Bamboo

Our balcony overlooks a small thicket of bamboo. Bamboo leaves tend to make a very distinct rustling sound. You can hear the thin dry-wiry-papery texture of the leaves as they move abound in the slightest of breezes. Each one of them twists around and swings in a distinct rhythm as if performing its own dance. There is no choreography and yet, they paint a pretty picture. I kind of understand why so many painters have been mesmerized by them.

One of  my very early memories is lying down in a cool thick bamboo grove on a very hot summer day back when summer vacations literally meant detox from all things urban. There used to be a very large and thick bamboo grove behind my grandmother's house. At a little distance of course. The bamboo trees were very high, at least 3-4 stories and so thick that even at the very heights of  infamous north-Indian summer, the grove remained cool. I remember the ladies of the house retiring to the grove for the afternoon, chatting and gossiping. Simple pleasures of a simple life!