Who's crying now?

Georgie Porgie pudding and pie,
Kissed the girls and made them cry.
Kissed a Sleeping Beauty,
It was a big mistake!
Her name is Bengaluru,
And now she's wide awake!

The sparkle is gone.

Today, one of my neighbours put me to shame. I'm always cribbing about people on WhatsApp who forward too-good-to-be-true miracle cures, or amazingly interesting videos that do absolutely nothing for my life other than using up a few minutes of it. Thank goodness for "Delete", I always think (but then go on to crib about how much time I must waste pressing "Delete").

Today, though, my neighbour wrote this note: "The pyrotechnics industry truly sucks! The working conditions is absolutely deplorable, with gruesome forms of child labour ruling the roost. I so wish this industry virtually ceases to exist. The images are a stark reality to this torturous trade for profit."

I skimmed quickly through that, but then I saw the pictures that followed, and froze:

I'm sharing them here and I hope there's no copyright infringement, none intended - they are stamped with "Vikatan.com" so I will assume that's who I must credit.

I know all the stuff about crackers being bad. How the noise terrifies and harms animals and birds, and how the smoke pollutes the air. I've seen the scattered scraps of burnt-out fireworks left carelessly all over our streets. I'm aware that bursting fireworks hurts asthmatics, and how Diwali can be a difficult time for heart patients, babies, the elderly, and the sick. I know how rude it can feel to be startled awake in the middle of the night by late night explosions. And I'm aware that children's hands are small and nimble, not just for knotting carpets or rolling beedis, but also for making fireworks. (I have heard so much about this last fact, that I had complacently assumed that it had been taken care of, that the government and the NGOs would have seen to it by now, that children are no longer employed in the pyrotechnics industry. I'm not so sure now).

So I never buy the "bad" fireworks. No bombs, no strings of crackers. Half a dozen flowerpots (fountains or anaar, as some people call them) maybe, because, well, they're so pretty and exciting. A couple of chakras (Catherine Wheels) - not a lot, because most of them whizz out too quickly or in inappropriate directions. I don't buy rockets at all, mainly because I am scared of lighting them, but I ooh and aah with the rest of you when I see them light up the night sky. And so of course, I buy sparklers.

Because sparklers are harmless! A little light, a little smoke, safe enough for a toddler to hold, and oh, it's like holding a shooting star in your hand! Harmless! Right?

But now these photographs, of what seems to be a middle-aged man, busy at work, making those lovely sparklers.

I do not know if he is really middle-aged, or if life has just made him look that way. And then I think about how chuffed I was just last week when someone assumed I was twenty years younger than I am.

I look at his skinny body coated silver like those chubby cherub statues. I wonder how easily it washes off, and how much gets into his pores. And then I think about long I stand in the aisle at Health & Glow, trying to decide if aloe vera or cocoa butter or Vitamin E should be the main ingredient in my body lotion.

I see that he has no shoes, no gloves, no mask. I wonder how much of what is on his outside is getting into his inside, if he knows what a good deep breath feels like, if he can even smell the sulphur any more, how long before his lungs pack up, how many years before he won't be able to work because he'll be dead. And then I think about how I agonise over the effects of the cigarette smoke that I inhale of my own free will, and how I worriedly put the windows up and turn on the AC to filter out the dust and smells when I'm stuck in my car in a traffic jam.

And worst of all, absolutely worst of all, I see on his face a look of concentration.

He is doing his job.

He is doing it to feed himself, and perhaps a family. He is doing it because he knows how, and because it will pay - not a lot, obviously, judging from his physique and wardrobe (or lack of). He is not making a career choice. He's just doing what he thinks he must, in order to survive.

I'm going to put him out of a job. It's a job that's only made necessary by my desire to hold shooting stars in my hand. How will he eat, some may ask? There are other jobs, I should reply, and it is both my job and his to make sure he finds them. How can I ever again laugh with joy as I draw circles in the air with a piece of burning wire, a cheap little sparkler that costs me so little and costs him so much?

Good bye, sparklers. I did so love you. But I simply can't be an accessory to manslaughter. So good bye.

But hey - hello, Diwali! A real Diwali this time, a festival not of noise or smoke or celebrating at the cost of someone else's life, but a festival of light. Some shopping, some sharing. Some mit'hai, some khaara. Celebrating with friends whose festival this is, and bringing a little celebration to those who can't afford it themselves. And two diyas at my doorstep, to symbolise my desire for light and knowledge to enter my home. It could be my brightest Diwali ever.

