Neha Sinha

  But how do you find something that has no name, with only the picture painted by a young child? As a five-year-old girl, I would look out of the window of the taxi that took me to school each day. We would pass the same area daily, and the view should thus be the same – the city waking up, and its houses, cars, roadsides, gardens, trees. But each day’s thrill was in noticing new things next to the fixed, unmovable ones. A bird nest I could now see …

  The sky opens up, and it pours, and pours. The mist can be morose, and the sameness of the rainscape can cloud the mind. You may crave the rains when you are not in them, your favourite seat may grow mould, you may not be able to travel freely, away from quarantine zones or the threat of a vehicle breaking down in the waterlogged streets. Here are a few things to do in the monsoon, to fight the feeling of moisture seeping into our very soul. Cloudwatching: It’s been …

  It may not even be a stretch of imagination to believe that you may owe your life to a dragonfly   When you see the sun shining sharply after a shower, a catch in the light may hook your eye. Something against the blue sky and yellow light may be glittering, almost like a shard from a jewel. Occasionally it looks like a clear piece of glass, and at other times it seems to be a little patch of colour. Sometimes it darts by so fast you can’t tell …

  I want the species to outlive me, and for tigers to continue sailing past us, unconcerned and unworried. And I can only hope there is enough distance between our devious plans and the wild tiger   The sun shone with the intense clarity that comes in between rain showers. It’s as if the centre of the galaxy felt angry that its shining face had been blocked by monsoonal banks of clouds, and it was now compensating for its absence. The trees in the forest moved occasionally, shedding baggages of …

As the rain comes pouring down, it’s time for a storm in a teacup. Most Indians have many kinds of tea on their shelves. Each family member will have a different preference – some prefer loose-leaf and light, others go for malty and strong Assam, and some like mild Darjeeling or chamomile. And then there are the tales with the tea.   The thing about tea is not just the leaves. But also, how you are served. A tea-set, with a tea-cosy, an ornate kettle and a silver spoon buried …

On Guru Purnima, people thanked their gurus, mentors and guides. I thanked the moon, which was so bright, it seemed like a sun. The moon has taught me more than anything in the sky of my life. On nights in the forest, during field work, or during a late-night stroll, moonlight has lit my path. It has made rocks look like silver, and made nocturnal white flowers look like glowing stardust. The path taken by millions of people who live in or near forests or countryside — making their way …

  Each time I had water in my hands, they would be there. Of course one can’t really have water in one’s hands – but whenever I would try to direct water on my plants through my hands– a shining stream of water falling from a tin can I would hold, or from a mug– orange-yellow paper wasps would be around my fingers and the water in an instant. The paper wasps, the tatiya, are a childhood memory of pain – these are the kind that bite, once, twice, many …

I looked from Peepal to Pilkhan to Neem: the place resounding with bird calls and flights amongst the leaves. And I finally wondered, hands in gloves, face hidden from the world, whether a loved one’s death could also mean his attainment of peace. If the falling of the tree could mean the growth of new ones in the peace of the forest     To deal with death when everyone is thinking about death is like trying to listen to one’s thoughts in a room full of clanging drums. During …

It has been a lingering lockdown and a searing summer. As the world stills, and so does time, we have all turned inwards to our home. Home is safety from disease, home is sanctuary, but home is also a lack of connection to the outside world—a feeling of isolation. But our home is not just ours. Without us knowing it, our home is the centre of a web of ecology. Gaps in the wall may be the site for a brood of chicks. The khus mats of our coolers may …

What is the colour of summer? It is an off-white sky, blinding in its brilliance, forcing a tear to the eye. It is the colour of the Taj Mahal glinting in the sunlight, too bright to look at. It is the quickening blue-grey colour of a shadow, deepening as the sun rises. It is the colour of silver water in a wetland, as the sun glitters over it. It is the colourless shimmer of a mirage on the scorching tarmac of India’s highways. And, the colour of summer is yellow. …