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[13 Feb 2004|06:50pm] |
Glossary
Agharbati - incense. Used heavily in Devi temples especially.
Sari Fall -- the hem of a Sari
Chakkara Pongal -- Sweet rice. Pongal is a type of rice and Chakkara means 'sugar' or 'of sugar' in Tamil.
Sambhar Sadham -- rice mixed with a spicy soup called Sambhar.
Thalli -- An affectionate term for 'little girl' also in Tamil.
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| Vande Mataram |
[13 Feb 2004|06:43pm] |
When I say it is a bit odd, that's a gigantic understatement. The style is intentional and so are fragments etc etc. This was competely drug induced.
Vande Mataram
a sketch
"I bow to thee, Mother,
richly-watered, richly-fruited,
cool with the winds of the south,
dark with the crops of the harvests, the Mother!
Her nights rejoicing in the glory of the moonlight,
her lands clothed beautifully with her trees in flowering bloom, sweet of laughter, sweet of speech, the Mother, giver of boons, giver of bliss."
The English translation of the stanza
rendered by:-
Shri Aurobindo
(Translation of the Vande Mataram)
I, a nostalgic woman, keep a gramophone record and place it gently into the player and it whirls and buzzes. The static is refreshing and so is the smell of agharbati and burnt wood. It is like a chakara-pongal and sambhar-sadam mix of sweetness and spiciness that comes through my window. From the golden gramophone horn, the Swamiji begins in his sandpaper voice about the virtues of feminine beauty, and sexual chastity which is ridiculous because he fell out of grace when he did more than look up the sari fall of a washerwoman. The smoke comes in through the window quickly so I bring my chair by the window and wait very patiently as the Kali temple across the street is ablaze and the fire pours out of the large wooden Kali on the roof and her eyes are hollowing –
-- the choir sings, and a broken veena serenades “Vande Mataram.” The weather outside is glorious but ink gray and on the verge of shedding tears. The temple is crammed up against the apartment building and burns with a vengeance, agharbati and all.
Nobody is fighting the fire, save a little boy and his pot in the middle of traffic and he is throwing water from the parked Ashok water truck on the curb across the street. Shubhalam, Shubharam … richly watered, richly fruited …
The water beats against the front of the steps but the fire rages throughout and has a field day. I can hear the screams of those trapped inside the Devi’s wooden dungeon but no one else stops to hear or to watch.
on the cool winds of the south the heat hitchhikes and scorches indiscriminately, though a single soul runs out of the temple and into the front, bedecked in her gold that blazes into her deep auburn silk. She is a dancer and she bypasses Kali’s demonic eyes at the front of the temple and the boy drenches her in the sweet water of the Ashok truck, which has started, the engine revving up.
-- her nights rejoicing in the glory of the moonlight, her arms clothed with the trees in flowering bloom --
And her hair strings behind her in jasmine glory as the water truck chases after her in panic.
-giver of boons- And Kali watches as the dancer is not fast enough and the truck smashes into her and I can’t hear anything except the crush of anklets under the powerful water truck; it doesn’t stop soon and blood pours out freely from all over. She lies and watches the tank which now heaves and trails precious sweet water that drenches the road.
The boy takes up his pot and pours it over the girl who is still breathing but the lungs are beginning to close in and soon she lies flat, facing her new home and her eyes are growing white
giver of bliss
From the table near me I take the expensive flowers from America the mythical place known only as a country that my daughter studies in geography and by my cousins who were given this pass to a better life so that they could give me these flowers. I rip them up. Facing the street I drop these foreign blossoms slowly and one petal settles down from a bright tiger lily on the dancer’s luscious, dark cheek
and moves up and down with each and ever breath she makes, that she still is making. The old Bhabi sees me from her next window and shakes the blossoms from her hair too because she understands, too. Soon, the air is alive with plucked blossoms, some of them foreign and some of them organic and from our saffron soils, taken from where they are nestled in braids or in front of their Devi for prayers. Thalli! I call as the gramophone horn swells in song. Watch how we welcome you home! The boy rains water over the dancer but she does not revive, feel like reviving, but she welcomes the sky which cries fragrant tears of jubilation.