Happy Diwali, everyone. Let go of the sparkle. Let the light in.

*

beedi - tobacco rolled in a tobacco leaf and smoked like a filterless cigarette
anaar -pomegranate
chakra - spinning wheel
mit'hai - sweet
khaara - savoury
diya - oil lamp, traditionally made of clay
diwali - rows of lighted lamps (from the Sanskrit deepa + aavali)

Four words later.

So I went to a protest a week ago - a human chain of citizens objecting to a monstrously expensive steel flyover that would kill over 800 trees and scar our Garden City forever. The organisers suggested we carry signs that simply stated: No.

But somewhere in my head, that old copywriter lurks, and these four words popped into my head. I painted them on a sign, and off I went.

THOU SHALT NOT STEEL.

I knew it was a good slogan, but I never expected the response I got. People up and down the chain were giving me the thumbs up, telling me they loved it. The media loved it too - two newspapers used it as part of their headlines, and a few others posted pictures of my sign and me. As an added bonus, the Economic Times described me as "a woman in her thirties" (I'm 51). A few days later, at a public referendum, the historian and author Ramachandra Guha ended his speech with it, praising it as the most brilliant, succinct and moving critique of the flyover issue. Lovely, he called it.

Praise and compliments are great. As is the knowledge that my words resonated with so many people. But the best thing these four words did for me, was to jolt me out of my apathy. They reminded me that I am a writer (who does not write much any more). They reminded me that I had a talent for words that can get people's attention, communicate and convince, and inspire change. They reminded me that 14 years I ago, I left a fun and financially delicious career in advertising because I wanted to use that talent to sell more than luxury cars and fizzy drinks.

So today, along with the #SteelFlyoverBeda protesters, who have been accused of "waking up too late" on the flyover issue, I'm awake too, with that voice in my head repeating clear:  thou shalt write.

I shall.

Is as does.

Bangalore Mirror, 18 January 2016, page 1

(Note: please see the post-script for a happier ending!)

It takes a special kind of stupid, I thought, after reading this article about a new luxury tax on hospital Intensive Care Units.

No, I'm not trying to insult the politicians who came up with this novel idea to fill coffers (and coffins). All they are guilty of is a large helping of greed, no doubt, sprinkled liberally with India's favourite condiment, corruption.

Stupid is out here, among all of us -- who will read news like this, tut over it for a while, and then at election time, do what we always do:  simply hand back the keys to people whom we know will do little more than drive our city/state/country into the same old rut, again and again.

Bangalore Mirror, a couple days later (forgot the date!)

A Happier Post-Script!

An angry Chief Minister makes me happy - was glad to see in the news a few days later, that our Siddu lost his cool when he heard about the new tax, and ensured that it was thrown out! Good for him.

Sunday afternoon.

I visited the National Gallery of Modern Art last Sunday. Getting there was interesting. Thanks to my niece's somewhat convoluted sense of direction, I got to see many roads and lanes that I'd never before had the opportunity to drive down. No complaints, though. When we arrived, this is what we saw:

 Most of the space here is given to this amazing garden, with wonderful spreading trees and lovely little landscaped niches. The gallery itself is spread out in what apparently used to be some very lucky bastard's house. A Viceroy or something. I'm not sure if this place can technically be termed a house. It was more an unassuming palace.

 Another lovely aspect of the place was the water. Tanks and fountains, and a soothing sound of water rippling. I can hardly explain how delightful, how exquisite, it was just to stand here.

In between all this beauty, I was intrigued to find some extraordinary lumpy pieces of stone. These turned out to be Modern Art. (That lump at the bottom right of the photo on your left? It's a bird.)

It did not bode well. But we were pleasantly surprised/relieved to find that we had arrived in time for what turned out to be quite a fascinating exhibit:  photographs from the 19th century. No photography allowed (but of course) so I made do with a photograph of a photograph on the exhibit banner:

Raja Deen Dayal was, according to a letter of reference that was part of the exhibit, a very nice and clever lad who went from being a studio photographer to being the court photographer for the Nizam of Hyderabad.

That's not him in the photo.

