Peacocks, rain, and me

The weather is quite soggy here today. A typical autumn day in Vancouver. It's 8a now, and the darkness outside hasn't dispelled yet. The air is dense, cold, and lazy. It's the kind of weather that most people would shun as gloomy and depressing, that sets off no beauty in nature, that makes the world feel like a splendid art gallery with lights turned off. The kind of weather that is inclement for most outdoor activities.

But I like this kind of weather. I am reminded of those monsoon days when I used to come back from my school in Thiruppur, huddled together with two of my best friends in a cramped, sweat-ridden school bus, giggling and full of mirth. I used to live a few miles away from my school and travelled for about 2 hours every day. We used to pass many factories on our way, desolate factories with tall, grey, concrete walls.

Rainy days were the days when splendid displays of nature were on in that area. The raindrops were so big that they were like a barrage of rattling, tattling needles shaken out of a gargantuan, upside-down tote bag on the sky. We saw people giggling and running to take cover; we saw soggy, green fields, bending their heads quite so humbly; we smelt the sweet aroma of wet earth, an aroma that I can evoke in my mind at any time; we saw peacocks - yes, we did - a number of them perched high up on walls, with lifted chests and open feathers.

These peacocks used to sit atop the desolate factories we passed. They embellished those dull factories, gave life to them, much like how a colorful mural would a grey wall. I've frequently wondered why those peacocks chose such bleakest of places to perch themselves on and dance! My friends and I used to peep out of the school bus window to get a good look at them: They danced with a swagger, and wailed as though they were the happiest beings alive!

I don't say it in vanity, but I feel like those peacocks when I get outside in the rain. I enjoy feeling the cold drops of water hit my crown, slowly inch their way down my wispy, black hair, inching along still as they traverse my cold cheeks, and leave me finally at my jaw. I feel like pretending I am a peacock, spreading my two hands wide, and dancing deliriously in the rain that falls freely for all.

Those peacocks, their glorious shiny bluish-green feathers spread out, were a picture of grace and mirth, dancing atop those factories. I wish my hands were equally glorious. But I have what I have, and I am still happy when rain comes, and washes this beautiful earth, evoking its true aroma. I feel light in my heart and beautiful in my skin.

When rain comes, I feel like I am the happiest being on earth -- just the way the regal peacocks of my adolescence did; just the way I felt when I used to share those silly giggles with the two closest friends of mine, on that redolent school bus.

I wish I could pen an ode to this happiness-inducing marvel of Nature called rain!

I am happy I have my bike

We are nearing the end of a brilliant summer, up here in BC. This morning, when I cycled to work, I could feel the cold breath of Autumn on my cheeks. The air was crisp, the sunshine was watery, and the purple mountains on the shoreline were hazy. Trees have started shedding their yellow and red feathers, and I swear I could even see a layer of sparkling frost on the grass.

I ride to work most of the year. I must correct that: I try to ride to work most of the year. The great thing about riding to work - beside being able to save on gas and insurance, and being able to stay fit - is the ability to discern such changes in the world outside.

I know, I know, everyone knows when autumn comes leaving summer far behind. But how many trapped in a car can really feel it? How many can say that autumn has arrived by their eyes turning into two soaked sponges squeezed hard? How many have the time to stop at a traffic light and feel the chillness of air seep through their skin? How many have the time to adore fog moving stealthily forward, feeling it engulf their bodies, while not too long ago, bristling warmth engulfed them? How many have the time to ponder the changes in themselves in the backdrop of the change in the season?

I am so glad that I've chosen to use my bike to commute to work. Now, I am not sure what I'll be saying when winter rolls around. I am not sure how Autumn would have altered me. As I reflected during my ride today, and as Miss. Jean Brodie often remarks, I am in my prime, and that only means one thing to me: my views and my interests keep changing at a rate that even Nature can't keep up with. I myself keep changing, keep growing, keep accruing experiences and sorting through perspectives. I am in the process of making. So, I don't know what I'll say when winter rolls around. But I sure am happy I have my bike today.

March or August, Early morning is the best!

Spring or summer or fall or winter, early mornings are the best! Tell me: can there be anything as beautiful as mist hugging the treetops and caressing the surface of lakes, while the birds are still sleepy and nary a human is within eyeshot? Can there be anything as lovely as dew drops glistening on golden-green grass blades, as a tepid sun rises, slowly brushing off his morning stupor? Can there be anything as artistic as quiet, empty streets where rain drops do their tap dance on withered, fallen leaves? Can there be anything as picturesque as cold air dusting off fresh snow - snow with no footprints on it - from the ground? In my opinion, there can't be.

I especially love summer mornings. Early in the morning, the sun is still friendly; it doesn't wilt you like a green onion on a hot sauté pan. It shines like a dull golden coin that can actually be beholden with naked eyes. Roses, trees, grass, and birds look refreshed after a good night's rest. The city looks neat, untainted, like the face of a little girl who has yet not seen sorrow in life. As the day wears on, the city becomes wrinkled with all the strife there is in the world.

