mangoes and the koyal

I opened one of the Sunday magazines and found something.

‘Yun Guzarte Hain hum zindagi se,

raftaar si lagi hai seene mein,

Gar pal do pal hum gunguna lein,

toh kya mazaa aye phir jeene mein…’

As in

With speed in our hearts we live,

If once in a while we break into a song

What exuberance life could give…

It appealed to my corny heart since lately I get unusually startled by loud piercing sounds but I have a huge appetite for sights, sounds, and smells (yes yes yes my orkut profile reiterates that).Especially sounds…sounds that soothe, that energise….sounds emanating from the sky..the sound of the sea .The Koel’s lilting voice has perennially enthralled me and so I decided ages back to name my daughter Kuhu…and I still stand by that crazy whim….

I love to pamper my senses…and what intrigues me most about the Koel is its elusiveness….it unsettles me with its loud ascending whistle and then I keep looking for it in vain. It can apparently be easily identified by its entirely glossy black plumage, tinged with blue and green, and its striking red eye..I’ve never seen it…except in pictures.

My enduring love affair with the Koel began when I was 10 and I would visit my hometown every summer…. The first thing I did every time I reached my house in Satara was to hug my granny…I loved the smell of my granny’s saree. All grannies have this distinct baby smell…. that’s the most vivid pleasant recollection of my childhood days….my safe haven.

After that, I would rush into this room, which overlooked an expansive hill…it was well stocked with mangoes every year around this time. I loved to spill the mango all over me…and lick it off my hands. My granny well aware of my obsession for dabbing the mango all over my clothes refused to clothe me…and I was most happy with mango all over me.I don’t really enjoy eating mangoes anymore since I can’t eat them that way anymore….hehe…

I would then open the backdoor of the room and at regular intervals a koel hummed. I longed to see it…. to know the source of that mesmeric resonance. This koel motivated a trail. My inquest led me to the canopy of berry and guava trees in my garden and around my house…all the elders found it amusing when I cried over my abortive search. During my exams last month, I heard the muffled voice of a koel..and I couldn’t concentrate. It barely managed to rise above the din of the traffic on the main road….It was like a stifled sound….after prolonged intervals….but then I remembered the koel in Satara.

All my memories and dreams are in the form of myriad small packages of multi-sensory experiences…they don’t really hurt me…in fact they are liberating with their tingle of nostalgia even when they ache….

I loved to spend the beginning of the rainy season in my hometown…I loved the rhythmic sounds on the tin roofs.

My first encounter with bright sights of the dawn was in Satara…the clouds would roll by in the sky and the dewdrops would shine at the tips of the lush green leaves in winters. My granny is up before anybody else and she sits in the veranda. That is her private space and time…she loved reading at this time and I gave her quiet company. She is a picture of poise. Nothing in the world can fill me with as much serenity as looking at her during those early hours…. those were my fragrant mornings as I sipped my tea listening to the sound of silence…. entwined with the swooshing of the brooms in the garden. Then one hushed whistle of the koel…and i waited as nothing followed.I called her bluff then.

My romance with the koel has stood the test of time…I have this heightened sensitivity to its voice only because it leaves me insatiate….and my mom still laughs at me when I get hassled over not finding it even after she bends over backward to point towards the high branch on which it is perched. Then I get a fleeting glance. I hate its speed and agility.