The fields of Panipat

The fields of Panipat are where three pivotal battles were fought. The first battle was in 1526, between Babur the first Moghul emperor of India and Sultan Ibrahim Lodhi. The second battle was fought in 1556 between the forces of Akbar, the greatest Mughal emperor led by Bairam Khan (Akbar was only 13) and Hemu Vikramaditya. The third battle was fought in 1761 between the forces of Ahmad Shah Abdali and the Marathas.

All of them were watersheds in Indian history and volumes could be written about the origin of these clashes, the course of the battles, the tactics and treacheries and the changes that they brought about. Especially the third battle, in which there were huge casualties. Now, a lovely patch of green among cultivated fields, with a small guesthouse which however remains under lock and key. For lack of visitors, presumably.

A small town, only a few hours from Delhi, I had an occasion to visit Panipat and nothing could make me miss the memorial at Panipat. Remembering my father, describing how Babur prepared his battle lines, with cannons dug into trenches in front, and cavalry hidden in mango groves in the flanks under the command of Humayun, his son. At the site where a black mango tree used to stand, there is a small memorial

Interesting, that checker board layout. I also came upon a strange looking bird, about the size of a peafowl but with a huge, curved beak foraging in the undergrowth by the road to the Panipat memorial

 

Never seen anything quite like it. Had a red patch at the back of its head, and my friend informs this to be the Indian Black Ibis. That certainly made my day!

Spring, Summer and the parched earth

Spring is fleeting in the hot and dusty plains of Northern India. Nevertheless, it makes its presence felt in the blooming of flowers, new green thrusting out of the trees. In front of my new residence, the teak trees sprung new leaves, the rose bushes all sprouted in full grandeur, especially the white one. The pinks, reds, blood reds, the orange and the miniature rose, apart from several others. Discovered the wee, small and frisky purple sun bird and another rather unusual bird with red and yellow coloring on its head  but the rest being the same brown as the trees. The coppersmith barbet, as my dear friend informs. And the brahminy mynah, the robins and sparrows. A whole family of parrots are resident in the huge neem trees outside. 

"Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night."
~ Rainer Maria Rilke

The elusive coppersmith barbet, Faridabad

 

The purple sunbird, Faridabad

Baby parrot fell, couldn't fly. Mrs B carried it in. Grew a single tail feather. That one fell off. Grew new tail. Miss B has now become rather fond of it but we are determined to let it fly away once the rains come.

Baby falcon fell. Same story, until it was rather unceremoniously handed over to the keeper of the greens. 

And then, it was summer. Before one could realize, it was hot as the baking oven. Temperatures that crossed 45 degrees C. And no sign of the rains. Rains, as in Mumbai, sustained, overpowering, invasive rain that takes control! But these are the northern plains outside Delhi which the rain gods have decidedly overlooked this year.

The third movement from Summer, from the Four Seasons by Vivaldi, the strings faithfully mirroring the harsh and extreme weather. Or is it rather, the state of the mind, finding itself alone in a sea of conflicting emotions, trying to tear itself away from its moorings in search of the elusive unknown!

When there's no one outside in the afternoon, I have sometimes found an undescribable happiness in the searing heat of summer, when smoke appears to be rising from the deserted roads and not the slightest movement in the trees, not a soul stirring but my unquenchable thirst in a world that appeared to have come to a dead stop in all finality.

Slowly, imperceptibly, the heat washed away as night fell.