Orange joys

With nothing much to tell and hardly any time for leisurely weekend jaunts, I have taken to capturing roadside colours and flavours. Being a lover of local sights always, and more so when one lives in a colour-chocked, prismatic country such as ours, it's hard to overlook the vibrant joys that are here, there, and everywhere. And quite interestingly, when I was trying to gather a coherent mood for this little post, these different shades of orange came together. Just like that! Like a jumbled picture gradually falling into place, it meant a lot, this little coincidence. Enough to tickle the Monday blues away, enough to remind me how fortunate I am to be surrounded by such an unassuming, permeating colour palette, and enough to bask in the joy of one of my favourite colours.

Brave gulmohars rising up against a belligerent monsoon sky. Baskets of feisty marigolds, those fluffy balls of orange wonders, thronging the weekend bazaar. Mouthwatering rows of roadside chicken tikka being grilled inside a rotisserie as we wait for our to-go, Saturday-night parcel. Two halves of an orange stare at me, trying hard to perk up my Monday-morning mood. And life, suddenly, appears to be not so bad. A little less dull. A little more orangish.   

Monsoon, interrupted

Of late, I've been robbed of many of my favorite things - reading, blogging, watching the rain, to name a few. Thanks to work piling on heap upon heap, I've been away from my world for what seems like an eternity now. I tried, and not once, to come here and drop in a few lines, but every time the words would evade me. True, it's no fun editing academic stuff, because then all you are left with is finding flaws and correcting them. And it's supposed to stay so for a month more.
The only hints of newness that have stumbled across my way, other than one full day of sale-shopping madness, are these hues of green - the ubiquitous Hyderabadi haleem lacing the city roadsides in colourful, illuminated kiosks, and my potted palm that seems to be making most of the monsoons. At least someone's getting to enjoy the rains!

May yellow

As May unleashes its fury and the mercury climbs up to a dizzying 46 degree Celsius, the heat and the long wait for the monsoons are all one talks about these days. I, in the meanwhile, am fixated with the colour yellow - it's like everywhere, the quite obvious representative being the malevolent and monstrous ball of fire hanging in the afternoon sky. Though not my most favorite color from the mood-lifting spectrum, I tend to associate yellow with the childhood summer vacations - may be it's something to do with the ubiquitous presence of mangoes and the unrestricted freedom from the shackles of schoolwork. So as the sun continues showering its flames of vengeance, I cannot help but arrange these postcards of different yellows in my head, some vibrant and the others mellow, some seasonal and a few born out of idle musings.

Mangoes, the golden-yellow summer delights! Wherever you look, there they are - heaped in small carts lining the roadsides, dominating the fruits section in supermarkets, pulped and candied in thin, long strips, sliced and spiced in tempting pickle jars, and so on. One wonders if they'd still be such a rage if they weren't seasonal.

The full-of-hopes-yellow cover of A Thousand Splendid Suns, a tale equally, if not more heart-rending than The Kite Runner. It officially stamps me as a Khaled Hosseini fan and coincidentally, the end of May will see the release of his third novel which has already been pre-ordered online.

Yellow trumpet flowers paving the sun-beaten, desolate streets, cheerfully reminding one of the brighter aspects of an Indian summer. One could do well with a leaf or two from their book of resilience and steadfastness.

And finally, my pair of miniature yellow Bavarian clogs, which has stirred the travel bug in me that was lying dormant for a while. Gripped by a major bout of hill nostalgia, I long for a bit of the proverbial mountain air, where colorful prayer flags flutter against a blue, blue sky and the reverberating gong of a monastery makes the hills come alive. Sounds like the perfect daydream to be lost in for a while!

Rust rules

I'm one restless, always-on-the-search soul these days. After taking care of all the bare essentials that go into creating a decent home, it's finally decor time. My favorite part of setting up a new home, every time. No matter how many times (eight homes, including this!) I've done it before, the thrill remains constant.

Although I miss that scrubbed, minimalist look of the tidy white wood and window blinds, and the inviting plainness of the oatmeal carpet of American homes, it is definitely more fun to play with rich, riotous colors. With the solid teak woodwork dominating most of the interior, decorating Indian homes is all about striking that perfect balance between space and colors. And often, one tends to get lost in the intensity of our bright and festive color palette. We, therefore, have decided to go the subtle way - rust and its siblings, beige and coffee, with a hint of the pompous purple and regal red thrown in here and there. The lovely, warm tones have begun painting our new place in an earthy delight. When the late afternoon sun slants moodily on our balcony, one gets the feeling of being bathed in a pale, rusty twilight.

P.S. Rereading My Name is Red couldn't have happened at a more befitting time!

Tulips

"When words become unclear, I shall focus with photographs. When images become inadequate, I shall be content with silence."

