A Random Ramble about July (at Random Rubble)

Well, it has been an unusual July at Random Rubble.  For a change, we had more mangoes than I could eat in a single session of dedicated focus - the fibrous wild mango with which we can cook up a delicious sweet-ish curry that goes with boiled Wayanadan thondi rice (and a beans thoran.  And some dried chilly marinated in curds (mor mollaga).  And avial.  And desert.  I need to stop fantasising.  And drooling....).  

We had some badami mangoes too, some of which had an inhabitant that loved the fruit as much as we do, but, on the whole, I am delighted (and stuffed, which makes being delighted easy). No complaint should be registered hence.  

Yet, complain I will, not about the mango trees that did their job and deserve a rating of Meets Expectations in the annual Perf Review, but about the monkeys that have raided Random Rubble in July, lots of them.  

They are bloody destructive and indisciplined, so why are they called a troop? About the only thing I got in turn was the thrill of chasing them, shouting obscenities in Simianese and growling like my lab Oscar when he sees a cat (and I am about as incompetent as he is, all sound and fury signifying jackbull). 

And, a couple of jumbos dropped in uninvited as well, one of which seems to be a sub-adult, judging from his footprint unless he's an adult on stilts Which would, of course, be an interesting sight.  

Looks like he's in the internship phase of life, so we may see more of him (or, rather, of his footprint).  His mentor - and my tor-mentor - is Mottai waal, and I am now thinking of him as the pachyderm equivalent of Uncle Freddie in Wodehouse's stories, so their evenings are likely to be pleasant and instructive (much to the Junior's horror). 

The visitor (or denizen) that is both entirely harmless and a charmer is this utterly beautiful, innocuous black pond turtle; he was rightly indignant at having to investigate the excited human who seemed intent on fussing around him. By the way, that hard upper shell is called a carapace and I wonder: how can any word ending with 'pace' have anything to do with tortoises and turtles?  English is a phunny language.   

The winds were unusually and strangely vibrant and strong for much of the month, even yesterday, and they drove the clouds away with gusto (pun, did you notice?), so we had a dry, listless month. A few bravehearts - intrepid, optimistic souls, bless them - have tilled their lands and are ready for the monsoon break.  Yet, the evenings were - and are - silent, the tractors have little to do and the men are not at watch in makeshift machans above their ragi fields, guarding them against wild boar and elephants.  

I worry about the future of ragi in our parts, for it is a crop making the slow, dignified exit of a patriarch, much loved and battle-hardened, yet slow and past its prime.  If animals and the weather choose to be a farmer's adversaries, it's a tough skirmish ahead and the farmer may understandably choose otherwise.  I empathise, but I worry, for it is a culturally vital crop that maintains the soil and provides the straw for native cattle. If wishes were horses.....

The silence of the night, strong winds and a rather ghostly moon; if that sounds creepy to you, it is anything but.  In a word, it is enchanting.   

Which, of course, reminds me of a delectable poem by Ogden nash, the first part of which goes like this....

Just imagine yourself seated on a shadowy terrace,

And beside you is a girl who stirs you more strangely than an heiress,

It is a summer evening at its most superb,

And the moonlight reminds you that To Love is an active verb.

And your hand clasps hers, which rests there without shrinking,

And after a silence fraught with romance you ask her what she is thinking,

And she starts and returns from the moon-washed distances to the shadowy veranda,

And says, Oh I was wondering how many bamboo shoots a day it takes to feed a baby Giant Panda.

...........

Read the rest of it at https://exceptindreams.livejournal.com/605350.html.  It is hilarious. 

And it is now time to show off, ladies and gentlemen.  Random Rubble has done its share of preparing for rain, with water harvesting structures - a trench, a nice little pond and refurbishment of an existing channel for the rainwater to flow through stones and bones.  Only stones, actually.  If you are still reading the blog, do stand up and applaud and send me a video as proof (with your passport or aadhar number), thank you. 

The flowers of monsoon this year are ones I haven't quite noticed before.  

The gorgeous pink florets of Abrus precatorius (gurgunji or kunhi kuru).... 

The elegant white flowers of drumstick.  The fruits of this tree are awful and as brittle as a Maharashtra coalition, but look for the positive, will you? (no, not in the coalition, in the drumstick...)

These exquisite, tiny flowers are of a creeper, as yet unidentified.  

Along the forest boundary the other day, I looked for glory lily or Gloriosa superba and found none; the invasion by lantana has made its otherwise-ephemeral life difficult, but it is surely there.  

Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.  The first (and only) rule of nature I have ever understood. 

So, we enter August with the expectation of a child waiting for her walnut-brownie chocolate double-scoop special (make that child an adult and you have me).  I have learnt patience and acceptance from these men and women I see on my walk, denizens who will chat with me and smile despite, at times, crippling adversity.  Belief in Destiny and God helps and my covert indifference to both means that I will never be one of them.  Perhaps I like to be worried about things, it's a nice feeling.   

Every frog, in other words, has its day.  Now where have I heard that before?