Gau-dhooli…

Gau-dhooli….

Sunbeams

Glint on the rising dust motes.

Subdued necklet-bells tinkle

As tired cattle lumber home

In the approaching dusk.

Each glinting dust mote

A wave-tip in the ocean of time.

Brings within it

An almost forgotten memory.

Some

Cradle unfettered emotion

Birthing instinctive, undemanding love

Without restraints or expectations

Giving away all.

Loving hugs,

Or just a holding on to another

Embracing,

Without touching.

Others

Carry anguished moments of pain

Lashed in mindless frenzy

On the ones who cared,

Driven by a sense of futility, confusion,

And the blinding anger of youth.

Or in the cusp of time

Some quiet moments

Spent, just lying on the grass,

Head cradled on a friendly lap

Gazing at the sky

Lost in unfolding the meaning of life.

As the sunbeams fade in the dying day,

Each glinting wave-tip

Gently gifts away its individual moment

To savor, accept and let go.

The giving away

And showering petal-moments

Onto receding waves of time

Drapes a floating mantle

Of love, freedom and deep tranquility.

For

“Moments once lived,

Never die.

They become eternal as they are…”

A fun “Coffee” Event “Under the Neem”,
                                                                    Karma Lakelands.

The Filtering

The workshop, organised by young entrepreneurs Vanshika and Kanv, was conducted by the slim and smiling Bharat Singhal of “Bili Hu”, Indian State Coffees. The heady aroma of the diverse range of the coffees he was to introduce seemed to swirl above the demo table as he started the workshop. The cold, persistent drizzle, dripping constantly, brought with it the pre-afternoon chill, adding just the right touch to make the presentation a “brewing, steaming” success.

As the brochure explained, the word “Bili Hu” “comes from Kannada – a language spoken in the state of Karnataka where coffees were first grown in India.” “Bili Hu” is a white flower symbolic of the coffee plant flower that blooms to signify the harvest season.”

On display were the more important and “premium standalone coffees” of India, the Monsooned Malabar, the Mysore Nuggets, (both of the Arabica species) and the Robusta Kaapi Royale of the “Robusta” species, developed when the initial “Arabica” beans imported into and planted in India got infested by “coffee rust”. 

The Brewing

  

Coffee beans are a common sight in most markets. These come in pairs and form the seeds within the coffee pods, fruits of the coffee plant. As these pods ripen they change from green to pink to red, to a deeper red, and finally they attain a purple-red hue indicating they are ripe for plucking. The pods tend to fall off if not plucked at the right time. Once plucked and seeded, the beans are processed.

The coffee plantations tend to keep the details of their processing a well preserved secret to ensure the quality of their products. By and large the seeds are dried in the sun or exposed to moisture for absorption. This is done during the monsoon without direct exposure to the rains. They are then roasted. The degree and time of roasting decides the final colour of the beans.

Coffee brewing at the workshop began by wetting the conical paper filters with hot water at 200 degrees to remove unwanted paper and related aroma and avoid contamination to the aroma of the brew itself. 25 grams of beans of the three varieties were ground, spread on the paper filter and 250 ml of water, heated to 200 degrees centigrade, poured over it. The filter removed the oils and the bitter residue, allowing the coffee to percolate into the tumbler below.With water temperatures hovering around 200 degrees, the coffee was too hot to drink and allowed to cool to about 85 degrees. The best temperature range to sip the brew is apparently between 75 ~ 85 degrees. When it cools further the coffee tends to turn bitter. We tasted the three brewed samples turn by turn by slurping loudly. The louder the slurp the better the coffee tasters’ expertise we were told!  Resulting opinions were a total mix-up though the common feeling veered to the Robusta brew being the most bitter of the three!

The Big "Slurp"

The best part of the workshop came soon after with everyone joining in to make their own coffee mock-tails using available ingredients – strawberries, cut-apple pieces, cinnamon, green chillies and a few others. Most of us have read about hot coffee being spiked with alcohol drinks during cold winter times. These mock-tails were however made using “cold brew coffee” as the base liquor.

Cold brew is a blend of three coffee strains available in sachets of 250 grams. These are mixed with cold water and left over for about sixteen hours to “brew”. They can be stored in refrigerators for use over time. Experimenting freely, everyone threw in ingredients of their choice with ice cubes, crushing them to a paste and pouring in the cold brew coffee. The mock-tail maker was shaken thoroughly to get a proper mix. The one with the strawberries and cut-apple was a mild too sweet for my taste, but the one prepared with chillies mixed with other ingredients was just “chillied” enough to make a few of us really miss the only ingredient missing.

It was a fun, enjoyable event, led effectively, encouraging questions and free participation, replete with satiated palates.

