The Sounds and Words of Home
©April 18th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
Shuklam Bharataram Vishnum
Shashi Varnam Chaturbhujam
Prasanna Vadanam Dhyayet
Sarva Vighna Upashaanthaye
The words and the voice pull aside
Heavy curtains of sleep
And I stir to the warmth
Of M.S.’s voice
On a Sunday morning.
Clatter of stainless steel
Pathirams in kitchen-time; the
Bright glow of my mother’s
Pure voice singing along with
The ancient vedic chanting of the
One Thousand Names of Vishnu;
The sounds of filter coffee
And dosai being made
Plop, hiss, crackle, slap, turn
Sizzle of oil, or ghee.
Seated before the gods,
My father prays, bare-armed,
Clad in a white veshti, with
Sacred thread across one shoulder.
Sandalwood pasted daubed on
Upper arms and forehead, he
Chants mysterious prayers
(I never ask what they are).
Incense and camphor twine
Lovingly aroumnd the sudden
Cling-ting-gling-gling of a
Brass, hand-held bell,
Whose tongue is loud
And punctures the morning air.
Out, beyond the compound wall around
Our house, the low, grumbling moos
Of cows and buffalo in the sheds
Run by displaced milkmen
Plumb-spang in the midst of city-bustle
Make a droning background
For a new day in Tamil country.
And traffic stirs sluggishly awake,
Buses and cars and bullock-carts
And rickshaws, and the ding-ding of
Bicycle bells, as they plough and plunge
Through a chaotic morning.
Sunday it might be, but the city
Never stops, the work grinds on.
Edho madhiri aiduthu
(It’s become like … something!)
My mother would say
Sorrowing over some dish that
Came out not to her satisfaction.
Oru chottu uppu venum
(Needs just a jot of salt)
My grandfather would say, and
She’d agree, ever the
Connoisseurs, the artists
Of food in all its forms.
Kacha-muchanu vekka kudadu
(Don’t put it higgledy-piggledy!)
She’d admonish someone
If a straightening-up wasn’t straight –
She’d do it herself,
Ever the perfectionist.
Surusuruppaga valaiya va!
She’d say, exasperated,
When we lounged around,
In teenage sluggitude.
Be brisk, be surusuruppu!
Porum-porumna aidithu!
She’d sigh, when the work
Got out of hand, when her patience waned:
Things have become enough-enough for me,
And we chuckled, heartlessly.
(Sympathy came much later!)
Konam-Manama irruku
She’d observe about the
Parting I’d make in my hair,
Or about the lines around
Her mouth and chin, later.
It’s all crooked-wook-ed.
Meanwhile, my father, irrepressible
And irresponsible, punned happily
In three languages to our delight.
And all of us, helpless with laughter,
Forgave him his lapses.
Alas! I wish I could remember
What he said, how he said it.
I remember his voice, his smile,
His Jovian presence, his courage
In the face of pain.
And I cannot remember his words.
Ottha kal-la nikhadengo,
My mother would say
To my stubborn father,
Or to her stubborn children:
Don’t stand on one leg!
( When he lost his left leg
Years later, she wept, when
He joked about his leg:
Paaru! Ottha kal-la nikkeren!
Look! Now, I can stand on one leg!)
He laughed and almost-cried
And we cried and laughed,
And I wish, I wish, he’d heeded
Her words to us us:
Medhuva, nidanama pannu,
Pada-padaanu pannadhe.
Molla nada, molla nada.
Do it slowly, do it calmly.
Do not hustle-bustle.
Walk slowly, walk slowly.
_____________________________________________________________
The NaPoWriMo prompt for Day eighteen:
(This was VERY hard for me!)
And now for our prompt (optional, as always)! Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that incorporates “the sound of home.” Think back to your childhood, and the figures of speech and particular ways of talking that the people around you used, and which you may not hear anymore. My grandfather and mother, in particular, used several phrases I’ve rarely heard any others say, and I also absorbed certain ways of talking living in Charleston, South Carolina that I don’t hear on a daily basis in Washington, DC. Coax your ear and your voice backwards, and write a poem that speaks the language of home, and not the language of adulthood, office, or work. Happy writing!