Of grasshoppers sparrows lady birds and paper boats

Of sparrows grasshoppers ladybirds and paper boats……

Out of the many things that have vanished from my rather cramped life are some simple pleasures brought by the sparrows that would rarely leave me alone in my room having four acute angles ,and merging with the fifth with extreme reluctance. The unabashed show of embarrassment was more than visible as each merged with the other at acute angle incidentally, all acute. Each had a window similar in size and fitted with ledges both on the inside and outside making the room almost free from free wall space.

The sight of chirping sparrows perched happily on the curtains, which began one-fourth from the top, added a lot of cheer to my life. Sitting in close proximity on the spring clasp from which the curtains hung, my extremely spirited friends filled my room with lot of happiness. Breaking the sanctity of the quiet gray hours of dawn with their incessant twitter and tiny shifting leaps, watching them became a habit. The varying time spells with which I watched them, mostly increased or decreased in length the intensity directly proportional the difficulty level of each academic hurdle I encountered. A welcome distraction, they mostly helped me to think creatively and constructively. My interest in their activities grew as I saw their innocuous and playful exchanges graduate into noisy duels with the aggressive males easily differentiated by their deep brown coats, exhibiting their prowess with admirable fierceness while the females in softer brown coat forming the intense audience taking a well deserved break from their regular pecking on flowers or from swinging on delicate branches .The timely appearance of my feathered companions each dawn and their equally surprising disappearance at dusk with matchless precision still remains a mystery difficult to unearth. They remained a part of my every day life with their numbers multiplying in spring and summer. Their small and well made nests in the tiny nooks on the wooden roof support outside the room always notified me of the additions in the family .The softer twitters of hungry tiny inmates and the fierce screeches each time a predator   encroached upon the privacy announced in no soft tones ,of hungry babies, and apt parenting skills.

The whirring blades of the electric fans sometimes mercilessly snuffed the life of some brave hearts who ventured inside the room to challenge the might of modern technology. Dada always closed the windows in the summers and even switched off the fans to ward off the intruders, yet the mishaps were not exactly rare.   In case of an eventuality he would even offer droplets of water fetched by me close to their tightly shut beaks. I remember casting furtively glances over his shoulders hoping for miracles that never happened.

The gasps of the helpless victims still remain etched in my memories forcing me to realize of the intense pain that plundered the small bodies and I lost no time in passing a silent judgment inadvertently blaming technology. The fact that a single act of recklessness can lead to horrifying consequences probably laid its early seeds in my thoughts, then. To watch their tragic end, and life ebbing away from the lively creatures was sad indeed. Some times the steady and determined queue of red ants notified us about the untimely demise of the little baby sparrows. The lack of wings or the tiny gray vestiges of the so-called wings tightly clinging on their pink skin provided no inkling of their future looks. Though it took me some years to master the skills of putting the lifeless bodies of the hapless victims on old newspapers and throw them away, as a child I would call out to one of the maids to take over the course of actions in case of the eventualities. It would `not be without remorse that I saw the tiny creatures being thrown away with a casualness which I never agreed upon .The precise action of the maids always left me speechless. Many a time noni our maid would ask me to leave her trailing sari pallu alone with my tight clutches significantly reducing her pace. The floor would be always swept clean as an aftermath .The strong clinical odour of phenyl refusing to leave the senses alone and yet failing hopelessly to wipe off a deep sense of despair caused due to the loss of a precious thing often called life. Sometimes weekend cleanliness drives to sweep off cobwebs by Alekh the peon, of Ma`s clinic would dislodge the nests and cause the fragile shells to break. More than the fatal consequences, my mother would grimace at the fishy odour that emanated pervading the clean atmosphere of our home masking the fragrance spread by the jasmine and the mogras arranged religiously on flat saucers especially in summers. I found the strong refusal of the odour to leave the rooms alone despite the caustic treatment that followed, especially in the monsoons as distinctly unpleasant. As I grew up the incidences lost their gravity and became commonplace. It was only later when I saw similar reactions from Koustubh , my nephew, that made me realize the loss of sensitivity which probably maturity  had sown in me irrevocably replacing innocence with callousness ,well at least almost.

I never realized of their steadily dwindling numbers, or their total disappearance, till one day I could `not find any while I was wondering about them much later in life in another house in another city. It was until much later that I realized the loss of innocence that probably work, situations, and occurrences caused making deep inroads into my existence encroaching upon my life, and robbing it of some if not many emotions and feelings, mostly unannounced and determined working upon their unsuspecting victims.

