Mar 15, 2015 Awake in Real Time: Coffee-induced Meditations and Journal Entries
What I shared a minute ago on FB today:
Nostalgia of an Ex-Pat Indian
By Vijaya Sundaram
©March 15th, 2015
We Indian Ex-Pats (yes, ex-pats!) are a strange lot, and vary wildly from sub-group to sub-group.
What I do know about myself now, is this:
I may not follow most of the customs of my birth culture (mostly because of lack of time up until now — let’s see about next year — or perhaps, it was a lack of initiative or interest, since I was too absorbed in making music, or learning to be a teacher, and now, being a mom, and being in the day-to-day, here-and-now part of existence). I may not be religious in the least. I do not subscribe to any of the unthinking superstitions that governed previous generations.
And yet, and yet … there was certainty and comfort in their ways, the ways of the older generation. There was predictability and safety in patterns of existence, and ways of communicating.
What we are now engaged in doing, we Indian transplants, (or at least ex-pats like me) is the act of creating our own culture, grafting that which we can do onto that which we *do* do (no jokes here, please!), trying on this, and shrugging off that.
But these are what I miss:
I miss the smells of Diwali morning in Madras (Chennai), and in Pune — a mix of sweets and savories freshly made, of crackers going off in the mornings, of jasmine flowers and marigolds, of champa and sandalwood agarbattis, snaking past our noses into our clothes, our memories, our bones.
I miss the oil-baths with heated sesame oil, and shikai shampoo, which we had to endure, grumblingly at 4:30 a.m. on Diwali morning.
I miss the smell of Kancheepuram silk long-skirts and blouses, which were our parents’ gifts on Diwali morning.
I miss the sweetness of my mother and father blessing us, as we bent down to the ground in respect before them.
I miss the sweet ginger paste and juice especially made for that day by my mom, to help with digestion, after all the heavy sweets we would all eat.
I miss the casual ringing of the doorbell, which is standard in India, and the raucous entry of relatives or neighbors trooping in to wish us, and of our doing the same to them.
I miss Pongal, and Kanu, and Karthikai, and Ganesh Chaturti, and Krishna Jayanthi, and Dassera, and Saraswati Puja, and everything.
I miss the cries of vegetable-vendors and clothes-to-vessels peddlers (the batli-wallahs).
I miss the carts which would trundle through neighborhoods, where the man pushing the cart had a coal-filled heavy iron, which he’d use to press your clothes into creased perfection.
I miss the dogs on the street, causing chaos at any time of day or night.
Oh, and the pigs, the goats, the cattle, the crows.
I even miss the casual burning of rubber tyres by the poor on the sidewalks, to stay warm on cold Pune nights.
I miss the smell of mint rice, and methi parathas, of potatoes and peas curry and of aloo parathas, of thengai rice and lemon rice, of rasam chatham, of rotis and curries being made in neighbors’ flats or houses, and wafting past my senses, making hunger come on suddenly and fiercely, despite the fact that I might have just had a delicious lunch.
I miss the kindness of passersby, if you were in distress, and yes, people have been kind to me (don’t think that all of India is like how it is depicted in all this recent news about Delhi).
I miss it all.
And my heart aches with nostalgia.
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Tags: #Nostalgia, Ex-pat Indian, festivals, India, Missing home, Reminiscences
Mar 29, 2013 Uncategorized
Day-Night-Quiet — Pune, India
©By Vijaya Sundaram
Written in India, on Friday, July 16, 2010
And the hills coming closer
Closer, closer
Marching towards the buildings
Being built
And the sky reaching
Towards the claustrophobic
To pluck them, gasping, into open space,
And the slim bais walking along the road
Not yet bent by hard work
In the houses of the rich,
The not-so-rich, and the toilers,
Walking proud, strong, upright
Knowing it is they
Who keep the dust at bay.
And the blood streaming
Through my arteries,
Through veins, dreaming
Along the shores
Of my being, reminds me
Of all that goes on, while all
This toil proceeds in the world
Around the edges of my skin.
