An ode to a tree

Thanks to Divya Mudappa and TR Shankar Raman for remembering
which sapling I planted two decades ago! Thanks Tanaya Nair for the photo.

Out there somewhere far away, 

on a beautiful hill near a gushing stream,

stands tall an evergreen rainforest tree, 

grew from the seedling you had sown.

While a busy bird perches on it

to get a good view of its prey,

another sucks whole a juicy berry, flitters away.

Flying wonders come visiting the bright red flowers,

walking wonders march along, root to branch.

The roots speak to the soil through friendly-fungi

and the branches host socials with ornate orchids.

When it is hard to sleep at night,

and you feel you didn't change a thing,

remember that seedling-tree may one day, even become a hub-tree.

An ode to Bomdo

This was written on an evening before I left Bomdo. There had been no electricity in the village for almost a week, and I was preparing to leave the village after a seven month stint. The only thing I could do more than mentally bid a bye to Bomdo was write about what I felt, so here goes...

"The evening sun creeps behind the green hills and darkness spreads, ever slowly,

there is no moon yet and I can't turn on any lights, there are none to be.

But I feel sublime, for, there is a glistening spark inside me

a glint of my spirit that ignites the embers within.

For a while, there will be no humming water springs, no more gush of the river below,

no more flowers that paint an entire hill, no orchids that rouge a tree,

no more humbling mountains, no more tall trees to gaze upon

and no more rain that forms cascades ever anew.

No more butterflies that paint the day, no more fireflies to flicker the night,

no more birds to add sounds to a silence

and no more clouds that move as fast as the river in might.

Yet this journey has now hardly come to an end.

After few days in the place I belong,

where the skies oft turn black from smoke, where refuse oft fills the lakes and soil,

where time will be spent racing with time itself, and days are not as long,

here I shall return where nature is unbound and where still stands time."

Incidentally, the day I left Bomdo was the biggest festival of the Adis, the Solung puja. The significant activity during this festival is that of sacrificing Mithuns. Five Mithuns were hung in the morning and I meticulously videotaped two of them. Millet beer was served for everyone and a dish made of fried Mithun stomach. After a stomach full of stomach, I packed up and left on my bike and was contemplating the day and the field season while I was slithering down the winding road from Bomdo to Yingkiong. Somewhere in the back of my mind I realised why Mithuns are so important for the Adis, not only are they a major protein source, they are also an essential part of all the rituals and festivals that go on throughout the year. My mind kept ringing 'The queen is dead. Long live the queen.'

An eight year old Mithun, she gave birth to many  successors

The meat being distributed to the seven families who bought the Mithun

An ode to Jenging

The Circuit house at Jenging, Upper Siang is no less than a 'Holiday Inn'. More than once I have reached this place late in the night in freezing cold. Another time I reached the place after riding for 70 km on a bike which gave me not too much trouble; just that the back tyre got punctured, the kicker broke, petrol got over and the engine wouldn't just start a couple times. Every time I reach the Circuit house in Jenging, a hot water bath, a superb meal with rotis and often pork, a warm bed, electricity to charge batteries and network to make phone calls await me. The person in-charge is a sweet Nepali person, who seems to know each time I overeat that I haven't eaten too well in the last week.

So, this time too when I reached the place after riding in rain for 140 km over six hours, I was in heaven, with a few pegs of whiskey to go with of course! High on good spirits, I wrote an ode...after many years...served with few photographs for flavour...

'Sweet memories of Jenging

Early morning, sunlight lazily pierces through the valley to cause a delayed dawn

and birds eagerly pick up their early worms and ripe fruits

The streams tirelessly produce their perennial soothing sound

I meet an occasional villager collecting interesting shoots and certain roots

In the night, the giant mountains morph into silent silhouetted ghosts

and the night sky ushers in a gazillion stars

A distant frog is muttering sweet little turrings to his potential mate

and the night as usual in my memory leaves permanent pleasant scars

Three hills away I see a bike spiralling down a winding road

An occasional owl calls a high-pitched teewoo

As I get back to my warm bed, content after a sumptous meal

Here is another place in the north-east Indian mountains I won't forget soon too'