Friday, April 23, 2010

Further Thoughts on a Theme


Gardens are not just for flowers. They teem with ‘wildlife’ and my return to gardens of the past brought with it memories of other visitors, all of whom gave us pleasure – some by coming and others by going!

There were ladybugs, those red and black glossy beetles which are supposed to bring good luck in their wake. The preying (praying?) mantis which was ever so hard to spot. The chirpily happy crickets, unforgettably portrayed in ‘Grasshopper Green’ lisped by kindergartens and as the keeper of Pinocchio’s conscience (by Jiminy!). Butterflies of every size and hue, fluttering between petals and filling the air with colour. Bees buzzing away stickily while pollinating the next season’s crop. And who can forget the birds? There were tits, jays, mynahs, hoopoes (surely, there is humour in God’s creation) all displaying varying talent in conversation, song and dance. There was the owl who lived in the hollow of a tree and was probably the reason we saw no rats. The occasional peacock practicing his dance, feathers unfurled. The tree lizards, sleepy and lethargic, one eye open and the other closed. Every morning brought a glad reunion with the ‘denizens’ of this little world.

And so, too, the nights. Out came the glow-worms and fireflies. The frogs and toads, big and warty. They loved our verandah because the light attracted a multitude of insects and a veritable feast. Twilight resounded with call and answer and the cadence soon became a familiar pattern of evensong.

Yes, there were the not so nice visitors too. The creepy crawlies: centipedes, millipedes (locally termed blanket boochies), scorpions, snakes. All poisonous and all to be studiously avoided. They kept their distance and we kept ours, because here was space enough for each to have its own.

This was all in the time before digital cameras or even colour photography, and the ‘pictures’ are all in the mind, in riotous recall. Which is why I number among my best friends the writings of Gerald Durrell, who captures this particular world so invitingly and allows me to return, times without number, whenever I turn the printed page.

Today, a personal garden is a luxury granted to so very few. Public gardens, too, are a rarity. So, I look out eagerly for every patch of green at traffic junctions and apartment frontage. And I chat fondly with the pot on my window sill.

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