The exhibit was wonderful:  so many great photographs with stories just clamouring to get out. Lots of maharajahs, some of whom looked quite dissipated. Lots of brocade and carpet and curly-tipped shoes. Some breathtaking shots of historic architecture around India.

Like all good things, this too passed. In a half reverie, we walked on to other halls and to a rather rude awakening by the type of modern art that I always think of when I hear the term Modern Art.

I found two and a half paintings that I liked. (The two were by an Anupam Sood, and the half was the top half of a painting by I-forget-who, some lovely monochromatic ravens who fortunately would never have known that they shared a canvas with a line drawing of a rather grotesque woman, or perhaps it was a man.)

Oh. Perhaps that was the point of her (I-forget-who's) painting. The smooth flowing brush strokes of the raven contrasting with the Parkinson's diseasey quivering inked lines of the human. A Deeper Meaning, no doubt.

We ended with a stroll down to the gallery's horribly disappointing cafe. Another contrast! But perhaps without any deeper meaning. It could have been beautiful, but instead it looked like some little tea stand you'd find at the bus depot. And so we left. But not entirely disappointed. As we headed to the parking lot, I found Mr. M. Jayaram and convinced him to pose for me. I wouldn't let him stand at attention, so instead he sat at it. I love this picture!

Still beautiful.

Photo by and courtesy of Ajay Amrit Ghatage, 2014

A beautiful house with big empty windows, 

like gaping holes of unloved loneliness and pain.

If we could look into her soul we might see, 

beyond the cracks and age-stained walls:

Parapets for a teenager to straddle with 

a second-hand paperback and a cup of afternoon tea.

Terraces for her older brother to sneak a cigarette. 

Corridors for children to roll marbles down,

and window ledges for their dolls’ houses. 

Verandahs for lovers to whisper and wish and dream, 

and hold hands and watch the rain come down together. 

Knee-easy steps easing out from the front door.

Down these steps comes an old woman, alone. 

Do you see? She is like the house. Old, but still beautiful. 

Worn down but worthy of wonder for withstanding the world so far.

Holding on to her dignity and hoping that someone will notice before it's too late.

#

I wrote this the other night, while visiting one of my favourite pages on Facebook, Bangalore - Photos from a Bygone Age. I came across this photograph of one of Bangalore's few remaining lovely old houses - an endangered species in a city that overvalues profit. Looking into those empty squares felt like looking into the eyes of the house, and I felt like she had a story to tell. Of course, the story I've written is more mine than hers. I have no idea of her past or her present, although I have a pretty good idea of her future.

Thank you, Ajay, for letting me share your photograph so that my readers can see how this piece of writing came to be.

That's more like it.

Although yesterday's post has it's value, I much prefer this auto-rickshaw's message to the world.

For those of you who don't understand Urdu or Hindi, that says:

God willing
we will meet again
May God keep you in his care
My fellow traveller

Nice to know that someone feels that way. I'm always on the look-out
for interesting "Auto Backsides"; some get very creative.

For some reason, however, most auto drivers seem to like
decorating their, er, backside, with a dagger dripping blood.
I can only assume it's a silent plea for help and compassion.
It must be hell driving around in that bumpy three-wheeler
all day. I'm pretty sure there's a correlation between the frequency
of dripping-dagger-decorated auto backsides and the vast amount
of Piles & Fistula Clinic signs I see all over the city.

Beware.

Was fortunate enough to catch this public service announcement
on the back of an auto-rickshaw the other night, after dropping
a friend off at the Indira Nagar bus stand.

Social awareness activist and his moving media

The Dr. Ambedkar Blues (an unfinished symphony).

Every time I go to Nanjappa Circle, I'm bugged by this
 mysterious figurine wrapped in blue plastic. Its contours echo
those of a smaller statue just behind it, which has been painted gold.

All I knew was that these were statues of "Ambedkar". They've
been there forever (well, a year at least). So I turned to my
personal guru and said, "Oh Google! Tell me! Who is this man?
And why has he been blue for so long?" And this is what she told me.