~ Ansel Adams

When Downton Abbey and The Big Bang Theory weren't diversions enough, to the tulip fields we fled. The annual festival at Tulip Town has always been a much awaited one, where the plump mountain air mingles with the faint, lingering smell of the tulips, a combination potent enough to numb the worldly worries for a while. As we neared the valley, it became cloudy and somewhat unexpectedly cold, but then the fields emerged like the unfurling of a hundred multicoloured flags. Row after row, wave after wave of breathtaking colours - fat yellow, feisty red, shy pink, seducing violet, rusty orange - all ending in a stunning kaleidoscopic blur, inching towards each other in a strange unison, till the eye could not say which is which. 

To tulips then, the invincible, undisputed queen of spring.

A leaf and another birthday

I have turned, and how!

Vein by vein, pore by pore

You've coloured

and changed me so

I sure have bloomed

Oh my, just how!

There was once a time so green

Precious childhood, that waxy sheen

Then came along the Sun,

the Rain and a few strange signs

I tossed and turned

blushed and burned

And I never was the same again.

Drunk with light, neck-deep in life

Dressed in such shooting rainbows dear

Do I care for that gust of wind

That bullies me so?

The autumn woman celebrates another birthday today, and what better than a colour-kissed geranium leaf (that too from her own plant!) to mark the day.

Autumn, sure, is in the air. Welcome back trendy sweaters, scurrying squirrels, smiling chrysanthemums, fat pumpkins and apples galore.
And yes, may be a little wisdom too.

A tree story

I pout and preen in my blossomy sheen

I swing and dance in a greenish trance

I'm the perfect coy mistress in my golden autumn dress

I shiver and sigh when the winds are high

Cold and lonely I stand, dreaming of a happy summery land

Vermont, where nature speaks in colours

Lately it has been raining uncertainties for us and each time we would think of a serene getaway to assuage our rattled nerves, life would happen. To cut a long story short, we were in desperate need of a break. Since the summers and in between the nagging disquiet, I had nurtured countless dreams of a picturesque North American autumn (somehow, I prefer the poetic 'autumn' to the bland 'fall'), the kind that we come across in glossy photographic magazines. A trip to New England was always on the cards but we had often found ourselves at crossroads when it came to pick one of the six equally breathtaking states. Since the time was autumn, New Hampshire or Vermont ruled the gamble, and ultimately Vermont it was. So there we were, up in the air one cloudy afternoon, exclaiming at the jaw-dropping aerial view - stretch after stretch of red, like the unfurling and fluttering of a giant mass of red cloth. Beaming with happiness at so surreal a sight, we realised it was only the start of a humdinger of a vacation.

A snug little log cabin awaited us, nestled in the lap of mountains overlooking a little wooded pond. Every single arrangement befitted my fancies - red Adirondack chairs in the patio, vintage floral curtains, unlimited solitude and most importantly the "there's a jungle out there" feel. But we should have foreseen the jinxing of a situation so beguilingly perfect and blissful. Mother Nature, like always, had a mood of her own. It rained intermittently on the first day, like a curse, with a vengeance. But the resolute leafpeepers braved it anyhow! For this was a break that seldom comes twice in a person's lifetime, and what's more, we were spot on time for the elusive peak - the time when the leaves pompously display their best colours. Autumn was in the air- cool and crisp. Being the quintessential maple land, one can see the roads and lanes thronged with flaming maple trees that appeared to be on a feisty, full-throated song. Never had I seen so rich a palette - yellow, orange, red, rust, mauve, gold; nor could I understand the divine magic of the same leaf turning so many brilliant shades one after the other, in just a fortnight's time.

The quaint countryside with its little country stores, verdant hillocks, grazing cattle and weathered barns contributed to my perfect autumn idyll. I was brimming with emotions of one who loves to be far from the madding crowd, feasting on the virgin beauty of nature and relishing country delights like maple candies and syrup soaked pancakes. The remnants of a deep-rooted English tradition - red telephone booths, old English inns, bleached white rectories, and gastropubs named 'Mr Pickwick's, It's a Dickens of a place' - was quite inescapable to my Anglophile's eye. It seemed as if a chunk of England has glided across the Atlantic and has pieced itself to the most charming pocket of North America.

The Green Mountains that garland the northeastern territory of the state are a vast expanse of sheer delight - lush greenery and charcoal black crests veiled with mist. Our inn keeper had assured us that rains make the colours sparkle, and he couldn't have been more right. For the wet leaves not only sparkled, they spoke. After a day of incessant rains, the sun burst forth in nooks and corners highlighting a resplendent blanket of mellow tones. Like us, there were several others who were in quest of that little patch of blue sky and at the end were fairly rewarded. The sun peeped in and out of the stubborn clouds throwing a ray or two on the faraway mosaic mountains, giving the landscape a dramatic edge. The warm rays piercing the mist shrouded mountains gave the impression of one being in a futile battle to win against all odds.

