Every day, my mother watches YouTube videos about traditional medicine, nutrition, and staying fit. Almost every day, she discovers something new. Sometimes it is a new ingredient. Sometimes it is a new way to prepare something we have eaten all our lives. And sometimes, it is an instruction that finds its way straight into my kitchen. Recently, it was moringa. We had to mix moringa into the flour before kneading. Other times, it was jowar. The form might change, but the message stayed the same: we could always add something more to our food to make it healthier. She then wonders why her grandparents and parents never told them about the nutritional value of what they ate. Perhaps they did not know these things in the language we use today. Or perhaps they understood food differently. Today, YouTube has become her teacher. It tells her what to eat, what to avoid, what to add to our flour, and what our bodies might be missing. Every new video seems to reveal another secret to good healt...
The August rain had created a thrill, and early morning visits to our terrace garden had become very ritualistic. Often, we would sweep the terrace with a mop while it drizzled to remove the grime the pots created.
A pair of yellow-beaked common mynas fluttered their wings on the iron rails supporting the solar panels, basking in the shade they provided during a heavy rain. I wondered if they too felt the desire for a cup of coffee and pakoras, but I had nothing to offer. They were gone before I could think of their invincible spirit to soar in all weather.
The next day too, it rained heavily; the solitary visitor that took shelter today was a drenched, sick-looking flutterer that hid underneath the outdoor unit of the air conditioner. My husband moved it twice to protect it. Yet it had no energy left to move, and within minutes it passed away, leaving us behind to dispose of its corpse.
'One for sorrow, two for joy' crept into my mind. This was what we had always done with a flying kiss when we saw common mynas as school-going teenagers. When we missed our homework and felt scared to face the teacher, two for joy was indeed an omen we could swear by. Yet seeing the mate the next day, looking for its partner, brought sorrow as it flew away, never to return.
Though we welcome our migratory guests in the city every year and celebrate the 'Bird Festival' in their honor. These feathered guests engage us with their cool demeanor and keep us spellbound with their activities. Their lesser-known fraternities that have chirped in our gardens and woken us up every morning with their flutter are seemingly becoming extinct. Perhaps we may have tripped the delicate balance of interdependency: closed all our ventilators and planted trees that provide shade but do not attract birds.
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