Early in the morning, the rooks are at their melodious best. People say, "Save the best for last." But the rooks serve their best stuff generously at the earliest chance. The air is still clean and a delight to breathe. It is so serene that even water trickling along a stream creates a sound as attention-grabbing as a thundering waterfall.

All things are benign early in the morning. All world is quiet, breathless, as though it is plunging under water. All world seems like it was created just for you, just as your own little present.

I think that all of us - men and women and children - look our best as we rise from our beds. It doesn't matter that our hair is dishevelled, that our clothes are crumpled, that our breath stinks. A face made-up by the most brilliant artist cannot hold a candle to the same face in its early morning flush: That face is so devoid of worries and so full of energy. Likewise, I think any day looks its best, in any season, early in the morning. Wouldn't you agree?

Blaine to Bellingham and back

Last night, as I lay on my couch with my eyes closed, I saw ribbons of snaking streets. I saw breezy meadows sprinkled with yellow, pink, and blue wildflowers. I saw rustic, picturesque homes in the middle of undulating grasslands. I saw raindrops fall and dance deliriously in olive-green creeks and solitary ponds. I saw cattle grazing and lifting their heads lugubriously to glance at us as we rode past them on our bicycles.

I saw all these, lying on my couch, in my mind’s eye. They were just replays of what happened earlier yesterday, when my husband Narayan and I went on a bike ride from Blaine to Bellingham, two quiet cities in Northwestern Washington.

Bike from Blaine to Bellingham? Why, on earth, would you want to do that, you ask? Maybe it’s because we are just nuts, two crazy people who want to do things differently. Maybe it’s because we adore nature, and traveling slowly gives us an opportunity to see more of her and understand more of her. Maybe we are just two dogmatic environmentalists. I really can’t put my finger on the reason, but we love to cycle long distances in idyllic areas.

Yesterday, we started from where we had camped the previous night – Birch Bay state park – at 5.30am. After breaking camp, we embarked on our ride, and what would greet us? Rain! To be fair, it was not really rain at that point. It was a misty drizzle. Having lived in B.C for six years, where it rains 6 months in a year, we were not that ones to be scuttled by a silly drizzle. So we set out with toughened resolve and fortitude.

The first part of the ride took us through serene roads, the country roads of Blaine. We stopped every once in a while to have a sip of water or a bite of the energy bars that we had taken with us. There was not one human being visible. Perhaps 6.30am on a Sunday was not a time when human beings in this part of the world were too active.

But it was a time when many songbirds - wrens and starlings and sparrows - were abuzz in the air. I can’t remember one avenue where we weren’t treated to the constant trilling and warbling of birds. We would pedal nonchalantly and suddenly a little yellow-bellied goldfinch would make an appearance, brushing past us and bringing us back to awareness. The songs of these little chatterers resonated through the grasslands so brilliantly that it felt like every drop of rain falling on us was suffused with their trrree-trrree-trrree.

Very soon, another sound supplanted the prattle of birds: barks of dogs. It was really maddening to me that people in that neighborhood left their dogs unleashed in their homes, with gates wide open! Perhaps they had some score against poor cyclists and poorer pedestrians. Their dogs not only startled us with their loud barks, but also chased us witless. But we found one trick to vanquish them. We would shout, invoking all the aggression in us, “Go home” or “Bad dog”, and the shocked beasts would immediately retreat. It was not until we came to the coast of the great Pacific that we were rid of these stupid, menacing dogs.

We were pedaling up and down Marine Dr., along the teal-green waters of the pacific. Several “white caps” were caressing the waters in the northeasterly wind. Rain didn’t relent, but we hardly noticed it, engrossed in the beauty of the ocean and its incessant, distant roar. Here too, we saw many birds – at least five bald eagles, vultures, gulls, herons, and ravens – sitting vigilantly on the sandy shore, like Hindu hermits on their penance. It was an enormous coterie of birds, of the size I’d never seen before. We saw a few eagles elegantly flapping their large wings above us. We saw a gull perched on a tree lift, soar, and then land in full speed on a rock on the shore. We even saw one bird eerily hovering mid-air, neither flapping nor moving, like a tightrope-walker with his hands splayed, trying to regain balance in the middle of his walk.

We went up and down the undulating road. Rain and wind increased, much to our chagrin. It was not fun riding in wet clothes, with cold hands and feet, against a stiff wind. Thankfully the splendid scenery allayed our pain, and, before we knew, we were pedaling into the “doll town” of Bellingham.

I have named Bellingham the “doll town” because of its charming houses that look like dollhouses. White houses with red roofs and red windows; houses with uniform brick exterior, brown roofs and little green garden plots in their front; even a castle painted purple, like in the fairy tales, with its spire boasting a fluttering American flag. Adoring these dollhouses, we pedaled into downtown Bellingham. Narayan was pretty miffed about the rain, by now. He craved a hot cup of coffee. So we started searching for a coffee house that would serve coffee with Soymilk. (For the uninitiated, we are both vegans, meaning we don’t eat or drink anything from animals.)

Thankfully, we spotted an upscale coffeehouse called “The Bay coffeehouse” that did serve coffee with soymilk. I thanked I know not what Lord, and we both entered the coffeehouse, had a cup of steaming coffee, and rested our rear ends for about an hour, while drying our dripping bodies and clothes. Around noon, we set out on our return journey.