There is a lot more on the tourism platter of Vermont like apple cider mills, sugarhouses (where they make maple syrup) and vintage covered bridges. The spectacular covered bridges that symbolise a fine melange of architectural beauty and history are a treat for the historians and photographers alike. These completely wooden bridges that date back to the nineteenth century were meant for accommodating a single lane traffic, mostly horse carriages. Due to their sturdy roof and enclosed sides they still hold good in spite of the continuing damage from rain and snow. We stopped by one of the bridges to bask in the tranquility of its surroundings. It felt like the moment had frozen into timelessness, echoing a hundred tales from the past - the monotonous clopping of hooves, the creaking of wood under the weight of the hurried carriages, the legends of many a distressed maiden who tumbled off the bridge for love. One of my musings also had Francesca plucking wildflowers alongside the bridge, just like in The Bridges of Madison County.

Intoxicated with ecstasy and quenched to the core, we returned to our life of duty and obligations, to be a part of the routine again. Now the Vermont of my dreams seems far removed, a mere blurry shape of autumn colours. But I do have the memories and of course the photographs, that will keep me warm in many a winter nights. And oh, there's my prized maple syrup bottle too, 'Vermont's finest'!

Virginia is for lovers!

Cherry blossoms from our living room window

So it is that time of the year again when happiness just blooms and spreads its roots inside you because mother nature is on a song. I often lamented about never having the chance to experience a spectacular North American spring. When I arrived here first, on the land of opportunities and ambiguities, it was too late. It was June and I could see the spring blooms withering away with a very few exceptions. That was when I first met the rhododendrons or as the Seattleites would call their state flower, the "rhodies". My heart leaped and jumped and bounced as if I had never seen anything of such remarkable beauty. Now there is this 'thing' about me and those who know me would understand this. I am an obsessive nature lover and at times like these I become this absolutely incomprehensible person as if my life depended on that single moment. Most of Sam's techie friends must find me rather daft when I ramble on about how the Mount Rainier is actually an active volcano or the different kinds of maple trees or the hundreds of wild Himalayan flowers. Not that I mind their uninvolved air, but I just feel that there is so much more life in these marvels than watching detestable modern television or going to shopping malls and killing time by mostly window shopping.

Getting back to my spring euphoria, last year we were in Texas during spring and there was nothing much on the platter except a few desert willows and Mexican buckeyes bursting out in their white and pink glory. Fortunately we lived in the Hill Country area which is home to many little charming German villages that are nestled on higher altitudes and host the wildflower festival every year. We did get to see vast stretches of red poppies, bluebonnets and cornflowers, and being a wildflower buff I loved every bit of it. But all the while I longed to see some typical spring queens like tulips and daffodils which are exotic to my tropical eyes. My friends back home would often ask me about the American spring and I would be at a very sad loss. But this year luck has smiled upon me and we have recently moved to this quaint little place called Charlottesville in Virginia. Apart from getting to live in the eastern part of this huge country, there is another aspect that quite thrills me. The state of Virginia that got its name from the Virgin Queen, Elizabeth the 1st is culturally rich and is home to historical sites like Colonial Williamsburg, which was the first British capital. The stately red brick buildings and the gastropubs here are a classic example of the once flourishing British rule. This is also the land of the legendary Indian princess Pocahontas. So I do feel pretty regal in a strange fashion! And to add to all this, there's spring here. There are pearly magnolias on naked, leafless branches and vibrant forsythias that ring the word basanti in my mind. During my solitary walk yesterday I could spot clusters of wild daffodils here and there, some upright and the others still sleepy. There is a certain untamed beauty in things of the wild which is wanting in carefully, patterned landscapes.

Till date I was unaware that the prim garden daffodils also had wild cousins. Then the thought struck me, "of course, Wordsworth must have seen these wild ones in the Lake District"!

My next agenda is the national cherry blossom festival that takes place annually in Washington, D.C. After almost a complete month of being buried in brutal blizzards, the time has come to venture out and celebrate nature. This is that sort of place where I could wonder around like Ophelia, wearing a crown of wildflowers and throwing my cares to the mad world. And why not, because as they say here - "Virginia is for lovers"! Or for incurable romantics. Or a bit of both?!

Autumn therapy

Wings of feisty yellow and fiery red

flutter elfishly on the earth's mosaic-ed face.

A subtle pattern here, a mellow contour there

a delightful burst of life all around.

The greens of yesterday have emptied the sun,

having drunk its moods and colours, sip by sip.

Maple reds, Birch yellows, Oak golds....

Sure, there's a spell I can hear!

For this surreal, painted landscape --

Can this be real?

Must be the heady smell of the ripe, plump air!

Or perhaps something with the sun kissed colours

that nudge a nostalgic nerve of lost, forgotten years.

The flaming canvas ignites a soothing warmth

in the cold, dark chambers of my mindscape.

This golden panorama rekindles

a lost sense of tranquility.

Maple reds, Birch yellows, Oak golds...

Yes, colours can cure.

Sure enough, autumn does heal.