And the casual, relaxed “Under-the-Neem” environs seemed just the right place for it!   

The grinding

“Undertheneem”….the Spa Nimoli & Karma Lakelands 

Having been there earlier, I was not anticipating or looking forward to a different experience at the resort. It was just another chore accompanying close ones on a winter afternoon.

The first change to intrigue me was the miniature mud-brown hut-temple at the entrance of the spa. It was obvious someone had taken lots of loving care in creating the fawn-colored place-of-worship which seemed to emerge from the earth itself. Sitting within, on his stone throne, in the traditional, regal pose, blessing the universe, was the pristine marble-white figure of one of our deities, ShankarJi.

My pace had slowed and it was only when I moved another step forward that the tiny orange figure of Ganeshji, perched saucily by his side, came into view. 

It was entirely instinctive, and natural that I stopped to take in the details. 

For these were a few moments of quiet grace in an environment where time had ceased to matter. It was also perhaps, the start, of what was to mold the whole experience of that balmy, winter afternoon.

The walk through the small, organic vegetable garden was lazy and leisurely. The shiny green strawberries peeping through leaves were shimmering in the sunlight with just a hint of the promise of tangy sweetness that was to come. The sudden urge to wait and see them ripen to a juicy red, to taste them, made me smile. Glimpses of the tiny broccoli flowers, the cauliflowers and the growing cabbages could be seen through their foliage while the spinach leaves moved gently in the breeze.

Wooden and wrought-iron tables and chairs lay scattered in the lawn around the stately Neem tree holding up the wooden swing hanging from thick ropes. Engraved on a wooden tablet, written in a child’s sloping, kindergarten hand was the legend “Undertheneem”.

The wrought iron chairs were surprisingly comfortable and form-fitting as we sat down to lunch. The starter soup served in tiny cups had just that right amount of mild, black-pepper spiciness to whet our appetites. The fare, catered using the organic garden vegetables, was simple and delightful. Each dish, designed and prepared lovingly was a whole meal in itself.

As we sat there in the half-shade of the Neem, eating the sun-warmed food, the only sound was that of the wind and the wind-chimes. Every time a sudden gust of wind teasingly shook the hanging cylinders, there would be a flurry of the tinkling bell-sounds.

It was perhaps a prayer-offering also to the serene Buddha, who sat on his pedestal across the walk, stoic and silent, lost in eternal meditation. The mini-palm fronds at his sides brushed away any and all disturbances. A sense of quiet benediction seemed to flow from his raised palm.

The artistic, circular depiction in white and green hanging from a tree-branch looked as if it represented the round, unending universe holding within it the wide, spread out branches of the pepal tree. The root lookalikes trailed below swaying in the wind while the white-and-brown feather-ends twirled round-and-round with the walnut-colored bird-house in the background.

The serving of Hibiscus tea after the dessert used a careful selection of crockery that seemed indicative of, or imply, the thought that permeated the place and that whole afternoon. The transparent pot containing the mildly colored tea, the double-cavity glass cup for retaining warmth, and the three-in-one sand timer all added to the prevailing sense of timelessness.

It was an indolent, lazy afternoon, with time stretching away. The quiet, pervasive tranquility, the breeze, the chimes, all seeped in ever-so-quietly, unobtrusively, generating a feeling of wellness, smoothing the ragged edges to our beings and stripping away the noise and cacophony of urban-life.  

 We came away carrying within us a profound sense of having been healed.    

Adieu my friend…

The sunbeams grow dim

To fade away in the gloom.

Each moment of our childhood 

Once stark and vivid

In its clarity

Blurs to a pale shadow.

The fabric of memories grows frail

As it flaps forlornly, 

To fray and tatter in the wind.

The light that burnt so bright once

Has gone out.

Leaving good-byes

Fluttering in its wake.

              Fire cannot burn,

          Nor water soak me

                               For I am the beginning

                                       And I am the end....

Grief…

Nothing remains…

When flickering flames die,

Ashes floating in the wind

Return to earth.

And paroxysms, hiccups

Become monotones

Of tired spasms bereft of grief.

I will come

To hold and embrace your pain.

It is known -

When journeys end

Karmic beings leave

To become constellations of memories

Loving, loved, forever radiant.

Linking the warmth, grace, laughter,

Of joyous times,

To the quiet serenity of love

That flows deep within:

And be always,
Part of the unending source 
Of all creation….

Alankrita...

portions of a rain-forest cultivated for habitation...

 It was a long awaited occasion – a destination wedding at a spa resort.

Our square - quant red sloped roofs over penthouse suites and cane sofas with their bright red cushions sprawled on the verandahs. Lush green grass in the central square glistened in the evening light. At the centre was an ancient stone dome structure supported by carved pillars.

