Picking roses in December

reflections

There are times when certain sights and sounds catch me unawares and with a sudden sweep, transport me into that vanished land called ‘childhood’.

The mists of time part and I see clearly the old, familiar faces and my much-loved nooks and corners. I am enveloped at once in the magic and mystery of those distant days.

I am back once again in what seemed to be then the huge house we lived in. Flanked on one side by a public tank and an ancient temple on the another, it offered much for me to see, explore and wonder upon.

Pristine though familiar sounds heralded each new day — temple bells sounding the morning hour of devotion, the slap-slap of clothes being washed in the tank, the hiss of cows being milked, and my father’s muted singing of his daily prayer, the Bhaja Govindam.

Nature had its own music — the sleepy caws of crows as they emerged from their roosting places, the chitter of sparrows and the restive rustling of leaves from the banyan trees. These soothing, almost-soporific sounds resonate in my mind to this day, for whenever I wake up to one of these sounds, I feel happiness and comfort wash over me.

I spent much of my free time in the little garden we had, and this is how and when I came close to nature, and learned to love it. I planted many rose bushes, though none of them were of an exotic kind. They returned the care I gave them in full measure. They bloomed copiously and although the flowers were almost bereft of scent, they filled me with joy. There were other flowering plants — the flaming hibiscus, the morning glory and the Antigone that climbed gracefully, putting out arching clusters of flowers.

Bees and butterflies came in numbers, not to speak of woolly caterpillars. They sometimes fell on me and gave me a nasty itch. But there were other glossy, silky ones in black and red. When these turned into pupae, I put them in shoe boxes that were pierced with holes and waited for the pupae to turn into butterflies. What a joy it was to see them emerge — sticky, wet,  dazed. In minutes they were ready to take to the skies and start life anew.

Crows were my favourite birds. They were bold, intelligent and sly. Some of them even picked morsels of food from my hand. They could never be domesticated. When they were not hungry enough to eat the food that was offered, they hid it in crannies and under leaves. Did they retrieve it? I never did find out.

We had a well with a pulley and rope attached. Though the water in the tank close by was dirty-green, here it was so pellucid that you could see the bricks at the bottom. Fish sometimes appeared, but they disappeared as mysteriously. I found keen joy in drawing water for the garden. The job done, I revelled in a cold bath, clothes and all. It never did me any harm, though each time there were grim warnings from my mother.

Our house was situated only a couple of miles from the sea. They say that if there is a sea in your growing years, you will hear it all your life, and indeed it is so with me. The town was quiet enough in those days to convey the pounding of the waves to the ear. During the monsoon, this turned into an angry roar. The streets often became little rivers and we, students,  had ‘rain holidays’. This merely enabled us to splash about in the rain and float innumerable paper boats. Today, if memory does not serve me enough, I place a big seashell against my ear and find myself back at the seashore.

So many memories crowd the mind that they could fill many pages. But just as childhood does, so must this come to an end. However, the child in each of us lives on, helping us to gather roses in December!