The Gift of th Magi and No Milk for the Christmas

Hi dears...hope you are enjoying the rest of the cake 🎂. The other day, I took Pearl S. Buck seriously and wanted to surprise my mom by milking the cow before she gets up. As I showed up in the dark, our cow was a bit surprised to see me in a different role. She looked very cool and unusually willing to get along anyway. But the udder felt shrunken and nothing came out to my disappointment. I soon realized that my mom had forgotten to tether the calf a bit away from its mother in the evening. And it so happens once in a blue moon.

 To keep a short story short, obviously, it was a  great Christmas for the calf however. And he deserves it for letting us have a nice coffee the year round. In a short while before it is too late, a few of my neighbors turned up with little pots wondering why the supply was late. Mom pointed at the calf and I feigned knowing nothing. The cow and calf looked  indescribably happier as the day warmed up with sun rays. That Christmas was theirs for sure. In fact, all Christmases gone and yet to come, because I guess Jesus was born in one of their ancestor's home. Happy Christmas.

After the Harvest, Wait Until Then

“After Harvest” My friend Lourens Erasmus remembers one of the catch phrases of his childhood in a farm back in South Africa. For every reasonable demand he would occasionally make, his parents used to have just one answer “after the harvest”. If the crop was bumper, they would usually be able to fulfill his requests. If not, he knew somehow, though he was just a boy, it is time to remain silent as things are not going well – financially or otherwise.

This shot captures an “after the harvest” evening of Al Majamma village in Aseer province of Saudi Arabia. If you move closer, you will be able to spot traditional houses, a watch tower called “kasaba” and green houses for growing tomato, mint, coriander, cucumber, squash, zucchini etc. A dried and narrow water canal runs between stone- walled open fields and a flock of sheep grazing in a dried, little dam valley. The open fields lie in waiting for the next batch of corn, wheat, sesame and barley. There are palatial modern houses and a masjid with minaret in the backdrop of cloud-shaded mountains and partly clear blue sky.      

       It is a village, rather caught between modernity and tradition. Willing to embrace modernity, yet afraid to drop its traditions. However, they painstakingly cherish their agrarian past despite the fact that keeping a farm in a desert countryside is not an easy job. After the harvest, they prepare the land and wait for the rain.

How long do the clouds need to brood over ploughed soil for letting its droplets of miracles down? They know pretty well that the soil cannot hatch a single seed on its own. It seems to take longer to strike a deal this time. Nimbus clouds float around and go by, seemingly ignorant to the wishes of the clots of ploughed soil underneath. Let alone pausing for a drizzle.

When the gap between the harvest and first rain should grow longer than usual, people assemble in an open space or mosque for a ritualistic prayer for rain. Since Saudis are followers of a monotheistic religion, they don’t have a separate god for fertility or rain and, so far, their prayers have never been unanswered. 

Walking gives me some time for myself

Proudly owned a pair of sneakers thinking that it would comfortably fit 'jogging' into my daily routine. It is the first of its kind I have ever bought.  I use my old formal shoes that are no longer presentable for office instead. I justified it to myself as it would be better to keep my carbon footprint a little less. Being a believer in recycling and reusing, among other things, I often use the reverse side of papers to take notes and prepare to-do-lists. Those papers would otherwise have gone straight to trash bin.

This might have been my first purchase of, but not my first time to actually use, sneakers. I used them for the first time 12 years ago, when I was doing my master's degree on the Calicut University campus. Mohammed Rafeequ, fondly called as Rafi, from Laksha Deep, was kind enough to put me up in his room until got one of my own. I appropriated his sneakers, with his permission and blessing, of course. As a matter of coincidence, I had some downtime yesterday and watched Children of Heaven by Majid Majidi for the third time after many years. It made me feel like we are being guided by a higher power which, of course, eludes our comprehension.

      Having always been an early bird, I used to go for a walk early in the morning. This afforded me some quality time to myself and also energized me. I would start from the men's hostel, where I was living at the time, and continue via Pareeksha Bhavan, botanical garden, and the amphitheater to the stadium near the ladies' hostel, and then return to the men's hostel via the Vellunnial temple premises. I encountered some guys, mostly during the week or two before sports days, clearly going way beyond doing a few rounds of jogging in the stadium ground. I never was quite that enthusiastic.

The hallowed halls of learning were shrouded in fog and looked eerie in the distance. Some pious girls from the ladies' hostel were usually making their way to the temple, drying their wet hair locks in the first rays of the sun as they did so. I observed that the number of templegoers always increased noticeably during the examination period. Sometimes I cut short my amble when I sighted packs of stray dogs, which our campus never failed to offer. (I had been afraid of dogs since my childhood.)

 Oh my pair of foot screams of pain. It has got blisters. I had to tie the lace a bit more tightly to keep big footed Rafi's large size sneakers from slipping off my foot. The story continues, but I will take my leave of you here. Let me continue on my memory treadmill barefoot - unblistered this time - and solo. Thank you for the pleasure of your company.