed cars. Like ornaments embellishing a beauty, Uncle also owned a car  which adorned his portico. Being a frugal man, he preferred second-hand cars   which came cheap. They therefore were permanently in a state of repair.  If the clutch worked, the accelerator did not and so on. This provided Uncle with a ready excuse for not taking his family out and thereby saving on fuel. It was a joke that he fancied diving under his car to driving it. Kids in the family clarified prepositions with a joke,” If Uncle K is not on the driving seat, he is under it “.   Uncle liked nothing better than to potter around his car. Cleaning and wiping the car was a routine exercise never to be missed. Like a mandatory visit to the doctor, Uncle’s car was routinely pushed or pulled to Nambisan’s garage, almost every other day because it needed a tinkering job. The mechanics of Nambisan’s garage were his best chums. “These guys can hold their own against any technician from even General Motors“, Uncle would comment enthusiastically. Uncle was constantly changing his cars. One day it would be a Morris Minor only to give way to a Plymouth after a few days. Father would joke with mother, “What is the CCV (the current car in vogue) “.  We had occasion to wander into Uncle’s automotive world when some guests came to stay on holiday. We did not have a car and they had to be taken around. “ Do you think we can ask K his car to take our guests around,” father asked mother to which her reply  was that she really could not say because she had never seen any of his cars on the road. After much deliberation, father decided to take a chance and borrow Uncle K’s car. Much to everybody’s surprise, Uncle was expansively generous when approached. “Sure, sure, why not?” he said. ”This Hillman here is a regular war-horse. You can do miles with her engine purring like a contented cat. A ride in her is as smooth as a Mediterranean cruise which is why I call her,” Cruiser Comet   ( CC, for short ) ". There’s one minor hitch however”, he added, pausing significantly. “The fuel tank has rusted and it leaks.” He produced an empty petrol can and asked father to directly connect it with a plastic tube to the carburetor.  “You can easily do ten to twelve kilometres with the contents of this can. So plan your trip accordingly”, was his parting piece of advice. That was how Cruiser Comet (  CC ) arrived home  on a sacred mission.  We planned a tour of Vidhana Soudha and Cubbon Park after considering CC’s fuel capacity. Mother, the guests and I piled into the back of the car. Father was at the steering wheel with Ravi, my brother by his side.” Hope CC at least starts,’” Ravi piped up most inappropriately making our guests look slightly apprehensive. “The battery in his previous car drained because he didn’t use it  for months”.  Despite Ravi’s apprehensions, we had an enjoyable and uneventful trip to Vidhana Soudha and Cubbon Park. Ravi was the ever- faithful assistant to father, holding the petrol can on his lap. A plastic tube draped through an open window by his side connected the can to the engine through an opening in the bonnet. We must have looked an odd sight because some passers-by stopped an d stared. Never one to stop making wise-cracks, Ravi said, “I feel like a nurse administering drips to a patient.” Our collective euphoria was short-lived however. As we approached Queen’s circle, CC decided to show off her tricks. She stalled and sputtered before grinding to a dead halt just ahead of the intersection.  Father tried repeatedly to restart the engine. Like a stubborn ox, CC refused to budge. Traffic was whizzing by in an alarming manner. We all got out hurriedly to  enable the men to push CC to the road- side. “Why did I ever rely on K’s assumptions and suggestions,” cursed Father under his breath. “Apparently I have miscalculated the mileage that this car can give.”  So saying, he walked off to the nearest petrol-bunk to fill up the plastic can. He soon returned with a full can and we resumed the brother-hold-  can routine. All of us sent up a silent prayer as father inserted the key into the ignition. Lo and behold! CC sprang to life however and we reached home without further ado. CC was duly returned to Uncle K, the next day with father giving a blow by blow account of her exploits. Maybe it struck a sympathetic chord somewhere   for Uncle offered to drop the guests at the railway station in CC, of course!  Father agreed and Uncle drove the guests to the railway station, with all of us  packed like sardines. As we drew into the station parking lot, Uncle seemed a little ill at ease.  He turned to father and said, “You won’t mind if we have to leave quickly? Father looked a little perplexed. Uncle hastened to explain, " I want to leave before the parking lot gets filled up because then I’ll have a problem negotiating CC ". “Why”, asked everybody in a chorus. Uncle K shot back in a serene matter of fact tone, “Because CC can’t go on reverse. Her reverse gear does not work "!