Sep 30, 2015 Daily Life, Writing 101
Homing Instinct, or: The Long Way Back
©September 30th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
So, I’ll keep this brief.
I was about five years old and completely fearless (except for my irrational fear of Dracula and Mini-Cula, a character made up by my uncle who told us scary stories which made me whimper at night).
I was at school — Hutchings High School (which, despite its name was a k-12 school) in the city of Poona (now Pune), India.
I was up in a tall tamarind tree, gorging on tamarinds. Everyone who knows tamarinds knows that they are sour, but the unripe ones are green and even more sour than you can imagine — they make your taste buds squeal in squirmy ecstasy, like someone tickling your toes. I loved plucking them and sucking on them, screwing up my little face into a rictus of comic joy, no doubt.
Other children were there too, on different trees, but I don’t remember them.
Lost as I was in sour bliss, I lost track of time.
I noticed after a long time that the whole playground had suddenly gone silent. I came to myself, and looked around. There was no one there, not even my elder sister, who would usually wait for me (I shall ask her tomorrow why she didn’t), and remind me to do stuff.
Panic must have stricken me. I don’t remember. All I remember was calmly thinking about HOW I was going to get home. We had no telephone. My family was of modest income at the time. Home was quite far away. My father would have no idea of where to begin looking for me. I think I worried more about them than about me.
So, I thought rapidly. The mists of late evening had fallen. I remember the darkness pressing down on all sides.
I thought and thought, and light dawned on me. I knew what I’d do! I’d take an auto-rickshaw home.
Now, those of you who know the city of Pune know that it is the proud home of Bajaj Autos and of scooters, motorcycles and the like. I imagined my route home. And I knew I could make it there.
I hailed a rickshaw. I don’t remember anything about the driver of it, except that he was kind and patient. In rapid-fire Marathi ( a language of which I do NOT remember anything now), I outlined my situation to him. I told him confidently that I knew the way home, and that he should take me there, and that my parents would pay him when he delivered me.
He must have smiled to himself, but he was very nice. And I led him through a torturous route, which he followed patiently (I could not remember addresses and such, but I knew how to get home).
A rickshaw ride that should have taken about fourteen minutes took about an hour — but he took me home, and delivered me to my thunderstruck and frantic parents.
Now think for a moment about this. In a world where children are routinely abducted, sold into slavery, molested or killed, I made it home safely. My driver was a good man. I bless that man, and wish him well, if he’s alive. May his children and grandchildren grow and prosper.
For he was a trust-worthy man, and I trusted him. We always have to trust in the kindness of strangers, but in today’s world, it’s better to verify as well.
My mother must have wept, my father must have laughed in relief, my sister must have sobbed ((I have no memory of their reactions). The rickshaw-wallah reassured them, then laughingly told them something that my parents reminded me about for a long time, and which I still remember: I had led him home on the longer, slower school-bus route, and had pointed every house, every pole and every landmark along the way.
Perhaps, that has been my route in my life, too. I have always taken the longer way — it’s not always been efficient, but I’ve met good and wonderful people, and it’s been fun.
It still is.
I was plain lucky. And I had an unerring homing instinct. I still have it. Put me down anywhere, and I’ll make it back home. I have the map of my world imprinted on my nerves, I think.
And I love coming home.
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Tags: homing instinct, Hutchings High School, North Indian Classical Music, Parvati Darshan, Poona, Pune, rickshaw ride, rickshaw-walla, school-girl's odyssey, tamarind tree, the kindness of strangers, the long way home, trust, trust but verify
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