A Tale of Two Flowers: A Forest of Ribbons

It's an unusually warm July afternoon to be walking by the forest boundary, Having taken in my fill of the Glory Lily and listening to Ananda's impromptu lecture in ethnobotany, I stroll contentedly.  In my hand are two fruits of Careya Arborea, a handsome tree with flowers of ineffable beauty - for this is the fruiting season - in the faint hope that I will be able to sprout some seeds at Random Rubble.

We see Venkatamadappa grazing his two cows and stop to chat.  He is an intrepid man-of-the-forest, for his land abuts the boundary and today he is in a foul mood, complaining about the elephants and the damage they have caused him.  
"This fence is useless," he says, pointing to the robust pillar-cable-and-electric line that extends for kilometres, done by the Forest Department.  "Not true," Ananda counters, "this fence has kept the herds away.  It's only the three bulls who cross it now. That is a big relief."

Madappa, of course, is least convinced and continues to argue; when your cows are grazing, no better past time can present itself.  He wishes he says that these elephants would go away, once and for all.   

Then, Ananda points to a pile of elephant dung, now drying in the sun, and he has a smile on his face.  "Sir," he speaks to me, but I suspect he is talking to Madappa, "look at the saplings growing in the dung."

With a stick, he sifts through fibre and mango seeds in the large pile and then points to the tiny saplings and to the fruits of Careya in my hand. "Three Careya saplings in one pile of dung! Elephants will sprout these better than you do.  They are the real tree planters!" he says with flourish. 

Madappa looks skeptical, but Ananda is now listing the species of trees, shrubs and grasses that the elephants disperse in their dung and it is an impressive panoply.  Yet,as I listen, my mind trails away.  What if I tied a ribbon to each of these saplings to keep notes? I think.  What if I tied a ribbon to every tree an elephant planted?  

Under the afternoon sun, I am in a world of my own for a minute: in my mind's eye, I can see a scrub-and-deciduous forest, with a ribbon tied to each tree.........   

A tale of Two Flowers: The Glory Lily and a One-Eyed Elephant

Nellamar Agraharam
circa: July 23rd, 2022

The monsoon begets its colour - greys, and green dominate the sky and the farm earth - but, in the forest, the Gloriosa Superba - or Glory Lilly, in English - is in bloom. 

There is no sight more beautiful or a flower more delicate than this, a work of subtle art, tapestry and weave.  In a dense foliage of green, rendered lush by rain, the red-and-yellow stands in fetching contrast.
 

In a month or two, the flowers will wither away and the creeper will assume its unostentatious air, but for now, it is a show to watch.  The scarcity of its beauty makes it special.  Special enough to be on a postage stamp in an era when two rupees fetched you a day's meal. 

Pause for a moment to consider why the normal rules that mark out a flower are overturned here, with the stamens outside (unlike, say, Intel) and at a rakish angle to catch the ventral side of butterflies who are the pollinators-in-chief.  

 

In pollination terms, - and Bob Dylan will have strong views on this -  the answer, my friend, isn't blowing in the wind. 

 

Mottai Waal - the one-eyed gentle elephant, was here too, but he doesn't quite have an eye - his remaining one - for flowers.  

...and he left behind (pun intended), in this pile, a few seeds of Careya Arborea after chomping on its fruit (samples added to picture)., that are now sprouting away  Careya is another magically beautiful flower, and rare.  We need more like him

Bulls, Bikes and Baigan Barfi

Today is the World Day for Bulls.  
Just bulls. Not the stuff they produce from, you know, the er...other end of the other side. 
On this lovely day, filled with the most delightful puns (such as "today's news bull-etin featured Fidel Castration" and "Now Cowfirmed: Bulls love chocolate moos"), here is a piece that I had written some years ago about one bull that made its mark (actually, it nearly did). 
Read on..

Recently, I was at a farm with a group of friends, one of whom  came on his BMW bike.  Now, if you haven’t seen these, they were originally armoured tanks, which have been sliced longitudinally, with great big boxes on either side of the rear wheel to accommodate a giraffe and his mother-in-law’s opinions.  

As we were at the gate, preparing to return – we in a car, with Mr. Big Muscle Wonder on BMW in front- a young bull that had been grazing nearby turned up and stood right in front.  He (the bull) had an odd gleam in his eye and stared unblinkingly at the BMW with some disdain, looking askance.  

Now, there are only two reasons for a bull to stare at a BMW unblinkingly and look askance.
a) He has a problem with Germany’s trade surplus; or
b) He doesn’t like the bike.
The prudent course of action (recommended in the book Bees, Birds and Bulls-that-stare) is to not discuss the trade deficit with him but to retreat slowly keeping your eye on the opponent and with your stance ready (head behind the gloves, chin slightly down, eyes over the gloves).

