Thursday, June 4, 2015

Cardamom




My Cardamom Plants Are on a Suicide Mission.

Many people are planting cardamom these days. I also planted a few lean saplings last year, but they have barely grown—just as they were. Same height. Same sadness. Same lack of ambition. Now the leaves are drying up and turning brownish, as if they've decided that life is overrated.

What is my elanchi up to? While so many are reaping profits from the cardamom boom—buying new tractors, sending children to private schools, smiling in their sleep—my plants don’t even have the energy to drink a drop of rain from the sky to stay alive. I suspect they are on a silent hunger strike. Perhaps they are protesting my gardening skills. Fair enough.

On a more serious note (very serious, nose slightly wrinkled), people are planting lots of saplings these days because of stories about families earning lakhs from just two or three sacks of cardamom. Lakhs. You hear that number and suddenly you want to plant cardamom on your roof, in your shoes, inside your pillow. We admire their hard work, and when someone does well, we try to copy them. This is called inspiration. Or jealousy with a shovel.

Some never take the risk of starting something new—only following what others have done. I’m no different: I’ve planted three saplings in my garden as a test and hope they grow well. Three saplings. That's not a plantation. That's a suggestion of a plantation. If they survive, I'll call myself a farmer. If they don't, I'll call myself a spectator.

Next to hydropower, cardamom could become the second-highest revenue generator in the country. Let that sink in. Cardamom—a spice you put in tea and biryani—might out-earn everything except giant dams full of roaring water. That's either a miracle or a sign that we need more industries. But I'm not complaining. Go, cardamom. You tiny green superhero.

Our water resources are drying up year by year, and building new power stations is expensive, unappealing, and discouraging. Dams cost billions. Cardamom costs a few saplings and some hope. But one hopeful gift from nature remains: our soil. Bhutan has the finest soil for cardamom cultivation. The plants grow between 300 and 700 meters above sea level. That's the sweet spot. Too low, and they sweat. Too high, and they shiver. Just right, and they print money.

If every planted sapling were to thrive, every household could become independent and prosperous. If. That's the word that keeps gardeners awake at night. If my plants drink rain. If they stop turning brown. If they develop a will to live.

What everyone needs is hard work—because everything requires hard work to succeed. Yes. Hard work. The thing that makes you tired, sweaty, and slightly resentful of people who got lucky. But still. Hard work.

So I'll keep watering my three depressed saplings. I'll talk to them. I'll play them gentle music. I'll threaten them with compost.

And maybe—just maybe—one day they'll stop being dramatic and start being profitable.

Or at least turn green again.


Wednesday, June 3, 2015

In Appreciation

                                                                         Poem# 2


Two things in the life never betrayed; God and the Parent- to whom the sky shines and for why it shines, the meaning of life is for them and what life meant is taught by them. When falling has a fall there remains dear parents. They formed the kingdom in a small realm of life.


Tell me, I ask myself,
What is on your mind?
What I have always had
Fixated for all time.

Nothing but my sacrificing father
Providing for me his dependent child
And my ever-supportive mother
For bringing me life, keeping me alive.

Our kind wise king and the royal family-
I speak from my heart frankly-
You have made our surroundings
A paradise on earth for me.

Thursday, May 21, 2015

A Chiseling Life

                                                                            Poem# 1


Life is a block of wood; a carver models it into the best, but only at old age-when one becomes perfectly experienced. Every drill and grill is a tick of torment to life. It gashes to a perfectly imperfect time of life, and then we start over again in the next life.


A carver, lost in chiseling the wood,
models it into the finest.
He himself carefully carves into it.
As I look at him,
My own life rolls down:
the creaks of sculpting a block,
removing jarring angles,
 etch a torment.
Are those pains the impasse of life?
Life mills to live.
It’s a fume out of crumble and splinter-
every bit a loss and gain!
This act recurs,
and flusters like the hollow. resonant wood.

On thiscourse,
there is no sojourn from emotive and bodily fidgets.
Often, the disquiet chronic, writs large on the mark.
The happiness or silence-hung grim all around
were free of beginnings or ends.
They unfold in myriad ways.
One likes to live a life careless and free,
but the player lot is on the line.
Come to clutches with it, be a slave of it.

These forms befit a good mortal,
just as the crafter fits the pieces.
Yet this good human is qualified
only at old age- when he is unqualified-
and ends very near like a child,
the falls bodily asleep.
How many times do we hear creaks?
How many times do we crumble and splinter?
How many times are we milled,
only to hope?
How nany times are we never the finest?
As novice voyages embark anew
and we get down to chiseling all over again-
 to slice life in the life of a new beginning!