Golf-carts whispered over to Ananda, the cocktail venue. Heavy glittering saris and flowing lehengas, churidar-kurtas, or dark suits graced the occasion. The DJ’s beat brought a sparkle in the flowing amber, and moods mellowed.

The beat became heady as the youngsters took over. The rhythm of the night changed, became lighter, faster. The night laughed, sang, and danced with them, lighting up the darkness outside. They danced away the darkness, till tired, spent and hungry they came for breakfast with the morning sun.

The graceful life-size Buddha sat in welcome outside Prakruta, the well-side restaurant. Smaller figurines stood everywhere.  Amidst lush green growth, it was feasting within a jungle. South Indian, Continental and a live counter vied for selection. Hot dosas, cheese masala omelettes, and soft meat balls made it difficult to decide what not to eat. 

A hushed silence embraced the lush vegetation as we strolled. Tranquility flowed all around and within. Quaint figurines peeped out from behind leaves. One had to look carefully to spot them. As we peeped into the circular pond, tiny fishes darted across the floating leaves. The stone tortoise looking on as the Nandi, on its pedestal, gazed lovingly at the god above, lost in his peace and serenity.

As we turned the corner we came upon the figurine of a stone Goddess. It stood atop an old discarded, buffalo-cart, snuggling in the foliage. It stood blessing the world in love and eternal stillness. 

These were magical moments in the cusp of eternity.  

The marriage ceremony on the main lawn, open to the sky, was lit by the string lights stretched overhead and around. Towering trees and dense foliage was all around. And it was within this lap of nature, as the holy flames reached high within the dome, that the union was solemnized.

It was the formal coming together of all people as one.

The buffet lunch was special, being a Sunday. The spicy ‘Andhra chicken’ with the ‘baghara rice’ was divine. It reminded one of the tiny mutton balls served during breakfast.

The mince in the mutton balls was ground so fine that the mix was paste-like and constituted one whole. The secret lay in the mutton being ground on a stone sil-batta (similar to pestle and mortar) and not a mincer.

That evening was a time of letting go and surrendering to fun and joy. It was an evening for old melodies, ghazals on demand, and a touch of melancholy. Haleem epitomised the evening dinner. The flavour of the Indian spices was so subtle, that the aroma, wisp-like, would come and go. It did not overpower any of the other flavours but stayed on as a tantalising reminder demanding a second helping.

The youngsters took to the stage and danced. The DJ played. The music and their dance was a final good-bye. From diverse backgrounds, having grown up together at school, college or at work, it was in essence an “Auf Wiedersehen” evening.

A “till we meet again” goodbye to the place and its ambience, to the fun, joy and laughter and to each other.

The stay was a microcosm, tranquil, in the lap of nature, with its underlying message of timelessness. There was nothing to fret or worry over. Just be with each other in unending chats, walks, or just drift into a dreamless sleep. There was laughter, joy, love sprinkling all existence.

- A wonderful culmination to a wonderful occasion always to be remembered. 

And a lifetime embrace, with blessings for a bonding to last forever... 

The Soul of the Amer

As I sit quietly in the hotel room,
Looking out at the wall of the Amer
Stretching across the horizon,
I remember those evening bonfires
With risqué songs echoing
To foot tapping music of the dhaplis.

Songs that spoke of love,
And of the simple, harsh desert life.

Cupped in the mellow flow of the evening
And the nostalgia,
The wall, the grains of sand outside
And the scattered bushes,
Black in the night
Seemed to rise in the air and speak.
Their hushed voices recounted
The eternal vigil
Of cold, dark desert nights
From the ramparts of the Amer
Watching….
Always watching.
Forever looking out for enemies
Who came to rape, plunder, lay waste,
Not only the streets and people of Amer
But the very barrenness of the desert.

They
Spoke of the horror
Of those wanting to preserve,
Fall under killing swords;
Their rivers of blood draining away
In the desert sands
And the warble -
The mourning wail of the Rudaalis
Which reverberated in the desert air
Forever.

************************

Under their watch many had grown
Nurturing the land,
Their own, and themselves.
Carrying forward honor
And the legends of bravery
For coming generations.
With voices steeped in deep sadness,
They remembered
How these loving ones too had passed.

“Only we remained.
Grains of sand, nestling safely,
Under protective rocks.
And now, as the rocks
Wither away in the wind,
We too will pass.
For nothing is eternal.”

And the river of time will flow on…

Till one day,
The bushes will awaken,
Shrug off the sand.
And emerge slowly, tentatively, to peep out.
And as they reach up
The rhythmic beat of the dhaplis
And the singing of the desert winds
Will come alive once again.

For the magic of the desert never really dies.