The way it was: Grumpy heron and ingenious hen
Mian Ijaz Ul Hassan
The eggs were, actually, cholesterol free. It was after months of hard effort
that he had finally succeeded in pressuring some of the compliant hens to lay
cholesterol-free eggs
It is a very muggy day. Not a leaf moves. I haven’t heard even the flutter of
a wing for hours. Earlier I saw a common heron getting terribly annoyed at a
young maina. The maina had ventured too close for his liking. He ponderously
stood ruminating on a ridge, in a paddy field. A heron, as you know, has a long
slender neck. In this case he sat with his neck pulled back, the head resting on
his bulging chest.
The alacrity with which he struck out with his beak, with feathers puffed up on
his neck, to scare away the maina amazed me. As far as I could see, it was a
gentle maina, but she was not scared. The maina had meant no harm. She was
cheerfully making a friendly call; the bugla as the heron is locally named was
being unnecessarily nasty.
The sprightly young bird with her large black eyes, framed by broad yellow loops
reminded me of Egyptian frescoes where the royal ladies have their eyelids
painted in a somewhat similar manner with azure blue. The maina obviously felt
hurt but instead of flying off, hopped away to the adjacent furrow, presumably
to come back when he was in better temper. At this point I left and walked away
to survey how the rice plants were doing in the adjacent acres.
In the current season these fields have been given a strong dose of sulphuric
acid, which was preceded by green manure. The plants had taken a bold stand and
stood evenly well-spaced. The prospect looked good and I was naturally pleased.
Getting a high yield from fertile land is profitable — what could be better
— but to shake a bad patch to life gives greater satisfaction.
The Monsoons are quite fantastic. The way they transform a parched tawny
prospect into a green vista of paddy fields is not short of a miracle. This
summer when the sun got particularly incensed with its own pride and there
seemed no respite for paddy farmers, white cumulous clouds rose like mountains
from the north, followed by angry rumblings of the dark nimbus.
And then the Lord said, “Blot out the sun! Let there be rain!” Mercifully
there were sheets of rain. A burgeoning green flooded every nook and crevice,
even drowning bald patches. Barren roots stirred to life. In the Monsoons much
more so than in spring, leaves, flowers and wild plants are individually
delineated with a Katib’s reed and then threaded together into a tapestry.
An inimitable riot of green that is beyond a painter’s palette, an unshackled
cheer of foliage climbing up banks, coming down slopes, ascending trunks of
trees. There is a wild invasion of motley plants, herbs, vagabond shrubs and a
green crowd of all shades. There are of course snakes, mostly non-poisonous, but
it is best that they are left alone. In this weather, when it is oppressively
hot and humid they can be, like our friend the grumpy heron, a trifle odious and
angry. It is best to be cautious and let them slither away to hunt for mice and
frogs.
Someone asked someone, “Which is the best and the worst season of the year?”
the other someone, instantly replied, “The Monsoons.” There can be nothing
worse and more oppressive if the sun is out after a Monsoon shower. It gets
steaming hot. But then also there can’t be anything better when on a muggy hot
day suddenly a cloud comes into sight and soon a breath of fresh breeze touches
your neck and cheeks, and a moment later the damp armpits begin to cool and the
invisible cuckoo breaks into a song.
A lover’s heart longs for its beloved. A dark cowherd awaits Radha who will
surely come. What a season! The Monsoons are a gift for artists who like to
paint heady sensuous images and fruitful for poets who like to smooch mangoes if
they are, as a poet said, sweet and in abundance. And here I am bogged down in
the paddy fields in the company of grumpy herons.
In the old days eating of mangoes was synonymous with the coming of the
Monsoons. Those who ate mangoes before the first showers of rain were considered
men without taste. It was only after coming of the Monsoons that mangoes were
immersed in bucketsful of water and ice.
The early varieties like the Tota parri were rather bland and didn’t have the
right flavour at all. Moreover in those days every one preferred off the branch
(daal kay) mangoes, which were sucked, rather than the paal kay or the qalmi
varieties, which are cut and eaten. The popular qalmi mangoes in those days were
the Langra, Dosehri and Saharni, to which now have been added scores of other
varieties, including the more popular ones like the Sindhri, Summer Bahisht and
Anwer Ratole.
The daal kay or desi mangoes had far more interesting names. A fair one from the
Shalimar Gardens was called mem. It was a little bigger than an egg. Most desi
mangoes are not fat and meaty like the qalmi mangoes but demure and light. Their
mouthful of juice can be sucked in one go and is deliciously sating. A person
can easily go through the entire yield of a tree in an afternoon.
There is great fun in having desi mangoes. Enthusiasts have their shirts rolled
up and don’t care if the juice drips down their elbows while they suck.
Similar latitude cannot be taken with the qalmis. Honestly confess how many you
can tuck away without embarrassing yourself? Some people disrobe qalmi mangoes
and then dice them into cubes before serving them to guests with custard and
cream. Auchk! What an insult to the king of fruits. Surely Ghalib would have had
something to say on the subject.
A friend sent us a crate of qalmi mangoes the other day. These were actually
from his orchard and not purchased from the market. In the end does it matter,
as Ghalib might have quipped, where they come from, as long as they are sweet
and come in crates? But what was wonderful and unusual about them was the label,
pasted on each fruit, which read, ‘Sugar Free — Recommended for
Diabetics’.
Last winter I received a crateful of eggs from Mian M Mo, which were unusually
large in size. I must say the hen must have made a huge effort laying them. Next
day when a few were broken for breakfast, three yokes slipped out of the shell
into the sizzling frying pan.
Having three yokes for breakfast is a bit much, but my wife pointed out the
label on each egg, which said, cholesterol free. I refused to believe such
rubbish so I rang up my friend, thanked him for the eggs and told him that he
was really very funny. Mo was not amused and assured me that it was not funny.
The eggs were, actually, cholesterol free. It was after months of hard effort
that he had finally succeeded in pressuring some of the compliant hens to lay
cholesterol-free eggs. Since then I have been wondering that if my friend Mo can
achieve this with hens what can Gen Mu not do to pressure politicians to lay for
him.
Prof Ijaz-ul-Hassan is a painter, author and a political activist