Who names these cyclones? As “Tauktae” batters our west coast, showers and demi-gale rinse our flora, fauna & us all – roof/ roofless, and
newspapers drying in the sun for the Ugh Virus;
Two young girls in Bangalore City, got into PPEs and are helping families bury their dead in a local cemetery.
Unsure if this 👆🏼 is alright- posting their pic here but suddenly I don’t care. Am proud of them, of their parents who supported them in this. Am not too sure I’d do the same. Life’s edgy, uncertain, scary.
Our chicken stall friend Aji asks if we won’t buy 5 kilos please, his voice pleads. Garbage collectors request a ‘baksheesh‘. I would’ve frowned, now the heart is no longer fenced with one’s own dilemma. It’s as if walls have broken, we are all in one room. One emotional room. Some have marooned themself. They are wary. They will not call. Shrug.
That said, green leaves and autumn crocus arrive on schedule. And morning dew and light in the sky flipping in thru my window. What a beautiful earth in all the madness we are. Ashes & death from the Ganges to our monitor sets.
The earth reels as she did from her day 1, she never changed that spin. We don’t know much about existence, do we,
besides what Billy Gates or Elon Musk said or did not say today
or why we must/ must not Vaccine our self; which Vaccine is imported or ex. Exported. And why they must cost any thing at all to ones who cannot afford a meal;
questions, questioning answers.
Meanwhile Tauktae spits & fumes in Gujarat: respect to Newsmen & women braving winds to bring us our daily Feed from graveyards and other places. They are called Vulture Journalists by folks locally, unsure why.
It is the Season of the Unsure. Pre- monsoons have had that flavor from before I wore tiny petticoats. Will our Farmers smile, will they, won’t they?
“Will they be rice tomorrow dad?” Ms Mupti Singh taught us that one at Music class, I must’ve been 8ish. I did not really know anyone who didn’t have a meal to eat. Soyamma & Thamdi from a fisher folk family, came home to help with the dishes, then play. They wore little saris and lopsided hair buns. Oh could they run! You never beat them at cricket, at throw ball, at Hide&Seek, their long legs flaying the sand like young horses. They climbed trees, walls, roof; they were wide eyed with joy at mirrors, at dad’s guitar, at the Pressure cooker, at the tiffin boxes of food Ma packed for them, their round tummies barely hid in the sarees they wore, wore them like little boys. Both of them got married before I finished school. They must be great grandparents by now, in the eastern coast of India, which is battling other storms, like the rest of us are.
Disaster is such a Leveler, phew. We are all on the same plane now, the student, the teacher, the … …well almost. There’s our migrant workers, and hungered masses.
There’s young Nia, grieving for her dad. Tinja for his Grandparents. Families with young kids gone. A set of grown up twins dying within hours of each other, yes of Covid. What can I say. It is too much for a blog post. Am praying, that wisdom will prevail, that governments will know what to do, that they will bless back like only they can.
Am grateful for green grass and crocus that still blossoms a decade after we got them from a beach side somewhere in the west coast. It is a big round circle of life, fitting in square holes in the crust of sanity. Insanity sits waiting like a bride, on the eve of a terrific wedding. I smell change, in me, in you.
Things we thought we did not know, we shall know. What has not been told to us, we will now understand.
Not my words above, that’s from the Bible. Time and Tide take care of Insensitivities.
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