Old Loves

An odd assortment of English, kesudas and golden showers

Agatha Christie once said, ‘Nothing like boredom to make you write.’

It is true. As I write this, I am sitting in the library with my books open in front of me and I, for the life of me, cannot make myself study Hamlet and his sad tale. Like every normal teenager, I turned to surfing the net and suddenly remembered that I have a blog. Here I am, writing on said blog, hoping to make this an awesome entry.

English is a funny language. The plural of foot is feet and not foots and the plural of goose is geese and not gooses. All through school and until quite recently, I, like many others, had just accepted this funny quality of the English language and simply followed the rules. English is a wonky tongue, I told myself. But now, for one hour on most days, I get to understand English and the what’s and why’s of the language. Yes, English is a wonky language but now I get to have my mind blown by why it is so wonky. You know, it is really heart-warming to get to know all about a language I have used all my life. English is certainly not my mother tongue but it is wholesome how I have always used this wonderful language for all my artistic endeavours. When I was a kid, I wrote a poem about this strange-looking bird that built its nest outside our kitchen. Much after that poem, I wrote another one about my mom. Both of them were childish but I remember being happy with my work. Much later, I started writing a bit more seriously and then I realised that writing seriously is just boring and switched to such informal kinds of essays instead. Well, my point is that all of what I have ever created has been in English. To know about the nitty-gritties of the language that has been my constant companion is nothing short of charming and endearing. It is like being re-introduced to an old friend, this time in a more mature way. English is an old language and it is impressive how we have all made it our own. The Central Library, a place which has a majority of its content in English, seems to be the perfect place to think about such things and get lost in a whirlpool of thoughts.

Speaking of the library and the campus, I’d like to tell you about two flowers that grow here. I generally do not have much to say about flowers. I do not mind them so much. But recently, I find that nostalgia has enveloped me in an embrace.  

The kesudo flower is one that has a special place in my heart. A quick Google search told me that English for kesudo is Butea monospearma but I don’t think that is of any help. So, here’s what it looks like:

The kesudo was a flower that had an underlying presence in all the spring-related poems in my Gujarati textbooks. The kesudo is special, it is pretty and bright, and to me looks like the initial days of summer when the sun is not that ruthless. Kesudas stand for that mildly warm breeze that blows through your hair just at the onset of March. The kesudo is bright orange, dark enough to leave a lasting image in your mind’s eye. Kesudas, for me, herald the end of winter and the transition to the happy time that is summer!

Another flower that really gets me excited is Golden showers. How can one not be excited to see it! It’s bright and yellow, much like my kesudas. It is delicate but lively. It is also delicious: These flowers always remind me of Vishu and of April. Vishu, needless to say, is a special day when Ammuma makes a full, lip-smacking sadhya for the family. It is a good day, it is a happy day and the presence of these golden showers just makes the entire day special. Imagine looking at this absolute beauty, first thing in the morning! A lit diya, an odd assortment of vegetables and fruits, revered books and bundles of golden showers on top of all these- seeing all of these first thing that day is divine, to say the least. It is a special and comforting sight. To see these golden showers blooming and seeing them each time I walk out of the canteen reminds me of all the Vishus I can remember and takes me back home to our little puja room.

Well, clearly, nostalgia is powerful and I am thoroughly entangled in its boughs.

I recently wrote a poem asking the Muse to nudge me. I believe my little spell of boredom was her gift. And I suppose being bored is nice if I end up writing pretty flowers and wonky languages.