"me no big chief …

“Hi
I am ‘Ruff’.

I go
bloglogging with little indian.

I am scruffy,
but do I look bothered”?

My blogging companion, turns one today.
We are both equally scruffy, but we don’t mind.

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If it is springtime
or is early summer, and
you are near the southeast coast of Britain
maybe in a decidous wood, bushes and thickets,
or just a clump of tree, with densely tangled undergrowth

in the evening
leading on to dusk
when most birds have gone to roost
and you hear a bird singing in liquid phrases
interrupted with a few ‘choc choc choc’ notes,
unlike the song of any other bird music heard in this country,
that sounds like this …

Then you have heard the song of this bird.

Lucinia megarhynchos

a brownish bird
with dull buffy underparts.
at 6 inches just larger than a robin,
in Britain very shy and remain in deep cover
only if you are very very lucky you may catch a glimpse.

They arrive in Britain in late April
they sing till late May or early June
sometimes thoughout the day and well into the night.
They sing till their babies hatch, and then they take to teaching them to call.

Their songs
consists of phrases
and often repetitions of phrases,
exquisite in variety and tune, especially the deep, low sustained notes.

Come September, they are gone
back to mediterrainian Europe, North Africa and further eastward.

A bird known to many a poet
a bird in many legends and tales,
the Nightingale.

So if anyone would like to hear
the singing of one of natures virtuoso
you may not find them in “Berkeley Square”
find a bird reserve or nature reserve in the SouthEast.

If you have the opportunity, do it now,
who knows, one day they too may be gone, forever.

birdsbird songsnightingaleenvironmentRSPB

September 1985.
We were on Doon Express,
returning to Calcutta from Haridwar.

A climbing expedition gone wrong.

Soon after reaching the peak,
our team leader had fallen and died.
The expedition had to be prolonged by a fortnight,
to retrieve him and carrying him back to the first town
with a police outpost to notify the authorities
and then perform the last rites.

We were miles away from home,
in a remote corner of the Himalayas.
Cut off from civilisation, no one could send us any emergency support.

All our reserve money had been spent
we hardly had any money left to buy food.
There was minimal corporate support in those days
all such expeditions would be on a shoe string budget.

Sad, scared, demoralised and a hungry lot,
we boarded the train late in the evening for
a 36 hour cross country trip back to an uncertain reception.

Bad news travel fast,
and he was an experienced climber, very well known.
Fellow passengers knew of the accident and left us alone.
An elderly man returning from a pilgrimage had his berth next to ours.

The following day on the train,
we just about managed enough change
to buy some tea to go round a couple of times.
We woke up dizzy with hunger on the second morning.
It was another three to four hours to our destination, if lucky.

The pilgrim gentleman with us,
with a little smile, held out a packet of Sitabhog,
something like a sweet pilau, a portion to share between the five of us.

At sometime in the early hours,
when we were still fast asleep,
the train had stopped at a station,
a place known for that delicacy a must
for all rail travelers to taste and savour.
That gentleman knew how hungry we were
and an extra single portion was all he could afford to buy.

That toothless little smile of an absolute stranger, will forever remain in my memory.

Indiatravelmemorieshumanitylife

How much control
do we really have over our lives?

Are we only just following
a fixed sequence of events
that is inevitable and unchangeable,
Or do we choose our own destiny
by choosing different paths throughout our life.

In years I have left behind, when
I felt my life was going nowhere,
this song was my constant companion, haunting my thoughts;
and even now, it jumps out at me unsuspected,
as if to say,
“Huh! do really think you have a choice”?

Continue reading ‘patterns – paul simon’

Some may believe that
I hate anything American,
its not true how can I,
when America gave us Bob Dylan.

Folk or rock,
I don’t mind what style of music he plays.
To me his music is just the pin cushion
in which he embeds his words.

What Good Am I – Bob Dylan

What good am I if I’m like all the rest,
If I just turned away, when I see how you’re dressed,
If I shut myself off so I can’t hear you cry,
What good am I?

What good am I if I know and don’t do,
If I see and don’t say, if I look right through you,
If I turn a deaf ear to the thunderin’ sky,
What good am I?

What good am I while you softly weep
And I hear in my head what you say in your sleep,
And I freeze in the moment like the rest who don’t try,
What good am I?

What good am I then to others and me
If I’ve had every chance and yet still fail to see
If my hands tied must I not wonder within
Who tied them and why and where must I have been

What good am I if I say foolish things
And I laugh in the face of what sorrow brings
And I just turn my back while you silently die,
What good am I?

From his album: Oh Mercy: Released September 1989

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