My friend, the Wind
The wind that blows into my balcony comes salt laden off the Arabian Sea. It is a cool shivery breeze on an early January morning, a chilly one on February evenings. Then it turns around and becomes a hot breath that sends the sweat trickling on muggy April afternoons. Just now, it is heavy with the promise of rain. In a few days, the wind will come howling in with needle sharp rain slanting sideways to drench my plants with salt water.
It brings a whiff of rotting vegetation on some days and the smell of rain on others. The smells of coffee, kebabs and cigarettes also waft my way at different times of the day. Best of all is the elusive scent of my favourite madhumalati. There is a huge creeper on the jackfruit tree next door. Its bunches of pink and white flowers release their fragrance at dusk or night. The breeze brings it into my home – an offering of beauty and innocence. There isn’t much land between here and Oman or Zanzibar – I like to imagine that the wind carries the faint fragrance of myrrh and frankincense from those magical lands too.
The wind reports local news into my living room sometimes. In the November of 2008, it brought the sounds of what seemed to be post Diwali fireworks late one evening. It was only when we were woken up by a phone call at one in the morning that we realised that the wind had been mourning the lives lost in the gunfire of the terror attacks at a nearby hotel. Some years later, as Wankhede Stadium erupted with joy, the wind blew in the winning runs and the news of a long awaited World Cup win screamed from thirty thousand throats just a few seconds before our television screen lit up with fireworks.
More tangible though are the gifts the wind leaves on my balcony. Once, an almost intact snake skin. Light as air and almost insubstantial, a touch was enough to turn it into scaly dust…even though a close friend is a herpetologist and taught me years ago that snakes are dry and cool to the touch, the sudden appearance of this sloughed off layer of cells on the ledge still sent a shiver up my spine.
Another time, a cricket ball that came crashing to my feet, admittedly helped along by a pulled shot from a cricketer in the neighbouring ground. That ball sits on the little shelf besides my collection of drift wood from beaches all over the world.
More recently, a friendly breeze has been depositing seeds into the pots to surprise me when they sprout. First a peepal, one of my favourite trees. I found it growing amongst my roses and dug it out before it cracked that pot. It is now flourishing in a sturdier pot all of its own..
And today, a healthy, sturdy Banyan sapling. It was hidden in some ferns and I had to yank it out with some effort. Its root system was one and a half times as long as the shoot. The life force of it is amazing. When the cricket match on television got too intense this evening for a couple of overs, I retreated to my balcony in a cowardly manner to repot it. By the time a dead capsicum plant had been ruthlessly uprooted and the banyan installed in its place, the cricket crisis was over and it was safe to continue hollering advice and admonishment to our team in England.
These are the gifts of smell and sound and life that the wind brings to my balcony. I share my thoughts and ideas with it as we potter around the plants together. It is an impartial and silent listener. It keeps my confidences safe and scatters them only over the empty ocean.