Birds have a strange little habit. They are awed by their own reflection. This feathery fluff ball who comes to my verandah does the same. He is so taken by his reflection, he seems to be almost in love with it. Perhaps he thinks it is another bird, but then he never does try to break it out of its glass home. There is no pecking, no clawing. He just sits and twitters at it all afternoon. Which makes me wonder, why indeed does he sit and talk to himself. And why do we not. Take time to talk to yourself, fluff ball here recommends it, perhaps you’ll love what you find too.

The hour right after sunset, and just before night creeps is a timeless hour. Just at that interval, even as everything moves, a strange sense of a sudden cessation overcomes the world. The cars maybe speeding along the highway, but without purpose. People may move on the sidewalks, but without hurry. It is an hour that is neither this, nor that. It exists not because it divides night from day, but as if to stop the mindless drive and drone of mundane life for a brief moment. Here we can stop and breathe. Inhale… Exhale… The scent of withering day and blooming night lingers in the air.

But for me this feeling would be the feeling of being underwater. This is quite ironical for I have never learnt how to swim. But every time I read I feel the gentle flow of words bubbling and filling the space around me. It seeps slowly from the corners and occupies every nook and cranny of my mind. Then I start holding my breath. And till I re-emerge from the book, I am a water baby.

Which brings me to the book Water babies. Our school library had a strange custom of lending random books to students. There is no choice involved. You take home the book that appears on top when your turn comes. It always reminded me of wands choosing the wizard in the Harry Potter books. The books chose us. And one day Water babies chose me.

I have never re-read the book. And I have but the vaguest remembrance of its contents. But I remember distinctly reading a paragraph. It described the protagonist falling into a lake feeling the water surrounding him, fearing that he would be drowned but suddenly realising that he could breathe under water. And I recognized that feeling because it described how I felt when I read. It is always a fear as to what I am getting into, where the words would lead me, where they would take me. Then amidst the breathless quest, I would realise that the breathlessness under the ocean of words is not so bad. I can breath here, albeit in words and musings of a thinner more woody air. The scent is not of the earthen air , but of vannilin and tree bark. The very breathlessness of this world illuminates the experience of reading. A waterworld of letters.

In the Grand Design of things, there is always the question of what matters the most. Some say nothing matters, some say everything matters. But what exactly does matter. Its a grand philosophical question that has confused and befuddled minds far rich. And then why do we continue to ponder it? If the geniuses and the intelligent masters could not understand them, why do we still hope that a random shower thought we had could be the answer to the universal question of existence. Perhaps because what matters is not what matters, perhaps what matters is that we think about matters. This sounds too philosophical? Okay, what matters is that we have random thoughts in the shower or in a boring lecture classroom that somehow we may have thought up an answer to the question of existence. And yes someone may have said this before, but that doesn’t matter does it?!

It was only about five or ten years ago that all the yellow sodium streetlamps in my city were replaced with the bright white lights. The sodium lamps had a charm that these new ones could not imitate. They may not be the most efficient or even environment friendly but they had an old world charm. They were like friendly fireplaces in each corner of the street. They would shine dimly, almost sleepily in the lazy fog of the evening. The cold winds seeming to flicker them off like candle flame. But they would hold on to their light, like a child to its toy. Twilight would grow and the shadows would lengthen. Tiny moths would fly out from their unseen homes and gather around the lamps in uncontained glee. And when the day had dimmed enough for it to be dark, the sodium lamps would shine bright enough for me to walk home from the playground.

This little critter here seems to have quite a strong aversion to being photographed. Quite a few times have I reached for the camera, switched it on and pointed it up, only to find an empty frame. And that happened too many times for it to be a coincidence. We call this feathered little thing, native to the tropics to my knowledge, a Bulbul. Now, this bird here and it’s mate are always in a hurry. They don’t seem to do much, nor do they seem to have a lot of construction activities in the nest building sector going on. But for whatever reason, they are terribly busy. Very often, I have seen them sitting prettily on an overhead line and swinging as if it were the most important thing in the world. It seems having fun is a very important thing to do. And perhaps it is. The too-busy-to-be-photographed birds are busy having fun. What a wonderful thing to be occupied doing.

It never snows here in the Tropical country where I live. And even though I have seen snow and have been to countries where it does snow, it has always fascinated me. It is a strange hope that I have held since childhood that one day I would see snow drifting down from a grey sky above my hometown. I know it will never snow here, I know the science. And yet despite it all, I catch myself hoping unawares that one day there will fall in soft lines, a small layer of snow. And there it would be, on the gravely earth in front of my house. And that the mango tree in my yard would softly shake the clinging snowflakes off of its leaves. And that the small southern full moon in the sky would stand clear against the black crystal of the cold dark sky. And that one winter it would snow in soft sheets in my tropical home.

The heat of the day harvests grains of existence from me. I am made aware of the intense transience of memory. So fragile is our being. Even a tiny ray of sunlight takes away from us a hint of what we are. It leaves us questioning what it has taken away. Was it the memory of a day many dawns ago. Was it the chill of the twilight we had so carefully preserved. Or was it instead that very carefully cloistered memory we swore not to lose. There, it is has already peeled away from our skin. It clings precipitously. It floats with the wind. It is airborne. See how it floats away. Watch it fly , let it roam, let it go, it belongs to the winds now.