• Dr B.R. Ambedkar was born into a caste that was considered "untouchable".
• He was the first "untouchable" student at Bombay's Elphinstone High School and Elphinstone College.
• He not only got past social and financial obstacles to get a college education in India, but went on to earn post-graduate degrees and doctorates from Columbia University and the London School of Economics. And took his Bar exams too!
• He lost his book collection when the ship it was on got torpedoed and sunk by a German submarine in World War I (As a book lover, I deem this a significant tragedy, worthy of mention. The good news is, I read that by the time World War II rolled around, he had built up another book collection of over 50,000 books).
• He was Professor of Political Economy at Sydenham College, Bombay, where other professors didn't like him touching the same jug of water that they used.
• He was the Chairman of the Drafting Committee of our Constitution.
• He developed Type 2 Diabetes in his middle age.
• He campaigned against social discrimination and the caste system and spoke out frankly on many topics that were important to him.
• He ruffled a huge amount of religious and political feathers.
• He accomplished a massive workload in his lifetime. 
• He was a very busy guy from start to finish.
• He had guts.
• He sounds very interesting, and though I'm not sure I'd agree with everything in them, I think his essays and books would make for some good reading.

All of which made him, to me, fascinating. I wanted to find out
more about the man hidden behind the blue plastic wraps. And
it struck me - find about the blue plastic wraps themselves.
Back to my guru I went, this time to learn not about the man,
but about the statue/s up at Nanjappa Circle.

On March 29th, 2010, newspapers reported that Dr Ambedkar's
statue at Nanjappa Circle had been toppled over, outraging
the Dalit community. (Back then there was only one statue,
made of plaster-of-paris, since stood back up and painted gold).
This statue of his now stands in the shadow of the new
blue-wrapped one. It shall never be toppled again. It now
has his feet firmly encased in cement up to his ankles for protection.

This statue-toppling is the sort of senseless act that normally
leads to communal violence, but fortunately, there was none
(that I know of). The municipal (BBMP) elections were being
held that day, and though there doesn't seem to be any logic to it,
I can only assume that someone intended to benefit from this act
and the feelings it would arouse.

Who did this? We may never know for sure, but the papers
assured us that they were MISCREANTS! A very popular noun
in Bangalore newspapers, another word for "rowdy elements"
or "mischief-mongers"). Or perhaps political party supporters,
as I believe all the major political parties accused their
opponents' supporters - Miscreants! Oh, you Naughty Miscreants, you! -
of being behind this HEINOUS act of GOONDA-ISM (two other
popular words in a crime reporter's vocabulary).

Conclusion: Mischief-mongering miscreants' heinous act of rowdy
goonda-ism was something to do with votes and politics. Nothing
new there.Or perhaps something to do with religion. Nothing new
there either.

Anyhoo. In time, a second statue appeared. The BBMP approved
two Work Orders. One for the construction of a new statue
at the cost of six lakh rupees (Rs 600,00/-), and one for
the construction of a pedestal and ornamental grill at four lakh
rupees (Rs 400,000/-). I looked up their impressive-sounding
"Global Project Management System With Remote Eye Monitoring System" page,
but beyond the Estimated and Approved Cost and the name
of the Chief Engineer, every other entry just reads "0". (That's
a zero, not an oh. Although an oh would work there too, with
either an exclamation or a question mark, as the situation requires).

So no clues as to whether they consider the work finished,
or if they ran out of funds, or anything.

Well, the new statue is up, at any rate. Standing high on its
four-lakh pedestal (and the ornamental grills, let's not forget those.
They could do with some painting, by the way). It might be
a bronze statue, we do not know yet. Those plastic blue wraps
have been firmly affixed to withstand both monsoon and miscreant,
and what lies underneath is yet to be unveiled, nearly two years
after the first statue was toppled.

Dr Ambedkar's death anniversary is coming up on December 6th.
I'm hoping that the long-awaited unveiling will be held then,
a symbolic rebirth. If not, we can pin our hopes on next April 14th,
the day of his birth. And if not then, well, let's just wait for the next
election day to roll around.

Any day now, people. But don't hold your breath. Instead, gaze upon
my really bad photography and read my little poem to pass the time:

*

Dr Ambedkar, why so blue?

If I was in your place, I guess I'd be too,

Waiting a whole year under wrap

Held in suspense for someone else's crap.

Drs Ambedkar, (for there's not one but two)

I'm sad when I gaze upon both of you.

One year and ten lakhs have gone by so fast.

I'd like to see more of the man who fought caste.

*

Blown away.

As I typed this title, I was already worrying that in today's crazy
world, people might think this post is about a bomb. Actually,
in more ways than one, it's quite the opposite. Bombs destroy.
This creates and connects.

