Two
minute tales over a cup of tea
The Lantana
The
train was rather congested and smelled of rust and sweat. It was one of the
hottest days of the month when the birds were soundless with open beaks, the
tree tops dusty and brown, the roads and lips parched and cracked. Sujata and I
sat side by side, our lips moisturized and our bottles full of water. “I had no
idea we would not be served anything on this train!” “Don’t worry; I have
packed some paratha and tikki.” She was always prepared unlike me who woke up
to realities a little after they struck me. Though I did carry sandwiches but
not because I knew we would not get anything on the train but because munching
was the best to kill time while travelling.
Janshatabdi
was pregnant with people and baggage. Indians travel with every weight
possible. A colourful array of bags over our heads and equally vibrant display
of colours on human forms soon blurred when the train started and people dozed
into their monochromatic dream world.
I
am awake. The dull sound of the engine doesn’t lull my senses. Outside the
window the world turns green and gold, the azure blue with scattered wisps of
white. “No scarecrows anymore- isn’t it Sujata? The birds have vanished and the
scarecrows have been out of jobs for long. Poor chaps!” She laughs and says- “The
orchards , not sugarcane attract the winged variety” True. Then we sight the
most vibrant weed lined along long stretches of fields. “That’s Lantana,”she
tells me. “Lantana Camara an exotic weed originally from Sri lanka has taken
over the terrains of the Indian soil by a storm. It was introduced in this
country in the nineteenth century as an ornamental hedge. It has the capacity
to regenerate itself quickly even after burning r cutting it”
Now
I have vivid memories of this weed as a hedge in almost every other house in
Aligarh. The smell still lingers in my senses. The leaves are dry and spiky and
often pierce your fingers with the tiny slivers that are invisible to the eye
but make their presence obvious by evoking a deep sting when you rub your
fingers gently. “I matter!” The weed seems to make a point. The surface is
slightly velvety but sans the softness of velvet. Can the softness be separated
from texture? Isn’t softness the characteristic of its texture? The leaf of
lantana says this loud and clear. You can sense dryness even in softness. It is
not always moist. Human nature is just the same- as the leaf of this weed .It
can be dry in its softness and soft in its dryness. That’s the beauty of
multi-dimensions of human nature. But not many people understand all the dimensions.
Coming
back to Lantana- A process of delantana has started in India to help soil
absorb more nutrients as this weed sucks in more than what is meant for it
thereby depriving other plants of their share of the basic elements of
survival. You cut it off it pops up again. That’s how it has spread itself
within. What a world of sizzling simmering thriving life exists under the earth
we walk on! Chop off the head but what about the roots!
The
sun is at an angle now and we are inching towards Dehradun. The jungles are
thick and green. The train is one and a half hour late. The shadows stretch
diagonally on the earth. The thickness of the jungle absorbs many shadows. At
this moment the shadows seem to be more alive than the forms that hold them .
No mortal effort can wipe off the depth of existence that lies beyond the
surface of the soil. The jungles silently spell it out . What is without is
within-richer, , more satiated, in control of nature.The roots of the trees
connect with boundless bonhomie the invisible bonds underground.Above the soil
they sway in gay abundance and play Chinese - whispers. It’s just we who keep moisturizing our lips with gloss
and glycerine. We can never be familiar with the dastoor of the jungles. Suna
jhai jungalon ka bhi koi dsatoor hota hai..resonates on YouTube over my
phone.
The
smell of lantana was thick and pungent. It wafted in through the sealed windows
of the train. The Ac was cooling well despite a hundred warm blooded bodies . I
peered over my finger as I rubbed it feeling the invisible sting. My hair was cropped
in a neat cut across my forehead, with two untidy pig-tails, and I the pink lace
frock that I got as a gift for my sixth birthday was a day old. “I’ll put some antiseptic
over it! Don’t fuss!” I heard Amma say affectiontely.
The
shadow of my memories stretched out like fresh laundry over the bush of lantana
before my eyes.
I
rubbed my index finger gently.
-Ghazala
1.30 pm. 18/6/17
