Oct 22, 2015 Ramblings and Musings
Happy Dussera, Indian homies out there!
Okay, so … have I turned into a trad.Tam.Bram?
I celebrated Saraswati Puja yesterday — in my own style, at night (which I found out is frowned upon). Terribly busy day yesterday, everyone’s schedules were different, so …
I cleaned up the kitchen, and arranged some pictures of Saraswati around a big, shiny brass oil lamp. Then decided to go all out, and added Lakshmi, Kali and Parvati, and Ganesha, and Venkateshwara to those, picked some flowers from my garden (a rose or two, some calendula, plus some white flowers whose name I’ve forgotten). Filled the lamp with sesame oil, added some wicks and lit it (and very pretty it looked, indeed). Added some pretty candles around it, as well. Placed some fruit in a bowl as offering, and made some shira (it was too late for chakkarai pongal, which I’ll make today for Vijaya Dasami).
Then, I placed some books, our instruments and so on in front of the goddesses (and gods). Our daughter S, and my husband, W, joined in, and added theirs, as well. And, for the first time in about nine years, I pulled out my sitar, sat down and played Bhairavi on it — just a few lines of alap. (Does that bode well? I pray so!)
Then, the three of us sang some madrigals (not very Indian!), played “Pennies From Heaven,” each on our own guitar, while singing it together, and then, moved on to a Hindustani Khyal bandish “Sakhi mori” (Raga Durga, appropriately), which all three of us sang together. Then, S and I sang a couple of Carnatic songs (just the first few lines, because it was getting late) — somehow, S echoed me nicely, without actually knowing the songs.
Then, we sat down and ate.
Thus concluded our Pan-Indian-American Saraswati-Durga-Lakshmi-and-Ganesh puja.
Never mind that I did it all incorrectly. I called my mother, and she was very pleased that I’d decided to follow some sort of tradition.
She said, “You did it ‘manasala’ — from the mind and heart.”
So, yes. That’s that.
I did it for S, who at age ten, is suddenly more interested in Indian culture, and asked for it. My husband, an atheist, liked it too.
And I guess it fulfilled some need of mine. Culture? Tradition? A hearkening back to my young self?
Mind you, we aren’t religious at all (no offense intended to those who are.)
Tags: #Dussera, culture, Durga Puja, Saraswati Puja, Tamil Brahmin culture, tradition
Oct 15, 2015 Culture, Ramblings and Musings
As a young teenager, I used to wake up to all the songs on this album, and this one always moved me deeply, both for the beautiful pentatonic scale (1, flat 2, 4, 5, flat 7, 1 – or, Do, flat Re, Fa, Sol, Flat Ti, Octave Do –for those who want to know) of Revathi Ragam and MS Subbulakshmi’s heart-moving singing.
Tears sting my eyes now, as I listen to this, and it’s impossible to tell why — I mean I hardly know anything about this song, nor do I understand the words (it’s in Telugu, not my language). What this song does for me is to recreate an entire way of life, along with the song itself. It’s ringed about with devotion and quiet contemplation. It’s redolent with the scent of sandalwood or champa, or amber incense sticks which my parents would light in front of the gods in the mornings on festival days.
It reminds me of when I was a two-braided student, ugly, earnest and geeky, worrying about the shape of my toes and fingers, and practically everything else about myself. It was hot, hot as an inferno down South where we lived, and the air shimmered with salty heat. Sweat and humidity were part of simply being alive there. And we were SO alive, so full of vivid and vibrant energy! My father was alive back then, my parents were happy, my brother was an adorably charming, beautiful little toddler, and my sister was at IIT, singing like an angel, and studying and making new friends. And life was simpler, and I longed to grow up and face the world and make my own decisions, and … here I am now.
It reminds me of Tamil cultural events happening in my neighborhood, of the singing teacher next door, out of whose open windows would come the sounds of students earnestly learning Carnatic music, and being mostly in tune. I’d sometimes go to the terrace, to play at being a schoolteacher, and talk at the top of my pre-teen voice to unseen students, while I waved a branch from the drumstick tree that drooped over the other side of the terrace.
It reminds me of my mother’s exquisite singing voice, as she sang along, while making Madras coffee (the best filter cafe au lait in the world), and our breakfast. My mother’s voice contained in it (and still does, even if she doesn’t sing much any more) worlds of longing, of devotion, of pain, of contentment, of love and sacrifice.
On a more gustatory level, this song reminds me of upma, and dosai and idlis, and tengai chutney, sambhar, and rasam, and kootu, and porutcha kozhambu, of chakkarai pongal and venn pongal, and gotsu, murukku and ten kozhal, and patchadi, and … and temple bells, and marigolds, and of starry-white clusters of blooming jasmine and other swoon-inducing flowers in our garden.
It reminds me of Sunday mornings, when I’d lie in bed and read Tennyson, or D.H. Lawrence, or Jung … for FUN! Or, when I’d read the Oxford English Dictionary — for FUN! Or wrote poetry — for FUN! Or, played the guitar — for … well, you know. (Yes, I had no life, I’m sure!)
And it reminds me of how music always, always speaks to me.
An entire culture and way of life, and I don’t have it here, in these benighted States! And the sad thing is, I don’t even try and seek it.
Because, I say to myself, I’ve created my own culture — with our own music (Indian and Western), our home-grown fresh food, our own cadences, our own lovely day-to-day routines. Because, I say to myself, I dislike following rituals, dislike tradition which forces me to do more work than is necessary (and yet, we celebrate Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas in a vegetarian fashion). Because, Indian culture is hard to follow in a foreign land without getting together with a bunch of traditional people, and that has its own baggage.
And yet … I want my daughter to have it all, too.
All mothers want their daughters to have the sum total of their life’s experiences without the pain, or the sweat, or the tears, or the doubts, or the poverty, or the fear of what tomorrow might bring, or the heartbreaks and losses.
Ah well! Someday (soon, I hope), I shall resolve this matter.
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Tags: A way of life, culture, festivals, Indian culture, M.S. Subbulakshmi, music is life, North Indian Classical Music, Revathi Ragam, tradition