On the way back, partly to avoid the mad dogs, and partly because we wanted to shorten our journey (yes, we were getting tired of the clammy weather!), we took an inland route, which was twelve miles shorter than the route along the coast. Here waited my little present from Narayan.

Narayan had taken this route as part of his 300K ride previously, and he knew of one road – “Ham Rd.” – that he so wanted to take me on. True to his claims, the road turned out to be a jewel.

It was calm, utterly devoid of traffic. The voices of songbirds permeated the air. The houses on this road didn’t encroach upon each other; they were widely spaced, with wet grasslands between them. Everywhere I looked there were meadows and pastures and little quiet lakes.

I saw a pond with a duck floating contentedly in it. I saw a tree tucked in a corner of a pasture, with a wooden swing on it. As I cycled past them, I thought – I would so dearly love to sit by that pond and read a book, or play on that swing, on a warm summer evening. I so dearly loved that road, indeed! But I reckon I wouldn’t like to build my own house in an area like that. I would rather leave it to the wildlife that have lost their homes in the cities.

A good tailwind pushed us into Blaine. We had a snack of Breadsticks in a pizza shop called Little Caesar’s, and soon we were pedaling up and down to our destination. Every muscle in my body hurt. A constant fear of dogs plagued me throughout Blaine. But there were no dogs chasing us or barking at us on our return trip. The rain had subsided and the wind had died down. It was very ironical that just as we were finishing our ride, the sun came out. Nature, for sure, has a warped sense of humor!

At around 5.30p, after a long day of riding 70 miles along some wonderful scenery in Northwestern Washington, in rain and wind, with dogs chasing and birds treating us, we were back in Birch bay state park, where we had left our car. We dismounted our bikes, threw them on the bike rack on our car, and in a jiffy, were out of the park, on our way to home sweet home in Canada.

Minoru Park

Three days a week, I run in a park closeby. Every day I go there, the park presents a fresh facade to me. Every day it seems changed: there is a flower I hadn't seen before; the lakes look more disturbed, the water looks greener, the trees look more laden, the rabbits have changed hues; something or the other has changed in the park.

This week, I started my running routine on Monday. It was raining. Not the usual dreary, cold rain that is so common in Vancouver, but a misty drizzle like the water from sprinklers. I like that kind of rain. It is very invigorating. Because of the rain, the usual amblers were absent. So it felt quiet, like in the eye of a vaccuum. The park was wet. Every leaf and flower and bark in the park looked washed. The birds were huddling around and idling. The patter of rainwater on the lake looked incredible, as musical as the tap of the piano keys by a virtuoso pianist.

Rain evokes the color in the world as strongly as it evokes the smell of the earth. There was also faint smell of roses wafting in the air. Speaking of roses, did I tell you that this was the first day I saw them in that park? I can't believe that I had missed them in my previous runs! That's why I think that this park magically turns its look around every night. Maybe it wears a new costume every night!

On Wednesday, the weather changed. It was sunny. The sun was out bright and early. A bold blue sky mottled with a lot of silvery clouds formed our top. There was a gentle cooling breeze.

Everytime it is sunny, I notice a lot more life in the world. Perhaps my senses are more alert in sunny weather. Perhaps a lot more people, a lot more birds and animals, venture out at that time. True to that trend, on Wednesday, I saw a plethora of life around me. Squirrels and rabbits and geese and cranes. People, people, people. Indians, Chinese, Caucasians. Everyone was ambling along with elan. It was quite a sight to take in. The park looked more spacious lit by the sun. The lakes looked sparkly. There were more roses. Can a rosebud bloom in just two days? It seemed to me like on Wednesday there were a whole lot more roses in that little plot in the park than there were on Monday.

A skunk had just done its business and the place was reeking of its odor. The rabbits and the geese were basking in the glorious sunshine.

Just in two days, the park had changed its look from a mild, pleasant one to a brisk, bright one. I adore that park. I adore running in it.

Lone Lotus in a Lone Lake

I am that lotus, that timid pink lotus, that is growing alone in that large quiet lake. The sun shines with splendor on the sky. She illumines the lake and makes it look like the night sky with a gazillion stars, densely set. The sun shines and I smile at her. I bloom, opening myself one petal at a time. I look beautiful, the cynosure of that interminable lake. My flat round leaves and my roots support me, but I grow alone, conspicuously out of the water. Only I am seen like a little crowned queen from the skirts of the lake.

I grow alone, I live alone, and I'll die alone. Because I am me, that lone lotus in that interminable lake; that life that sprouted out of a little pod of life alone. I am me, that brightest spot in a lake glittering with a gazillion stars. No, I am not that star on the lake, nor the sun on the sky, but a lone lotus with all its beauty and only its flaws; I am me, nothing else, nobody else.

I live with this beauty and my flaws; I bloom, I drink in the sunshine, I age, I wither, I rot, alone. Alone. Because I was born alone, I live alone, and I'll die alone. That is life - it is my journey here and mine alone, and there is nothing wrong or strange or sad about it.