A Morning of Dust, Dogs, and Devotion

A Promise Kept on Ugadi Eve

Last night, as the evening deepened into late hours, my wife reminded me that today is Ugadi—a festival of renewal and fresh beginnings. Her reminder came with a gentle nudge, assigning me two key morning tasks: mopping the floors and sweeping away the dust. This way, she could focus on preparing the festive food. With a hint of a smile, she admitted she sometimes feels lazy herself and could use an extra pair of hands. I’d promised I’d help with the cleaning come morning, and I intended to keep that vow.

Dust and Devotion at Dawn

This morning, like so many others, began with the relentless hum of construction next door—a project creeping into its third year with no end in sight. The dust swirls through the air, sneaking into our home, tickling my wife’s lungs with an unwelcome cough. I can’t help but feel the weight of time dragging on, much like the unfinished scaffolding outside. Yet, amidst the grit, there’s Kaala—my seven-year-old German Shepherd—gazing at me with soulful eyes, nudging me toward our morning ritual: a walk.

Kaala’s energy isn’t what it used to be. I feel it in his slower steps, the way he lingers a little longer by my side. But his spirit? That’s as boundless as ever. We set out for our walk, and along the usual route, I met the tea seller at his small petty shop—a good morning friend of mine. Today, this kind soul offered me a cup before I could even reach for my wallet. “It’s fine, sir,” he said with a smile, waving off my lack of cash. It was a “credit tea” day.

A Walk Through a Changed Land

After my morning tea, Kaala and I headed toward his walking spot—a place with fewer people to disturb us. We go to an area that used to be a sprawling, lush green expanse—11 acres of land that once felt alive with possibility. But over the past four or five years, it’s changed. What was once vibrant has turned into a dumping yard. People toss their household dust and litter there, and the greenery has given way to piles of refuse. Ironically, it’s become a haven for stray animals—cattle, holy cows so to speak, street dogs, vultures, and crows—all scavenging for breakfast and dinner amid the mess. The birds and beasts don’t have much choice; they’re forced to pick through what’s left. Every day, I walk past this scene, a stark reminder of how quickly beauty can shift to neglect.

The TORANA and a Touch of Nostalgia

When I got back home, my wife was waiting, ready to share her thoughts. She pointed out our neighbor decorating his door with a torana—a traditional festival decoration made of mango leaves, symbolizing the sweetness and freshness of life. Typically, it’s hung on the main door, often facing east (the direction of the sunrise), as a vibrant way to kick off the festival with the lush energy of the leaves. I’ve always assumed it’s about welcoming prosperity and new beginnings, and there’s a simple charm to it that I’ve come to appreciate.

But this morning, her observations carried more weight. She couldn’t help but compare our neighbor’s elaborate setup to my practical approach. I tend to take the shortest route—bunching the mango leaves together and clamping them with a small tie I’ve fixed to the wall of our door. It gets the job done, but it’s nothing like the flair our neighbor was putting into his. She didn’t say it outright, but I could feel her nudging me—maybe teasingly, maybe wistfully. It reminded her of her late uncle, who passed away in an accident years ago. He had a way of doing these decorations that she grew up with—a care and creativity she still holds dear. I think she saw a bit of that in the neighbor’s effort, something I don’t quite replicate anymore, having opted for efficiency over artistry.

Lessons in Leaves and Litter

There was a quiet comparison in her eyes—a mix of nostalgia and playful critique. The neighbor was out there, fully committed to the task, while I’d gone for the quickest fix. Believe me, I noticed her point! But as I stood there, taking it all in—the torana, her sideways glance, the memory of that littered land—it hit me that there’s more to this than just leaves on a door or trash on a field. It’s about the little ways we show up, whether through tradition, memory, or even a friendly rivalry across the fence.

There’s a message here, I think. Life’s sweetness, like those mango leaves, shines through in both grand gestures and simple ones—it’s the intention that matters. The torana ties us to our past, our present, and our relationships. And that land? It’s a sobering lesson in how neglect can creep in when we stop paying attention. Maybe it’s a call to notice these everyday moments—to see the love or humor in a spouse’s look, to cherish how traditions keep us rooted even when we adapt them to our own style, and to care for the spaces we share before they slip away entirely.

Mopping, Mischief, and a Mother’s Resolve

My wife’s voice cut through the morning air: “Haven’t you mopped yet?” She sounded a little exasperated, her cough mingling with the weight of her festival preparations. Perhaps that’s why I found myself reaching for a random bottle of soap-oil, its fragrance pleasing enough to deem it worthy. I swirled it into the water and set to work, unable to resist the call of the task. My wife’s intricate system—different soap-oils for different rooms—remains an enigma to me, a puzzle I’ll unravel on some quieter day.

Upstairs, where my parents live, the morning took a sharper turn. My mother, nearing her 80s, legs bowed by age and a condition I can’t quite name, teetered on a wobbly stool, determined to decorate for the festival. My heart leapt into my throat. “Don’t do this!” I snapped, louder than I meant to, visions of brittle bones and unhealed fractures flashing through my mind. My father, 87 and ever the commentator, chimed in: “She doesn’t listen to anybody.” I was caught between frustration and love, scolding them both while steadying the stool and helping hang the decorations. It’s a dance we’ve perfected over the years—care wrapped in exasperation.

A Holy Dip and High Aspirations

Then came the call from my wife, her voice cutting through the chaos again: “Have you taken a bath yet?” I laughed—how could I, amidst the mopping, the walking, the decorating? But her question grounded me. I promised to pause, to take that holy dip, to pray. Ugadi is a day of high aspirations, after all. I prayed for a year of promise—for my wife’s cough to ease, for Kaala’s strength to hold, for my parents to stay safe on solid ground. (Honestly, I didn’t pray for my kids or myself.)

Reflections Over Coffee

As I sipped my coffee later, I thought of Dattatreya Ramachandra Bendre, the poet whose words bloom anew each Ugadi. He wrote of nature’s cycles—trees shedding bark, plants renewing their skin—and asked why humans get just one lifetime, one outer shell. It’s a question that lingers, stirring something deep.

Maybe that’s what this day is for—to shed the dust of the old, to decorate our lives with hope, to find renewal in the mess of it all