orchids

The orchids are in bloom. They reach up from the stunted trunks of the stubby trees in the grasslands. Their white flowers are mildly fragrant. They are white, orange, both subtle and ostentatious. When I guide treks around the hills, I point them out to guests, who are always surprised that these are orchids?

I’d never thought too much about orchids, it was an exotic flower that didn’t really concern me or require much attention. When Sujata started pointing them out to me in September I was skeptical. These are orchids? The “Dendrobium” looked like a little stick, the “Bulbophylum” looked like, well, Bulbasaur. The ground orchids were impressive in the shape of their petals, but were otherwise a little underwhelming.

But there’s something about the epiphytic flower that I’m only beginning to appreciate as the Dedrobiums finally show their soft, white reproductive organs. They are subtle. Some flowers shout, “Pluck me!” but not these little blossoms. They seem so suited to their environment that one barely notices them. They bloom low to the ground, from a pod that is brown and rough like the bark of the trees upon which they perch. Their roots barely penetrate the earth, as if to say, “Don’t worry about me, I’ll take care of myself.” If their roots are buried in rich soil, the plant will die. These flowers need only a very little bit of nutrients and water, and prefer not to be coddled or crowded.

They are like a secret. If I point them out to guests, my excitement is often lost on them, because they don’t know how long I’ve waited to see these simple little petals. I have been not caring about orchids since I came here, and finally they’re peeping their unfussy, self-sufficient selves from their simple winter homes to wave in the breeze, see the sun, and mate.

Most orchids are epiphytes and grow on trees, many very high, some very low on the trunk. I wonder how many quiet little blossoms are in the canopy, unnoticed, needing little more than a bit of sun and a place to be.

This is something that has struck me about this “tropical rain forest.” It doesn’t fit that description at all. It’s very lush here, but during the dry season at least the flowers and plants are sensible, not capricious. There is green all around, but it’s not an imposing, wet, lushness that fills the air. We are at 1100 meters, and the air is cool, clean, fairly dry, and the part of the forest I find most beautiful is simply the quality of the light. Goats bleat and rooster crow, birds chirp, but few sound as exotic as they look. Soon Shiva will wake up and shake all the snakes and beetles and spiders from his shoulders, but now Parvati is still dancing to rouse him. The life of the forest has not come out yet in full force. The subtle orchid punctuates this period of relative calm.

Below: Dendrobium barbatulum

some thoughts

Here I sit, writing from a closed room with windows that look out onto the sunny porch.  Basanti sweeps yesterday’s dust as she does every morning, and plays with the puppies.  Susee is chatting leisurely with her because the owners of the porch and the house it surrounds are away.  They hold hands and chase the puppies and laugh when they roll around on the ground.  Here I sit, reading, typing away on my machine, inside in a cool room on a hot, sunny day. 

 

How do our experiences shape our relationship with the physical world?  I have learned about the physical environment more in a classroom and through books than in a field.  These women know how plants grow because they’ve seen it, and helped them grow since they were children. They know how to do practical things with their hands and their bodies.  They don't take recreational walks to stay fit.

 

The more affluent and educated we become, the further we seem to stray from the world of physical labor and relationships with the other creatures of the world (flauna and flora alike).  Perhaps we think more cerebrally about these things (I’m reading a book about farming and gardening) but these young women, both from large families on small farms in rural Karnataka, have a tactile relationship with them, and know no other way to relate to the world except directly.

 

Am I reading about farming because I feel that more knowledge will build up to some greater goal, or am I reading about farming because that’s how I’ve learned to relate to nature?  If my concept of nature is fed to me second hand in this way, can I really say I have a relationship with nature, or is that second hand too? 

 

It must be my higher level of education that allows me to see how our actions and decisions affect the greater environment and thus I am concerned about the impact of humans on the earth.  The uneducated farmers and manual laborers with whom I work don’t share this concern.  That is certainly a benefit of the Western education I’ve undergone.  But it wasn’t until my shift into a rural tropical setting for an extended period of time that my environmental values were solidified, given substance, and morphed from knowledge to understanding.

 

What kind of interesting, holistic and informed perceptions would these young women, who know the land like a member of their family, form if they were educated after their development of a tactile relationship with the physical world.  Most of India is comprised of these so-called “simple” villagers, who in many ways know more than any of the educated and isolated young people in the West.  What would they contribute if they had access to the world-wide communication systems we take for granted and a globally visible form of expression? 

 

So many people in my generation, and all the children after us in the Western world, live with their noses fixed to a computer screen.  They have learned about deforestation in the Amazon, but aren’t aware that they are eating plants for dinner.  That even their iceberg lettuce had roots and flowers to go with those leaves. That even the additives in their packaged dinners are made of corn (which also has roots and flowers).  That the soil doesn’t make things “dirty,” it makes things alive.

 

Could there be an exchange between these kids with virtual lives and the forgotten villagers who still live firmly in the physical world?  Would either side of the equation benefit, or would the rift be too wide for mutual understanding? 

 

Both of these groups are disadvantaged.  One lacking what the other takes for granted.