Darjeeling : Some Views

The sun rises over the Darjeeling hills at Runglee Rungliot Tea Garden.


Tea on the Slopes at Runglee Rungliot





The Road to Runglee, with a view of the Teesta River

These lovely pictures were taken by our friend Partha Dey, on a Nokia phone! Here is Partha talking into his camera...er, phone.

May Queens

While we wilt in the scorching heat, these beautiful orchids thrive in their little corners in the garden! The lilac ones seem to have come up on their own, and have grown in this compound for years. The cluster of hanging orchids was planted by the gardener - from a sample his friend pinched for him from the forest!

IPL Twenty 20 Cricket - A Non-Viewer's View

Twenty20 has turned home and family life upside down.

The husband, who never had time for cricket or for television, now sits and watches every match and screams instructions to the players in different languages. Our younger daughter, always cricket crazy, supports almost half the teams, and my head reels at her lists.

Try to make some sense of this. 'I support Uthappa at all times. So I'll always cheer for his team. Except’, she pauses significantly, ‘except when his team plays against Chennai Super Kings - because Chennai is my birth place! When Chennai or Uthappa's team are not playing against Royal Challengers, I'll always support the Royal Challengers, because I am loyal to Rahul Dravid! When the Deccan Chargers play any team other than these three, they have my support.'

Of course, it's all as clear as cricket to me!

The husband doesn’t seem too clear on the issue of loyalties either. Kolkata is the top team, because, as he says, we live in West Bengal, and 'Our dal-roti comes from here.' That is totally acceptable. However, he will support Delhi because that is 'home'. Even, he adds, even when they play Chennai Super Kings, to which team we must of course be loyal, because of our Tamil identity. Of course, he will root for Chennai when they are not playing Delhi or Kolkata.

So why was he screaming for Rajasthan Royals the other day? 'Cant you understand anything? This team has come up only because Shane Warne has so much team spirit! I like a good leader!' Between them, father and daughter seem to have a special place in their hearts for every team except the Punjab Kings XI - but I think I did hear 'I love the costumes!' the other day.

Very often, the father and daughter come to loggerheads over a match, and each one tries to enlist the support of the non-sporting, non-tele-goggling mother/wife. The husband was sure I was supporting Delhi against Mumbai (‘Uthappa!’). By sheer chance, I served uthappams for dinner, and our daughter punched the air in delight at the implicit support, while the husband ate each mouthful as if it were choking him. My sister from Mumbai, a dignified grandmother, called, and when I answered the phone (which I have to do because no one else gets up from their prime seats) she shouted, 'I don’t want to talk to you! Give the phone to your Mumbai-supporting daughter!' Their conversation was almost entirely made up of wordless, ear-splitting shrieks.

I thank God we still have some sane people left in the family. There’s our elder daughter, who wouldn’t watch cricket if you paid her, and my sister in Chennai, who is positively allergic to the game. I might run away to either of them for the summer. I need to go and bury myself somewhere until the finals of this Terrible 20 Tournament are played out.

Flowers for Mrs.M

These African violets are such shy beauties. For years, they didn’t do well at all in Moraghat. Shortly after we moved here, I managed to kill a whole collection of them. That we grow any at all now, is thanks to some timely advice from a friend.
An unexpected friendship sprang up between Mrs. M and me. She was a very Burra Memsaab – tea garden manager’s wife - of the district, and the senior catering member at the club. I was the youngest of the Burra Memsaabs here at the time, and was new to the district.
Mrs. M. asked me to make a cauliflower and aloo curry, as my share of Diwali dinner for around 200 people at the club. Our poor old cook did a great job, we all thought, giving the curry a special flavour and a thick gravy. At the end of the meal, Mrs. M. summoned me to the buffet table with a little gesture. She was tall, and she looked rather imperiously at me, and said, ‘Gorry’--this is how most people from North India pronounce my name–‘Gorry, why did you make this dish with gravy?’
'Mrs. M.,’I said, ‘You didn’t specify that you wanted it made without gravy.'
‘Well, you should have checked how it was made here.’
‘Mrs. M., since I’m new here, you should have specified.’
The younger of the catering members feared a flare-up, and came hurrying to soothe me. I could tell she lived in great dread of Mrs. M!
It turned out that Mrs. M liked me for speaking frankly to her.
I found this out when her car drew up quite suddenly at our place one morning. My Ma and I were sitting in the verandah. It was a lovely November morning. The girls were at school, and Ma was busy with her knitting. Mrs. M. got out of the car, and after the briefest of greetings, she said, pointing a finger at some pots, 'Those African violets are looking really unhappy over here!' She thrust her little bundle of crochet into my hands while she picked up two of the pots and wandered around looking for what might be a suitable new place for them.
After she’d put the pots in a place which seemed to satisfy her, she climbed up the steps to the verandah and greeted Ma, while I floated around behind her with all her crochet work. That was the beginning of a warm friendship, and it was the beginning of a new life for our African violets! Mrs. M. taught me that African violets need plenty of shade, and that they are shy –shrinking violets – that love to grow hidden among other plants. They have to be watered very carefully, indirectly, in fact, in a little plate placed at the base of the pot. The roots take in as much water as the plant needs through capillary action.

