When I was a small boy, I went to Academy of Music where Professor Dhrubo Tara Joshi taught us Indian classical music. I would sit in a lone chair in the back verandah before our classes started. It was quite interesting that the chair had been vacant for all the six years I was there as a disciple of Professor Joshi.
Next to the veranda stood a guava tree in the courtyard that had spread its branches near and far. The tree had flowers almost all the time of year. Bees had a field day as they swarmed around the white guava flowers. As the time for class drew near and I felt tense about what would be in store for me later when “Jyethu” ( Professor Joshi was called by this by his students ) would start asking to perform the raga pieces he had taught the previous Sunday, bees were what I felt envious about. ‘How free they are. How nice their morning is. They have only one job on this planet… to suck out honey droplets. The happy honey seekers!’ I would mumble.
In the afternoon I would water plants that father grew in his garden. There were rose bushes, nightqueens, bels, jnui creepers, dolon chnapas and gandhorajas – all those lovely garden flowers that did so well in the garden of 20. Nutan Pally. During watering the plants I got a little bit carried away. I sometimes watered them much with a newly bought large watering-can. As a result some plants wilted for days before dying early. Some drooped for days on end and delayed the inevitable. Father naturally was a worried man. He could not figure out what went wrong. He employed a man, Rahman. He oversaw the garden and gardening.
It was Rahman who was quick to detect the malaise that had ravaged the garden. ‘Don’t water much. They will die.’ Rahman told me one afternoon as I was going through watering spree from one end to the other. ‘Don’t water too little. They will die.’ Rahman told me as I got over-circumspect with watering. ‘You need balance. Not too much or too little. Just the adequate.’ He said. ‘Take a look at the bees.’ Rahman pointed at the red spread of stalky rangons that were surrounded by buzzing bees. ‘They suck honey just what suffices them.’ He added. I found out that Rahman had a philosopher in him. Perhaps, those who work hard in life learn the tricks of life better than those who watch it from outside mite lazily.
Rahman outlived my father. He did his job till we were there at Nutan Pally. After we shifted to Ulhas, I came to know that Rahman stopped coming to the other houses of locality where they too grew gardens.
Now in Ulhas, when I water potted plants on the roof, I keep on reminding myself: Neither too much nor too little. Just the adequate. Be a bee.