And the crickets chirping
And the dogs yelping
And the buses hooting
And the rickshaws snorting
And the trucks squawking
And the light bulb humming
And the baby crying
In the flat below,
And my neurons abuzz
With mindless chatter
Non-stop chatter, flitting
From this to that, from thought
To feeling, from shapeless notion
To an idea taking form,
Taking up all my mindspace
And my mind craving quiet.
And quietness presses in
Opens her petals,
And the buzzing comes to
A dreaming halt
Drinking in the nectar
Of sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Original Poetry, City Sights, City Sounds, India, Night Sounds, Pune, Sleep
Mar 29, 2013 Awake in Dream Time - Journal Entries about the almost real, the surreal and the unreal
Jamun — A Fictional Walk Through *Purple Prose
©By Vijaya Sundaram
(Written in India on Friday, July 16, 2010)
The bleeding, purple heart of the jamun fruit crushed under heedless footsteps colored the sidewalks of the streets, as I wandered aimlessly, endlessly, fruitlessly.
All I saw was desolation everywhere amidst the greenery — broken fruit, broken windows, cracked buildings, spit-covered walls. And yet, the fruit, the fruit … all that crushed purple bleeding profusely on the patient sidewalk!
I looked up. The trees, the flaming flowers of the flaming-flower tree (what the hell is it called, anyway?), the delicately blossomed perfumed flowers of the “night queen” tree, and the gigantic jack fruit trees swayed sensuously in the still air. Still air? Then, whence the swaying? A freak wind? I stood still, mouth agape, thoughts stilled. After a sigh (mine? the breeze?), I resumed my meandering.
(*Thanks, Oscar Wilde, for a phrase that has forever become a part of the English language. Your “purple prose” always thrilled me!)
Tags: Fictional Walk, India, Jamun Fruit, Pune, Purple Prose
Mar 17, 2013 Awake in Dream Time - Journal Entries about the almost real, the surreal and the unreal, Essays on Music and Musicians
Roots Music
(Pune, India, 1994) – An Original Poem
©Vijaya Sundaram, March 17th, 2013
To get to the roots of things,
We dug deep, drenched in song.
At times, things were rich,
Saturated, awash in light.
At others, rocks shouldered through,
Got wrenched out of the way.
That was the year when
Unexplained sorrow burst
Through inexplicable joy,
Escaped, became song.
Sometimes dreams came,
Pursued by demons,
Effaced by the gods.
That was a good year,
Full of magic realism, when
Dreams came on winged backs
And bore me away, and
A three-faced Goddess
Showed me favor,
As I ran, carrying a fish in a jug.
That was the year to rise,
Untrammelled by the mundane.
Above the struggle, we leaped
Into a space of pure spirit.
That was the year we distilled
Our music-minds, mined the ether.
That was the year, when,
Lighter than air, lighter than light,
We rose, embryonic-winged
For we were ruled by spirit,
And our spirits were weightless.
~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Music, #Original Poetry, #Vijaya Sundaram, #Warren Senders, Antigravity, India, Pune
Mar 16, 2013 Awake in Dream Time - Journal Entries about the almost real, the surreal and the unreal, Parenting/ Home-schooling / Family Music and other Notes
On the Road, in Kerala
©A Short Poem by Vijaya Sundaram
March 16th, 2013
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It whispers in like mist
Swirls softly around the edges
Of a tired consciousness,
Descends, in folds of subtle silk.
The moving scenes outside
Drift away in Dopplerian shifts:
Hills clad in ecstatic green,
Small dwellings on the roadside,
Palm trees and flowering plants
Whoosh away in bursts of color.
Dogs, curious and incurious,
On the sides of roads, and hills
Roosters and chickens, pigs and cows
Cluttering the fringes of things.
As eyes close, and breath settles
Into a pattern, calm, rhythmic.
And, full of purpose and beauty,
My child slips quietly into sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Original Poetry, India, Kerala, On the Road in Car