Mrs. M and I enjoyed a short-lived friendship – her husband retired from tea a few months after we came to know each other. Before they left, she asked the girls around to her place, ‘To play with my daughters’ dolls house’ she said. Her own daughters were away at college then, and instead of moping about how she missed them, she asked other people’s children over now and then. Swati and Parvati, who were around eight and ten years old then, went over, and had a great time playing with the dolls house, and running about all over the lovely garden there!

I called Mrs. M. on the phone to thank her, and I found she’d taken a real shine to Swati! ‘Would you believe it, Gorry! Your little one complimented me on my heliconia plant! There are very few adults I know who know the name of the plant, and this little one not only knows what it is, but was kind enough to admire it!’
We had a good laugh. This is a picture of a heliconia that grows here in our garden!

About Extremes

Hydrange-as Sizzle in the Morning Sun!

The days are either scorching hot, or wet and chilly after a thunderstorm -- a bit like my life at present. I'm either inundated with work or coasting along vacantly. It tends to be like that when you work freelance, and from home, I guess. The tea garden word for the temporary worker who's employed now and then, is ‘Bigha'. So here I am, tasting life as a Bigha for the first time, and teetering between an existence as a jobless blogger and a blog-less jobber.

The Welcome Rain in the Afternoon

Pastels for Summer

Tiny zinnia seedlings have gone into flower beds, but may never live to grow and bloom, as caterpillar-s are eating them up. The shrubs around the garden are putting out flowers now, and little dots of colour are appearing in new places every day!
When the heat builds up, and the days are humid, these are the coolers that soothe tired eyes and lift our spirits!

Hydrange-as



Wisteria in its corner

Crotchety Craftsmen : A True Tea Garden Tale

We lost two really good craftsmen in Moraghat Tea Estate in the same year. One was Bawarchi, the Burra Bungalow cook. His name was Lakshman Singh Pradhan but everybody always called him‘Bawarchi’. The other was the garden carpenter, the 'Kath Mistri', Biren Sarkar. Each of these men could be described as a ‘character’ in his own way. Each one had a strong sense of tradition and of his place in it.

Bawarchi was one of a kind. He was already a very old and frail man when we got to know him. At the beginning of every cold weather, he would announce that he was going to die. The poor old man would arrive at work early in the morning, hunched up and shivering. He'd go home for his breakfast and bath and come back at around eleven o'clock, now walking straight, and actually looking younger. We would ask him if he was himself or a younger brother. He'd give us his trademark crooked grin in reply.

Bawarchi's shopping lists were unique. He had a strong sense of loyalty to the old British Sahibs and his idea of 'essentials' seemed to be based on a longing for those bygone days. At the top of the list, I'd find, not rice, sugar, and atta and so on, but corn flour, Worcester sauce, beans and carrots. He once told me the British sahibs would eat potatoes with their meat instead of eating bread, rice or chapattis. He seemed to like the idea quite a bit!

Bawarchi was old, but he cooked like a dream. His soufflés and cakes were light and lovely, and he made wonderful Indian and Chinese food as well. His 'pandraas’, cutlets and pancakes stay on in our memories. The only 'baksheesh ' that the old man ever wanted was a 'Thank you!' And he got plenty of heartfelt thanks in his time. Poor old man, he died of TB. In the cold weather, as he’d said he would.