Vande Mataram, I whisper. Hail to thee, mother!
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[16 Jan 2004|04:31pm] |
Erin -- I'll be out tonight ... I've got a piano class, and another assignment that I have to do, so I just wanted to let you know. Happy packing for where you are going and happy travels!
- Sreya
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| Kalialaya - Part One |
[15 Jan 2004|07:07pm] |
This is a fictional story, written from the dreams of Kalialaya.
----
Even from far away I could see the great white walls of Kalialaya. The bus stopped and opened its doors, the passengers streaming out excitedly. I could see the tops of the tall buildings within the city, gleaming and proud in the afternoon sunlight. I stepped off the bus and took a deep breath. The air felt cleaner here. Walking closer, I saw two pleasant looking men standing on either side of the ornate white gates. They had simple but clean light green tunics on and were greeting the new group of people waiting to get inside the gates. As I came up to them, the man on the right lifted his hand in hailing and walked toward me. I acknowledged him by also raising my hand and waving.
“Good afternoon, Miss. What brings you to Kalialaya?” He smiled.
“I’ve never been here before, and I’d like to see the city that everyone talks about.”
The man nodded, still smiling, and walked away from me, motioning for the others and I to follow. He called to the other man and they went to the middle of the gate and unlocked it, pushing it aside and calling for us to continue through. Resituating my backpack’s straps on my shoulders and letting the rest of the group get ahead of me, I noticed that the road had changed. Smooth, neatly laid out stones formed a cobblestone road that led further than my eye could see. Many people bustled about, but there was no angry shouting or crowds pushing to get on a bus. The sun was beginning to set, making the glass tops of some of the buildings shine with every shade of orange, yellow, purple, and pink; It was like a million reflections of the sunset. The road had small buildings on both sides, with brightly colored signs on the front of each one. Small groups of people dotted the sidewalks, talking amongst themselves and laughing loudly. Small rickshaws zipped past me in both directions and the orange and red cloth of the market tents in the middle of the street rose and fell with the light breeze. I could hear metal clanging together and the lilt of an old record playing somewhere nearby. I walked closer to the first tent and looked at all the intricately designed wooden carvings, painstakingly painted, that were laid out on brocades of red and yellow fabric. I picked up a carving in the likeness of Kali and ran the tips of my fingers over it lightly. I looked to the merchant - a short, elderly woman - and tried catching her attention.
“Pardon me, I’d like to buy this.” I held up the Kali figure.
The woman smirked and walked closer to me, taking the wood carving from my hands and looking it over.
“Fifteen hundred rupees, bujji.”
I took my backpack from my shoulders and rummaged around for the right amount of money and handed it to the woman, who handed Kali back to me.
“Be careful with her.” The woman said, winking before she turned to another customer.
I held Kali in my hands as I walked idly through the streets. The shops slowly faded into a residential area. The houses were simple but appealing with their bright colors. The doorsteps were particularly beautiful, I saw, with detailed powder art decorating the stone. I looked down at my little Kali and smiled. The light had grown very dim, the sky a light purple now.
“I suppose we should look for some food, huh?” I asked the carving.
I turned back and walked until I found an available rickshaw, and asked where the nearest restaurant was. The man grinned, saying it wasn’t too far away. In only a few minutes we were there, and I hopped out and paid the still grinning man. My stomach rumbled.
The strip was a brightly lit area, people wandering beneath the streetlights. The grocery stores were closed and the outdoor food markets had packed up and disappeared for the night, but most of the restaurants were still open. A few feet from me there was a band loudly performing a song with red faces and wide smiles which delighted their clapping audience.
I walked into the open doorway and a warm draft washed over me, carrying the spicy scents of Basmati rice with Navaratan Korma. I smiled and went to order my dinner.
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| Jai Kali! |
[09 Jan 2004|09:09pm] |
I started this personal journal as well as the community ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif) shakticause for Sreya's vision.
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