It's a new year and A BRAND NEW Sunday morning

Well, it's February already...after many aborted attempts at early morning walks ( I have all of January to vouch for !)... I am waiting for my swimming pool to be restored to its pristine blue purity. I keep dropping in to check it's progress after a quick meal at Murrugan Eats every other day- both a hop skip jump from work. Murrugan belongs to a friends dad- spic and span with a tree growing out of its front yard- I love it.By 15 th of this month the pool will be functional.

The few mornings I have managed to be up - been pure pleasure, letting the crisp winter air taking these little nips at my cheeks and my rather raw nose!
One such Sunday ( I missed my date with Samta and her kids from the institute to climb Simhwa Garh- Ma and I needed to spend some quiet time without the music shows on TV to distract us!) But since I was up I maximized my morning hours walking all the way to the water purification tank . Passed two feisty kakus in fussy scarves and the odd ajoba out-walking me by the minute, and then just as I turned to find the road end in an impassive wall- I saw a peacock! In all its male male glory it carelessly cut across my path and made my day. I heard a faraway pea hen- plaintive and unpretty!

Soon after I caught my breath under this intriguing twisty leaved tree- two herons bumming a ride on the back of two water buffalos who had, no doubt wandered far from their trail. On my way down past the Necklace area I heard two horn-bills in the misty rising sun - they all came in pairs, before I caught their silhouettes and then a lone kingfisher-comical and curious- on the wire running across the trim landscape of the park-still misty with dew. Reminds me every time of Hopkins...Gerard Manley...As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/as-kingfishers-catch-fire/

7 by then. But still heavenly...

Busy babblers ,the odd raven -passe by then. At the foot of Nyati Heritage I contemplated the water tank besides 'Sameera' Rao's mysterious bungalow to stop and rest a while. It overlooked his overgrown yard. Have thought so many times to simply go in and ring the bell! Hello, Mr. Rao! I'm a curious neighbour- one among many such! Maybe 'Sameera' was a beloved daughter or a wife- who no longer looked after the derelict property now over-run by the servants and their kith and kin . I saw the smoke rising from their stove every other day on my way back from work. Very Wuthering Height-ish.

Made me wonder - will number 8 be like this someday? Run by servants?
" A picture of a sorrow/ A face without a heart"? Will the smell of pungent garlic and spices- a no-no during Didabhai's days -rise from Munshi's makeshift clay ovens to welcome me next time? The staircases darkening in the corners? The French windows jammed and cloudy? And the plants all yellow -the water stagnant ? The brass dull -though the redwood polish on Habu's bed would still glow! I know , somehow. The bathroom mirrors might rust and the basins grow these fine veined cracklines. But the champa tree would still be unwaveringly loyal and throw up its flowers in spring and house the n th generation of crows in the crook of its leafy arms!

Hmmm..some hope. Won't let me be melancholic today...

Sujit clarified that Sameera was the name of the bungalow and a hermit-like Rao it's owner. I had always imagined walking in looking for a white haired woman recluse- tending to her plants- and then she'd ask me to call her 'Sameera' in a soft, genteel voice over herbal tea! How wrong I was! The mystery remains- intact!

I walked myself up five floors- home- Ma was still sleeping, Baba only just stirring. Made myself a cuppa and had my fill of my fav non-diet khakdas!Took my maroon sketch book still untouched nevermind the hazaar promises and a black leather bound journal and found myself right back on the water tank. Gurgling rhythmically beneath me- reminded me so much of Kailash Singh at Number 8 ,telling me and Aneesh stories from Ramayana, distracting us from looking at the gnarled gate every now and then- drawing out a battlefield or a glorious description of Garuda to barricade our wandering little minds which kept going..ma, ma , ma , ma ma... ma kokhon ashbey Koilash?

I wrote an hour and a half straight. A long silent car stopped besides. A dark middle aged lady clad in a careless expensive way got down . What was I sketching? Smiling at strangers are easy. No, I'm writing really. Haven't started with my drawings yet.It seemed she is an artist too. Come home! It is that easy. And so I a neighbour.

Geetha, in her early fifties , she simply sherself a housewife- she sa twelve year old son who is an almost pro drummer and a very serious Bharatnatyam student on the brink of his arengetam! A special mom with a special child- we about so many things from schooling, early childhood care , home-learning- the works. She seriously pursues Carnatic music, a Japanese graduate from the School of Languages, JNU and a consistent oil painter for 15 years. She has no need nor wish to venture out to earn money- she feels very satisfied at bringing up a son well and seriously nurturing her innumerable talents.Of course, her husband seems quite supportive- a mysterious presence - who is significantly absent from our chat over the tea. She offers me lunch. I need to take a bath. Go home. Catch up on my quiet time.We promise to catch up later.

That Geetha subscribed to our newspaper is a pleasant pleasant surprise.To see the familiar masthead , the sketches and scribbles- the familiar names from work is such a surprise.However small, we made a difference- our fledgling, soon-to-take -off baby paper !

HaveI grown some roots again? Possibly.