Biren was an old timer too - he was painfully thin; he had a weak heart, was very shortsighted, and lame in one leg. He'd come limping to the bungalow with a fine walking stick which he'd made himself, and he had a helper who carried all his tools. He wore a woollen hat all the year round, shorts, shoes and socks, and a pair of very thick spectacles.
Biren was really an artist. Wood was something he understood, and he must have picked up his craft from the Chinese carpenters who worked in tea gardens many years ago. There are some glass fronted cupboards made by him with carved wooden frames of classic Chinese design. He once made an oval picture-frame, and gave it a perfect gloss. The joints in the frame are invisible. He carved us two or three fine walking sticks as well. He loved appreciation, and he had a lovely smile that lit up his face with kindness and goodness. Biren’s helper had to bear the brunt of his tongue, though. He was quite tough with him.

It was decided that Biren would make a wooden frame for the fireplace - a complete wooden mantelpiece, and the entire design was to be of his choosing. He was really happy. He loved the idea, the challenge, and the thought that he was going to contribute something to the bungalow that would be a source of pride and joy for years to come. It was, in fact, his final masterpiece. He retired some months later, and he died soon after. That was some months before Bawarchi died.


Biren Mistri's Final Masterpiece

Biren would have to do the entire job of the fireplace in the bungalow. There was no way he could take anything to the factory, as he’d have to keep taking measurements during the course of the work. The old man was worried about his morning tea break. How could he manage to walk all the way home for his eleven o'clock meal then back to the bungalow, with his leg being what it was? Well that was simple enough, he was told: he could have a meal in the bungalow. Bawarchi was instructed to provide Biren with breakfast; chapattis and eggs, every morning.

No one anticipated the storm that the two proud old men would manage to brew up between them. To start with, Bawarchi was outraged. Did anyone realise who and what he was? He'd been working for years -- so many years! -- first in Assam, and then in the Andrew Yule Company Kothi in Karballa. He'd seen so many sahibs and memsahibs, and from the British days! He'd cooked for such grand parties, he'd turned out a hundred and fifty perfect tandoori chickens on one night, and now, in his old age, he was being asked to wait hand and foot on this – this Biren Mistri!!

Biren addressed him as ‘ay!!’ and ordered him about, he said.
One of the complaints Bawarchi made was absolutely ridiculous. He claimed that Biren was profiting unfairly from the situation. How? No one could understand. So he explained. We bought eggs from Biren’s house, where one of his sons ran a small poultry business. And then, Bawarchi said, stressing the point, he was fed one of those eggs everyday. How could Biren sell us an egg and then eat it himself??

Biren, for his part, ranted about how Bawarchi deliberately took advantage of his dependence on him for food. He insulted him in every possible way, he said. He made him wait, and purely out of spite. He couldn’t bother with cooking him even chapattis properly. He grudged him every mouthful that he ate. Who was he to counter Burra Saab's orders anyway? Biren Mistri could not handle the daily humiliation, he said. He would go hungry, but he would not tolerate the Bawarchi's insults, insolence or arrogance.

Now this was a Situation. Neither Biren nor Bawarchi could be ticked off and told to stop behaving like a child. Each one was given a patient hearing, and then offered a suggestion. Biren's meal was to be served to him at a fixed time. All that Bawarchi had to do was to see that it was cooked beforehand, so that when he went home to eat, one of the boys could serve Biren. The arrangement worked well for a few days, and there were no fireworks in the kitchen.
And then one morning, Bawarchi started off again.

He had found a rotten egg. He complained, and then he raged about the villain who'd sold it to us. He brought it in a cup and waved it about, shouting about dishonest people and the bad stuff they sold, and how it was he who was accountable for everything that found its way into the kitchen. Who would have to take the blame, after all? It was so unfair. He was simply delighted that he’d got some tangible proof of his enemy’s villainy. He was going to take full advantage of it!

Once he quietened down, Bawarchi was told that the egg could easily be replaced. Wasn’t it always? No, he said, if we wanted any eggs replaced, ‘they’ always asked to see the bad egg in the first place. Well, then, he was told; he could go and show them the bad egg and ask for a replacement. There were other eggs in the house for now. That seemed to be the end of it.
The next day, Bawarchi went about looking less grumpy than usual. His sudden cheeriness made me stop and ask him about the bad egg. Had he managed to get a fresh one in its place?
'No,' he said. He smiled his old crafty smile.
'I cooked it and fed it to Biren Mistri.'

