The grated coconut and the tamarind chutney,
The maroon gulab jamun and the golden barfi.
The people are no less colourful, with women’s sarees
Matching their men-folk’s kurtas and pagdis.
Mirrors, sequins, appliqué
and zari,
Batik, tie-and-dye, painting, embroidery.
The house fronts are decorated with rangoli,
Lines and curves in colourful symmetry.
The grey smoke of the incense is rising in the air. The Buddhist monks in dark saffron are advising the novices in red robes. Today the fig tree, full of purple fruits, will be harvested. It is the Bodhi tree, under which Siddhartha Gautama attained enlightenment.
Boys pluck the fruits with poles and hooks. Some of the fruits fall down and split open. Their skin is deep purple, and inside they are baby pink. As purple as grapes. As pink as ripe guavas. The head monk is lighting a thick incense stick, brown as the sap and the herbs it is made of. Its ashes are grey as all ashes are supposed to be, as is the hair of a wise elder. In the evening, the sky is grey. The rivers and seas reflecting its mood, are pensive grey. But in the Western horizon, the sunset is a riot of pinks, oranges and gold. This is the palette used by God to paint the flowers. Roses and raat-ki-ranis (night jasmines), sunflowers and gulmohars (flame of the forest) and all the beauties that add colour to our lives.
As the day fades, the country looks saffron-brown like the mud
Jama Masjid
Bhavan's Journal,May 15, 2022∎ 59