I went to an exhibit at my favourite art gallery and was absolutely
blown away by it. It was the most creative, clever, endearing and
picturesque exhibit I've seen in a long time. It was beautiful and
simple and it wasn't only art, it was literally "art, earth, ink and soul"!
How could I not love it?

The artist is Chang Yoong Chia of Malaysia. Sadly, I didn't get
a chance to meet him, but am so grateful that I got a chance
to see his work, and just in time too. I managed to catch his
exhibit, The Botany of Desire, just an hour before it closed!

I walked in to the gallery and this is what I first saw. That's
my friend Suresh, leaning against the wall. We went to art
college together. For a year, anyway. Then I dropped out
(refer my darkest poems) while he went on to finish, and later
even became the principal. He was a very principled principal.
The gallery is his, and part of his NGO that supports and
encourages young and upcoming artists - local, national
and international; rural, tribal and urban. He has residencies
and so we get to see the most wonderful variety of art, and meet
the most wonderful variety of creative people.

The photographs I've taken don't really do Chang's work justice
(took them with the camera on my phone!). I couldn't resist
taking a picture of each and every leaf, and I wanted you to
see them all.

Chang blended Malaysian shadow-work with his experience of
Bangalore - those are actual leaves both on the screen and the floor,
from Lalbagh Botanical Gardens - and created a whimsical fairy tale
of sorts, from what he learned from his early morning walks there.

These are close-ups of two of the leaves. What you see is the silhouette
of the cut-out leaf, backlit. I thought they were quite lovely enough
as they were, but then Suresh walked me behind the screen. That's
when I got blown away - here is Chang's story, in pictures, in words,
on leaves. Enjoy!

by Chang Yoong Chia

 by Chang Yoong Chia

by Chang Yoong Chia

by Chang Yoong Chia

by Chang Yoong Chia

by Chang Yoong Chia

by Chang Yoong Chia

by Chang Yoong Chia

by Chang Yoong Chia

by Chang Yoong Chia

by Chang Yoong Chia

by Chang Yoong Chia

by Chang Yoong Chia

by Chang Yoong Chia

by Chang Yoong Chia

by Chang Yoong Chia

 Aren't they lovely? Everything about them enchants me. The skill
of the cut-work on the leaves, the style of the illustrations, the story.
I love the way Chang brings in little nuances of Bangalore
life  - early mornings in Lalbagh (the gates open at 5 a.m.
for walkers, joggers, and yoga enthusiasts) - parents going
for broke over the obscenely lavish Indian wedding - the history
of the tree - the call centre - the squirrel and the Brahmani kite.

My favourite leaves are the squirrel, the queen and the call centre.
Which are yours?

My favourite part of the story, though, is the last leaf. I can't wait
for Chang to come back and tell us more.

Disgusting treatment of the labour force.

I couldn't resist doing this! Now that I think of it, it serves as
a good example of how misleading the media can be, when
they don't show us the whole picture.

Actually, Mast Kalandar serves up food that's anything BUT gross.
It looks like a fast food restaurant but you get hot fresh delicious
North Indian food. My favourite is their chola batura, washed down
with some yummy lassi.

The next best thing to jet-propelled.

 Always keep my eye out for interesting hand-painted signs.
They mostly tend to be oddly spelt notices of the "Child Bear"
variety (that's chilled beer, in case you were wondering), but
I like to snap up a nice illustration every now and then, like
this four-winged aeroplane I found on an old truck the other day.

Road rage.

See Dick speak.

Say hello to Top Cop.
Say hello to the cop who's top of the cops.
(Hello Top Top Cop)

Top Cop says
women get raped because of the way they dress.
(Silly silly fashion victims)

Top Cop says
men rape when they eat food that gives good "josh" and makes them naughtier.
(Naughty naughty rapists)

Would Top Cop say
it was her own fault for being all dressed up and out so late?
(Pretty provocative Cinderella)

Would Top Cop say
those eleven men would have let her pass if they'd just had salad for dinner?
(Hearty hungry heterosexuals)

What WOULD Top Cop say
to that woman who was gang-raped on her way home from church after Midnight Mass on December 25th, 2011?
(Merry merry Christmas)


See Dick speak on Times Now TV

Click on the links above to read the news reports about Andhra Pradesh Director General of Police's views on rape

Why we need trees.