Have You Seen the Light?

The Olympic Flame has reached Delhi.
Before the torchbearers could set off on their ceremonial run, hundreds of supporters of Tibetan freedom ran a parallel torch relay.
All during the elaborate 'security run-through' involving thousands of law enforcement personnel.
The day's papers and the news channels on TV have reported that security arrangements are at a higher level than those for Republic Day, when terrorist attacks are feared. Citizens of Delhi, watch out for yourselves today. The police are away on a 'red alert' assignment.

What is today's elaborate bandobust in aid of? Is it to show the world (through TV cameras) that India is willing to drop everything to protect a torch, which is, at the most, a symbol?

The third, and parallel rally of the day, is of course the media tamasha. Photojournalists and reporters are running frantically. Every news channel on television is fighting to get footage, so its smart young things can assure us brightly in careful tones that 'the flame is safe.' Oh, what a relief. How much sleep did anyone lose over it anyway?

Standing Tall

This beauty is a kind of semal, or kapok tree. Its special feature is the four-cornered base, almost like the base of a dart! The boy standing at the base of the tree is one Bala. The pictures of these giant American trees, below, were sent to me by another Bala.

Redwood Tree in Redwood National Park

Wawona Tree Mariposa Big Tree Grove Yosemite National Park

Potato (Mish) Mash

Yesterday we drove away from the tea gardens towards the agricultural lands that lie to our south. On Sunday evening drives, you get to see the jolly sight of people returning from their trips to the weekly bazaar.

Not everyone was celebrating yesterday, though. This is a bad time for potato farmers. Our district, Jalpaiguri, and the neighbouring Cooch Behar District, are big potato growing regions, and produce high yields to the hectare. Prices have crashed, and no one wants any of this year's crop. (Read more)The problem is aggravated by the absence of sufficient storage facilities, or of organised agro-marketing. We saw this dismal looking group waiting for a pick-up truck.

Last week there were long lines of potato-laden trucks at the gates of the few cold storage facilities in the area. The gates remained firmly closed. The trucks caused major traffic snarls on the national highway, and local drivers started referring to these as 'Alu Jams'.
No wonder most farmers are now dumping potatoes in the fields from which they were harvested.

Some ten years ago, this happened with the tomato crop. The roads around the farming areas turned red, as distraught farmers dumped their produce there.

A young goldsmith and jewellery shop owner from the nearby Banarhat town lost a lot of money in a get rich quick potato-growing scheme some years ago. He had to close down shop. For some months after, he could be seen roaming around aimlessly all over town. On one occasion, he was reeling about talking to himself, quite drunk. I last saw him hard at work as one of the many karigars (workmen) at another goldsmith's -- formerly a rival outfit -- looking as dignified as ever.

April Love

Thank God for April. The cold weather is officially over, but we can spend hours outdoors in this season. The best part of living in the Dooars is the amount of time you can spend outdoors in the year.

The cold weather is the time for cultivated blooms, but come April, and you can sit back and watch things grow. March is still 'winter' in this age of climate change, but days get hot because it remains dry.

April is a time of growth and of destruction. The storms that occur at this time of year, the 'Kaal Baisakhi', as they are called here, are like tornadoes. They begin with sudden cloud formations, high speed winds, and, if tea planters and the local farmers are very unlucky, hail! Then the welcome rain comes lashing. Tea garden managers rush out after each storm to assess what damage -- if any -- has been done, and they send up heartfelt thanks for rain. However, I am sure their petitions to the Almighty are peppered with many conditional clauses. It is impossible to find a planter who is entirely happy with the amount of rain he's received, and how, and when, and in what concentration.

On most mornings, I see something in the garden which makes me rush back inside to get the camera. The dark, poky, secret corners of the garden often house shy beauties like this wisteria, which has been growing here for years. Nature lovers have to venture into these corners in the tolerant spirit of acceptance, and be prepared to face snakes, insects, or painful bites from hairy caterpillars!
 Petrea - at the time of writing this post, I mistook it for wisteria
This star apple tree has no fruits on it now, but offers a nice place to hide in (and to sulk), if anyone should need to do so.
 The garden has many little hidey-holes for a child to play in. Our girls have left home now, so I particularly enjoyed having our friend's daughter, Susan, a sunny sixteen year-old, stay with us while she prepared for her board exams. Like all tea garden children she would wander about outside with the dogs, lost in her own world.