   Well, Big Muscle did none of these.  He tried to shoo Bull away by saying (what else) ‘Shoo’.  When Bull showed no remorse, he tried again, in a louder tone and sounded the horn (the only instrument that is present in both the players concerned).  Bull showed surprise and took four steps back, but what Big Muscle saw as retreat was merely Bull marking his run-up.

The BMW took off down the dirt track followed closely by the following forms of transport:
• The Bull

It was evident that Bull’s AI has been programmed with the code ‘Stay six inches from BMW bikes’ and he raced behind a terrified Big Muscle, who now tested the bike more than its engineers had ever imagined (unless a BMW engineer once asked, ‘Gosh, is this bike safe from bulls?’).  

We took off too, our driver planning to intercept the possible liaison of Bull and BMW and for the next two minutes we followed the race closely, the BMW winning, but the Bull just behind (Hertz: We Try Harder).  Even as Big Muscle increased the speed to Mach 1, his rear view mirror (Caution: Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear) showed the following scenery:
• The Bull

When they reached the first bend – the real F1 test – the Big Muscle (+ giraffe + mother-in-law’s opinions) took a sharp turn to the left, while Big B took the Euclidean route – Geometry is always where bulls score an A – and shot off straight, changing his direction only a second later on realising that there were shrubs in front, grasses in front, even maybe the odd cow in front, but no BMW. 

At the next curve, he met Big Muscle (but not cordially) and nearly made a dent in the Giraffe Box, to repair which Big Muscle would have to take a housing loan (a bull costs only 30k, even an overfed, angry one.  Big Muscle would have gladly bought a hundred cows to placate this fellow, and still saved money to buy a 1 BHK).  But he, the Bull, missed this opportunity to make his mark (no, not the Deutsche Mark, we are not obsessed with world trade) and then lost steam, merely trotting beside our car in deep regret.  

A kilometre later, a sweating Big Muscle was waiting for us, examining his bellowed bike (an utterly despicable pun, this).  “Shit,” was all he could say.  

On reflection, he did seem lighter.

...and in the forest is a tea stall.....

 If you drive through the little town of Kutta in  South Coorg and cross the border into Kerala, the lovely wildlife sanctuary of Wayanad awaits you, with its easy winding roads and sweet smells of summer or the light drums of the early monsoon rain on your windshield.  The air is light and carries anticipation…a forest always does…..  This is a land of tribes and rich ecological ancestry, about all of which I am only just beginning to learn.  But, today, that can wait.

A few kilometres down the road and you turn up at a point where a right would lead you to the fetching village of Tirunelli in the southern fold of the Brahmagiris, its ancient temple standing on top of a small hill.  But, for a while, that can wait too.

At that fork in the road, park your car and head across to the tiny tea stall – the only shop  of any kind there, in the middle of deciduous forest – and find a seat which, if you have timed it all poorly and are there on a weekend, is about as easy as melting rock.  There is a large vessel on the firewood stove and the smoky fragrance mingles with a rich flavour of tea, as regular glasses of it - black tea or kattan chaya – fly off the aluminium tray.  But, for a moment, just a moment, that can wait too. 

You are here  for something else: this little tea shop is in a league of its own, for it is the home of the finest Unni appam on the planet (about this assertion, be warned that no prisoners will be taken, in the event of disagreement). 

The Unni appam is somewhat like a large odd-looking dark chocolate mushroom without the stem (which is, admittedly, a useless description and about as helpful as online remedies for toothache). Soft and crunchy on the outside, the inside has banana, jaggery, ghee and a few sprinklings of coconut-oil flavoured Heaven.  For any further details, check with Google chacha, of course, but to know why this little tea shop is the finest in the Honours List, order a couple of them, with kattan chaya, which is an excellent accompaniment (these two are ‘sympatric’ is what these insane wildlifers will tell you).  Each Unni appam costs – hold your wallet and breath – a ridiculously modest six rupees.

You are served in an instant, and will now spend the next quarter of an hour in a delightful silence (money-back guarantee.  Even the discerning Mallus are silenced, which is saying much), punctuated with rhythmic munching and the occasional “hmmm…hmmmm” of contentment.  And, when you are done with this, take your wallet out carefully and put it into another pocket, because you will order two more now.  Trust me, these things matter.

Some years ago, while in a Kerala bus, I told the conductor “Unni appam stop” with trepidation, for these are formidable adversaries of humanity.  He stared at me and said, “Forty rupees” and his smile line moved by a fraction of a millimetre. The bus, driven by an uncertified maniac, screeched to a halt in front of the stall and, by the time I got down with my bag, the conductor had hopped down, bought four Unni appams and re-boarded at the front to share them with the maniac.  

You never cross a temple without stopping, it is said.