The vivid image of the swiftly flying dragon flies in their vivid blue and green colours adding life to our garden and the field outside it, will always be an important part of my life. Of the many things that I would be envious of apart from being thin, fair and beautiful was the dexterous ability of some members of a group of children of which I was probably a non-happening member of. Their enchanting capacities of ensnaring dragon flies in flight or while they were sucking nectar from flowers always reminded me of my deep inadequacies. While the blue ones were the prized catches, the regular and plentiful green ones were the common victims probably because of their large numbers. I was a member of this group before I was five, which boasted of having experts who would win the number game of capturing fifteen twenty and some times even more flies. By a swift cupping of their palm they trapped the unsuspecting insects shocking them into captivity exhibiting their fiercely determined and peremptory intentions. In one flash moment the depravity of freedom was more than visible in the desperate fluttering of their gossamer thin wings during captivity. The experts would never stop at one but go one to catch more and follow it up by the painful act of tying threads in their tail supplied by non-performers like me more so an overt effort for acceptance than the consequence. I would watch the fierce struggles that would ensue between the hapless victims and the powerful captors and their final inevitable surrender. The painful process of tying a thread on their segmented and frail tail remained a distant memory The gnawing fear that arose after each act mostly arising due to hearing that each harmful act begets pain were probably were my first lessons on retribution, divine or otherwise. My exit from the group was not only because I realized of the futility of the entire enterprise but more so to escape Ma`s fury. Her extreme disapproval of such misadventures made clear from the very nature of the deep tone she used to show her displeasure whenever she caught me in the wrong was more than adequate to make me desist my efforts. Her presence forced the champions to fleeing away the scene too with promptness difficult to match. It was during one of my bedtime confessions that Ma explained the selfishness of the act that helped me to outgrow the habit swiftly .I always look back in my yesteryears thinking of what must have become of the champion attackers. Long after I grew up and that I realized from the dwindling numbers of playing children and play grounds of the marauding effects of modernity, champions of corrosion eroding the vestiges of childhood, forcibly evicting innocence from its tiny cocoon.

The advent of the monsoons would inevitably bring back memories of the tiny velvety beauties called ladybirds. Between the dark ominous clouds, thunders, lightning, erratic electricity supply, crisp pakoras and steaming hot khichudi roasted bhuttas and the red velvet coated beauties. Adding the much needed colour and gaiety to the lush green foliage and luscious undergrowth with their slow yet sure footed crawl and strong colour these daintily dressed individuals made their presence more than felt with their satin smooth coats accessorized perfectly with symmetrical black spots. Innocently crawling into traps the unsuspecting victims mostly were treasured in small empty matchboxes. I sometimes came back home from school in my early years with such matchboxes and watch the captive inmates in wonder as I opened them secretively during sleepy afternoons away from the prying glances of everyone.  Once Ma caught me doing this and explained the sad outcome that could befall the attractive creatures that made me understand my mistake. I still remember my reluctance transforming into amazement and happiness as I saw the slow crawl becoming faster as I released the hapless victim from its entrapment. As my respect for the captors turned into indifference and still later into a pain I understood how Ma taught me my first lessons of compassion and empathy. Many years later Koustubh my nephew bought a toy a lady bird one of his favourites , which forced me to recess into the past and remember similar acts which were small yet made  a deep impact in my life.

Sailing paper boats just after a downpour were another inevitable extension of the monsoons. Synonymous with the season they broke the moist humid interludes and the monotony with their appearances. Narayani Mausi`s undeniable expertise in making the boats still remind me of my failure to do so. Generally made from old newspapers, cast off prescriptions discarded papers, and some time old pages of copies these frail creations were two types and while one was ordinary its pocketed version was undeniably exotic. The sight of these floating beauties after a downpour in every available source of flowing water was common. They spared nothing and their progress in huge old iron buckets, overflowing tubs of stored water or drains left an indelible impression on me. Mausi would happily make them for me every time I asked for it and the miniatures from prescription were always on my table waiting for an opportunity to break free into the uncertain and forge ahead without even a glance at the past and forging ahead with a surety difficult to emulate. I never mastered the art of making one ,despite some trials but the innate sense of happiness, which the floating creations gave me, remains prized and something to cherish my childhood.