One of the things the Mali has learnt over the years is the art of seed propagation in plants which are traditionally grown by other means.

Plants like lilies are generally propagated through bulbs.

Easter lilies always produce thousands of papery black seeds which burst out of tight pods, though we never used to bother with collecting them. Mithoo, the Mali, scattered some of these seeds around, and behold, what emerged was this striking flower, almost a Tudor Rose of a lily, combining red and white so perfectly !

Picture Post : Peepul Tree and Tree People; at Jalpaiguri Town and Teesta River Bank

March Past

One of the best things about the garden is that you can enjoy it round the year. When the 'Peak display' season is past, and when even the most houseproud of gardeners have stopped patting themselves on the back for their success with cold-weather annuals, there are a few showers. The grass turns green again after winter's crackly brown; summer's birds call out all day long, and Nature takes over. All is as it should be.

The last of our valiant dahlias make showy, if slightly minimized, appearances, mistaking every cool rainy evening for a return of 'their' season. The beds which we'd planted out last of all in early December burst with blooms. These are generally the 'leftovers' beds, where miscellaneous seedlings are planted after the regular beds are full. One such is near the back gate.


It's a variation of the riotous border, and colourfully named 'Pagla Palang' by our Dooars gardeners. 'Pagla' means mad, but is used here to mean 'not regular'. The Pagla Palang is planted out in the generous spirit of inclusion. No flower is too 'common' to be a part of it.

Out in the front lawn, while we're looking out for Easter lilies, one of the prettiest flowering shrubs of the region gets into its act.



It's called 'Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow'. The blooms are mauve on the first day, lilac on the second day, and fade to white on the third day. The garden is filled with the mild, soothing, lavender-like fragrance of the flowers all evening.

And then there are the Late Latifs. That's what hollyhocks are. This white beauty was certainly worth waiting for.




(You might like to read about the same garden at another time)

Click HERE to see More Flowers

As the Flowers Go By...Sikkim

Sikkim : All In Order

Progress has its pleasant side, too. Gangtok's main street, MG Road, is now closed to traffic. It has a nice new paved surface, and there is a wide granite road divider down the centre of the street, with benches placed on either side. The street was looking all festive for the International Flower Show. All of the town's residents seemed to have gathered at MG Road after dark on the inaugural evening of the Show. (The camera never came out of my bag for this reason!)We were told that they were waiting to receive 'VIP's. Not again! No, this time, we heard, they meant the Chief Minister and the Governor, and some bigwig from Delhi. When we saw that the crowds were growing, we decided we'd leave while we could.
Sikkim's people, we realized, are orderly in crowds. Nowhere in the region have I seen such large numbers of people move around without shouting, or shoving, or getting angry with one another. Before we could say 'All hail!’ the heavens opened. It was hailing! The crowds were still orderly, though in a hurry. We found shelter in a little tour operator's office and watched the hail turn the streets white in no time.
Oh, the beautiful flowers! What would become of them?
The next morning, to our relief, we found that Saramsa Garden had had only had a little rain, and no hail at all!


Among the attractions at the Flower Show were the performances by army bands, both at Saramsa Park, the venue of the flower show, and up at MG Road in Gangtok.

Sikkim : Peak Practice

Elegant Young Ladies of Sikkim

Preservation of the environment comes naturally to the Sikkimese people. Conservation is a part of their tradition; it's as old as the hills. They worship lakes and mountain peaks. On every visit to Gangtok, we have headed to the nearby peaks of Hanuman Tok, Ganesh Tok and Tashi View Point. The last named has a little cafeteria at the base of the hill, and a steep, short climb -- over stairs -- to the peak. I have often seen a Sikkimese man or woman leave a little heap of smouldering dried pine leaves at the hilltop, as a gesture of worship. When we visited last weekend, it was after a gap of a few years. I was horrified to find the peak 'occupied' by a large, three-storied polygonal building with a glass-fronted top floor. What an ugly piece of unnecessary construction! It completely took away the charm of the little peak. We expected the same developments at Ganesh Tok, and sure enough, that peak,too, which once housed the tiniest and simplest of shrines, had been built up in a big way.

...Cooling off at Tashi View Point Cafe!

