Dialogue with nature

Image 1: Urban spaces as testimonies of co-existence with giloy, monkeys, and kites in the backdrop of the majestic Ghazipur landfill (Credits: Author)

At dusk, I hit my study under the open sky with a science text in hand

Distracted, I look at the distant tree crown,

At the hazy garbage mountain, the busy highway,

The towering high-rise, and the plume from the chimneys afar

I dream of a world that ponders

Ponder how the clouds form?

Why is it so different every day?

How does the plant drink?

Why does it never move?

How does the tree grow? 

Why is it never old?

Just when mother catches me off guard, arriving to water our terrace greens

Enough of daydreaming, she chides,

I chuckle and return to the text, 

To symbiotic relation between rhizobium and the legume plant,

To litmus tests and diagram of the digestive system

In my quiet childhood in Delhi, nature was both a companion and a solace. Ashoka trees by the society wall, and the perched pigeons, were my students in a classroom, or my audience for a victory speech as I leaned from my balcony.

I would often complain to my father whenever the gardener decided to prune my trees to near baldness. “The ground-floor aunty must have complained that she does not get the sun during winters”, he would console me. 

Here, Matthew's uncle is the uncrowned but the true gardener of the society. Every morning when he strolls around with the cats circling him, he would graft hibiscus and curry stems. He would water them, cut out any infections, and scold the society gardener for his bad job. The green island in his front yard now stands proof of his unrelenting efforts.

Image 2: The Ashoka trees that are never allowed to grow (Credits: Author)

Another connection with nature was the weekly trip to visit my aunt in South Delhi. As the car darts on the Barapullah flyover, I would roll down the window to gulp in the cool air and keep wishing if trees could cover the footpaths, if it were green all over, and no pollution whatsoever. Growing up, these were some of my encounters with nature in the city.

The other being my month-long summer vacation in a bustling town in southern Kerala—my maternal grandmother’s place. For the love of plants, she raised drumsticks, curry leaves, betel leaves, hibiscus, and varieties of roses and jasmine inside milk packets and broken buckets, all in her congested backyard garden.

I would join her in the evenings with my ‘bru Kappi’, pulling aside the weeds, inspecting the plants, and tying ropes to support the creepers. “The huge rat has uprooted the yam I planted last week”, she would bemoan. We would return, scratching our arms and legs, bitten by iridescent mosquitoes, along with a winnowing basket filled with some chilli, beans, a couple of bitter gourds, and some drumsticks. “We can make pavaikai (Bitter gourd) sambhar tomorrow”, she would say, stealing a look at my fawning face. 

Image 3: The now-abandoned backyard garden (Credits: Author)

Until now, I have never seen a village or a forest. I was introduced to the ‘pristine’ nature through cinema and specifically Tamizh music—of Ilayaraja, Vairamuthu and A R Rahman, songs that draw parallels between women and rivers, and personify birds as messengers of love picturized in the backdrop of distant snow peaks, woodlands, or gushing waters. 

I also reminiscent my three-day long train journeys to Kerala when I first started noticing nature. Green pasture as far as the eyes go. Sunrising and setting in hillocks and treetops. This image is of course disrupted when the train crosses industrial corridors and sub-urban areas. But I have always cherished running around the bunds and fields, along canals and occasional rivers. It's surreal that I eventually set out to research the rural economy and ecosystems. 

Recounting an encounter in one of my first rural field visits in the Kangra valley, I was joined by a bunch of working women at the bus stand. One of them asked me, “I haven't seen you around, what are you doing here?”. I answered nervously, “I am from Delhi and came here to research in the village as part of the ‘sanstha’”. She looked at her peers and said disapprovingly, “Delhi! Why are you lying? You can refuse to answer instead. Why will someone come this far to research?” The timely arrival of the bus saved me the moment of awkwardness. I ignored and continued to view the green slopes, the faraway snow mountains and the frightened birds flying as the bus revved along the gentle hills until my stop arrived. A far off city and a remote village seek each other in subtle rebellion. 

When aspirations evolve under rapid urbanization, nature is also transformed often without consent. As a researcher, beyond data points and analysis, when I sniff the fumes every morning in Delhi traffic, I desperately desire nature, only to return to my Ashoka trees for respite—a quiet corner in the city that engenders both humans and non-humans, subsisting and supporting each other.