We have innumerable reasons, but I'm sure this is one of them. Sometimes I look around me at the garbage strewn around, at the strays, at the unsmiling faces. Sometimes I'm down. And then I say to myself, "Look up."

 

(These are pictures I took one sunny Sunday afternoon in early March, walking home. These trees, and more like them, form a canopy all the way down my street).

(Edited 15 April 2014)

A New Year's Wish For You

 Walking down the road to my parents' house for New Year's 

lunch this afternoon, this water tanker caught my eye. While 

I was getting my camera set, that boy in blue happened to come 

into frame. It didn't bother me much, although I had intended 

to just get a close-up of the painting. And now, after having 

just read Lunar Hine's comment on my previous post, I'm thinking

 that maybe it's serendipity again. This is what she wrote: "I think 

that sometimes love is as simple as doing the washing up when 

 it's not your turn. These are the droplets which build the rainbow 

we call love."

And so, my New Year's wish for you is this:

The next time you're doing the washing up, out of turn, out of love .. 

may the gods not just smile upon you. May they - wide-eyed, 

with nostrils flaring and moustaches bristling with pride - stick out 

a joyful red tongue and lick the side of your face.

Silver linings.

I've been cooped up at home, dealing with the side-effects of my new medicines, one of which is feeling totally spaced out. As a result, I haven't driven my dear little car for about a month. So for yesterday's visit to the doctor, I travelled by auto-rickshaw, and that gave me the opportunity to look around me as I went to the doctor's and back. Not just see, but LOOK. And that gave me a lovely little bunch of snippets. Kind of like picking wildflowers, except that this is India, and the pickings are, well, Indian.

I read some interesting signs and graffiti:
"Waterproofing the nation since 1955" (proudly displayed above a small and rather nondescript establishment)
"MINDBLOGGING OFFER!" (on a shop that sold car accessories)
"We needs a republic in Nepal" (a thin sad scrawl on a wall)

I smelt some interesting smells:
The sweetness of pastries as I passed a bakery.
Somewhat disturbing and hugely overpowering odour of alcohol as I sat in the doctor's waiting room. Brought back memories of vodka.
Cigarette smoke (always delicious but not so pleasing when I am stuck in a waiting room and daren't pop out for a fag in case my turn comes up while I'm out).
Stale urine as I walked down to a bookshop after I finished with the doctor (pretty standard in this nation of men with small bladders and bad toilet training. I'm learning not to walk too close to the wall-end of pavements. )

I saw some interesting people:
A little old lady seated pillion on a scooter, resting her head on the broad shoulders of her brawny son, at a traffic light.
A Hindu priest, robed in brilliant saffron, beard, beads and all, with a nice suede pair of loafers on his feet (no socks).
Children (well, they're just plain interesting no matter what they do).

Why I am sharing this on my blog, I'm not sure. Perhaps to point out that life, even the mundane parts of it, doesn't have to be boring. And to remind myself that inspite of the inconvenience, bumpiness and pollution I encounter in an auto rickshaw - as opposed to driving myself comfortably in an air-conditioned car) - there are silver linings everywhere.

The side effects of my medicines should wear off in a few more days, and I'll soon be back to zipping around everywhere in my car. Or will I? Perhaps I should be taking an auto rickshaw once in a while, just to capture some of what I'd miss when I'm at the wheel.

I've just realised why I'm putting all this on my blog. If I'd been out picking wildflowers, I'd have come home and put them in a bowl of water, to enjoy for longer.

Dear Chief Minister Yeddy

Dear Chief Minister Yeddy*,

Thank you for all the lovely smooth roads and new traffic lights that seem to be cropping up all over Bangalore. I hope this is all you meant when you said you hoped to incorporate "the Gujarat model" here in Karnataka.

Looking forward to seeing you approach the task of nurturing and enhancing secular democracy with as much enthusiasm,

Yours minoritirially,
Me.

*Mr Yeddyurappa is the current Chief Minister of India's Karnataka state, and belongs to the BJP.

Crocus going nowhere

Like art, it's a path that doesn't particularly lead anywhere, but
what a joy it is to walk it. I dream of planting crocus bulbs and
French marigolds on every city street.

P.S. These pictures were taken in May, in my parents' garden.