Home is where the mango is

We have been in America for the past six years in a lovely small town (they call them City, in America) called West Springfield, South of Boston. Typical small-town America. Quiet roads, nice neighbors, safe environment, gardens, songbirds, the occasional bear passing by checking on the bird feeders. Magnolias blooming in Spring, very briefly but spectacularly. Then the not so long Summer followed by a brilliant Fall, like a glorious sunset before nightfall. Winter, white, long, dark and very cold. Even there, the beauty of this world is extraordinary – the sight of snow ploughs with full lights on, clearing snow at 3.00 AM after the storm has ended – a sign simultaneously of duty, concern for others, and simply beautiful. And the circle continues.

Hyderabad is both the same and changed. Same friends, some older and weaker, and others older and stronger. Their children being introduced to me. A name they have heard and so call me Thatha and my wife Ammamma, or Dada and Dadi. A penny for their thoughts?? Na!!! I prefer to remain content with my imagination. All chickens don’t have feathers.

Old friends among others in Hyderabad, imagine my joy, early in the morning after our arrival, hearing the liquid warble of the Red-vented Bulbul! It is a good thing that birds don't know the names we give them. Imagine being named after the color of your derrière. I almost had tears in my eyes (where else??). I hadn't realized how much I had missed hearing that call.

Mr. Northern Cardinal who serenades me from his perch on the tree outside my window in West Springfield, no offense meant. I miss you here. Greetings to you and Mrs. Cardinal. Both of them the source of joy and inspiration for me for six years.

Back in Hyderabad, at 10.00 PM, calls the Koel (Asian Koel - Eudynamys scolopaceus). I suspect it lives in the mango tree next door and suffers from insomnia.

Then there are the Purple Sunbirds (Cinnyris asiaticus) that live in my garden. The male turns a dark, metallic blue-purple during breeding season, while the female is olive-yellow. It is a joy seeing them flitting from flower to flower as they eat nectar - or drink it, I suppose. They also eat small insects.

Then there are the Green Bee-eaters, who perch on a branch and swoop up, catch an insect which I can't even see, and swoop down to the same perch. That makes them easy to photograph because all you need to do is to point your camera at the perch and sure enough it will come to you. What is very endearing is how they sometime sit huddled together to get some warmth on chilly mornings. Many a time it is a dragonfly, the insect predator, which becomes prey. Sobering to remember that they fly across the Indian Ocean from Mozambique, on the monsoon winds, to breed in India. To become a snack for a Bee-eater after that monumental journey is sad indeed.

Same great food. Truly the standard of Hyderabadi Biryani is the same and superb, no matter where you eat it. Proof that all cooks are related. The immense variety of dishes is testimony to the imagination of those cooks, who take the same four ingredients, meat, rice, spices, vegetables, and produce things that are distinct, yet related and complementary to each other. You can’t imagine Biryani without Mirchion ka Salan. But what is their similarity? None at all. Yet one is not complete without the other.

I wish we could do the same with our social and community relations, which seem to have gone south. Such a pity because this brother and sisterhood was something that I grew up with and felt so proud of. True there are still those who keep the flag flying and the lamp burning in the dark, cold, windy night of an alternative existence which I hope we will be able to avoid. I have the highest opinion of Indian intelligence and can’t believe that all of us will fall prey to the effect of WhatsApp university education so easily. I hope the poet spoke the truth when he said:

मैं अकेला ही चला था जानिब-ए-मंज़िल मगर

लोग साथ आते गये और कारवाँ बनता गया।

~ मजरूह सुल्तानपुरी

(I had started alone towards my destination but people kept joining me and the caravan kept growing. ~ Majrooh Sultanpuri)

That is my hope. So, when I feel alone, I repeat to myself, what someone else said: If not you, then who? If not now, then when?

And I remind myself of my own motto: I will not allow what is not in my control to prevent me from doing what is in my control.

What is different is unimaginable traffic on the roads which proves that if there is a will, there is a way – someone will move and you can inch ahead, burning fossil fuel (directly or indirectly in electric cars). Experiencing what your toothpaste feels every day when you force it onto your brush. Given the traffic and the way we make it ten times worse by our total single-minded focus on ourselves with complete disregard for everyone else, it is a wonder that you don’t see people killing each other at every turn. But they don’t. They just move ahead. Depending on who you are driving with, you also have the opportunity to listen to some of the most colorful descriptions of people’s ancestry in choice Dakni or Telangana Telugu. That is when you are so thankful for the traffic without which you would not have had this education about the unending possibilities in lineage.

Another amazing change that I see is the proliferation of jewelry and bridal wear shops all over the city. On the side road (not a main thoroughfare) that we live on, there are four new ones which were not there six years ago. So, it looks like the position of India as the most populous country remains assured well into the future. I suppose if people have the money to buy gold and spend on lavish weddings it is good for the economy. Or is it a sign of desperation?

As we speak, we are into April, a month that promises glorious heat and mangoes. Ask the value of heat for a Hyderabadi who lived through six minus 20 Celsius winters. The Mango, truly the king of fruits, and any fear of diabetes be damned. After all, why do they have Metformin? Yes, there are mangoes in America, from Mexico. Mangoes from Mexico? Can you imagine that? Don’t. That would be like imagining tortillas from Hyderabad. Come to Hyderabad and taste the Himayats, and Beynishans, and Pedda and Chinna Rasaals. And if you wait a couple of months, then the Langda, Chausas and Daseris from Maleehabad.

Then, replete, fully fed up and fulfilled, you see life in a totally different light.