Sikkim Flower Show

An International Flower Show was held at Saramsa Garden at Ranipool, near Gangtok, Sikkim, last weekend. We drove up on the inaugural day.
When we crossed the border from West Bengal into Sikkim at Rangpo, we saw that the check post and entry gate were decorated with large numbers of potted petunias.
Musician Welcomes Guests at Rangpo
We were surprised to see a little squad of men with masks and chemical sprayers. They sprayed the wheels of our car, and then asked us to get down and cross the border on foot -- walking over disinfectant-soaked sheets of sacking -- and I was reminded of those movie scenes of prisoners entering concentration camps. Meanwhile they gave the insides of our car a good blast with their sprayers. Why, we wondered. 'Bird-flu! Bird flu!' was the answer.
Our cars were stopped again, just after Ranipool, and we were told we'd have to walk the rest of the way to Saramsa (almost 3kms). The prisoner motif popped up again when a policeman at the parking lot allowed us to use the toilets in what turned out to be the local station's lock-up! There were large crowds walking down to the flower show.
Saramsa Garden, viewed from the highway 
'Only VIP cars allowed.' The 'VIP!' word filled the air. This seemed to be a rather ambiguous and inclusive term. It covered people like tourists (especially overseas visitors), government officials and participants! We were welcomed at the entry gate after our long trek as some variety of 'VIP' on the strength of our touristy hats.
It didn’t take long for us to realise that the show did not have much 'international' participation. What it did have was participation by a small number of Indian states, horticultural departments, nurseries and professional horticulturists of the region.
"


They displayed some wonderful orchids, roses, liliums and anthuriums. There were beautiful exhibits of exotic flowers imported by private businesses in Delhi and other places among the stalls, but that wasn’t quite what we had expected.
The real marvels were the plants growing in the Saramsa Garden itself - Primulas; Sikkim's special flowers, pansies, petunias, cinerarias, and klanchoes, in beds after beds, in borders and niches.
  Primulas
Petunias
The local paper explained that the farmers of the region had been handed out seeds some months before the show. They brought back thousands of flowering plants, which were bought off them and then placed all over the garden. Really ingenious as a cooperative effort - and the farmers benefited from the show thanks to this bright idea!

With some of the Beauties of Nagaland!





















My planter husband inspects the exhibits!!

Red and White

Easter is a big flowering time in the garden. Ever since I can remember, we had Easter lilies (Hippeastrum) growing at home. Huge trumpets of red lilies and lovely succulent white ones. These gorgeous lilies bloom once a year, and only for a few days.



All lilies are really easy to care for, and they propagate like anything, if you take the trouble to separate bulb clusters and plant out the bulbs. We had a clump of them growing here when we moved into Moraghat -- in a little bed behind the bathrooms, at the back of the house! They were removed carefully and planted out in the front, and for the last eleven years, they've bloomed in thousands. No credit to anyone. They are hardy plants, and are just waiting for a chance to thrive.

My friend Lesley had another variety of Easter lily, Amaryllis, growing in her garden in Gandrapara. She gave us a few bulbs, and now there's a profusion of these, waiting to burst into bloom. These are pure white in colour and have a lovely fragrance. Up in Sikkim at Saramsa Park last weekend, I saw them in another colour. They were in beds as big as small lawns, and only one or two of those hundreds of plants had opened a few buds. They were in the colour that was called Crimson Lake in our school paintboxes. To think that that garden must be in full bloom now!



Over the last few years, our Easter lilies have bloomed and disappeared well before Easter. Sometimes, however, they bloom as late as April, in time for our Vishu Kani. Today is Good Friday, and they're just beginning to peep out. The red always bloom first, and when they have almost all wilted, the white ones come out. It's as if they're telling the story of the Passion (suffering) and the Resurrection of Christ.

P.S.Today is the first Sunday after Easter, and a number of white lilies are out in the garden.

Time Out

There are some evenings that make you feel as if time has stood still. Yesterday, 20 March, was one of them. The hush that fell all around shortly after sunset was almost sacred. One couldn’t disturb it. Looking around, I got the feeling that I could have been anywhere, and of any age; seventy, or seven, and it wouldn’t have made a difference. The stillness, and that moment, which were bigger than time and space, would have had the same effect on me. A huge, nearly full moon rose in the silence. It was pale, and grew golden by the moment. The tree behind which it rose grew darker, until it became a silhouette. Suddenly the electric lights came on, and it was all over.