May 18, 2016 Free Verse, Original Poetry, The Daily Post

South-Bound
©May 18th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

The land pulses with heat
And moist air, pregnant and brooding
With malligai and bougainvillaea
And chanpakam and rojapu.
The pure and sinful scent of chandanam
The heady perfume of ylang-ylang
The fragrance of Madras coffee
The aroma of steamed idli with sambhar,
And upma and paper-crisp dosai-chutney
All blend with memories of temple-bells
And camphor-scented rituals before the
Incense-intoxicated household gods.

Where girls go to school in two-plaited
Goody-goody-ness, speaking primly
To each other on buses that lurch on,
While they stand in starched
School-dresses, carrying bulging
Satchels on thin shoulders,
And gaze stiffly forward, despite
Suggestive remarks and frank stares
From shiftless and shameless louts;

Where dabba-wallahs carry tiffins
To and from school and workplaces and homes,
In muscle-melting heat, on sturdy bicycles,
Secure in their role as food-carriers,
Doing no harm, doing much good;

Where the emaciated mendicant,
Bent-backed and black from the sun
Comes to the door of house after house
Singing, “Bhavathii Bhiksham dehi,”
And the lady of the house approaches,
Tips a bowl of uncooked rice into his brass pot,
While her child watches from the door
Heart beating fast for the barefoot beggar,
Whom one must never turn away empty-handed,
Because all who come for food
Are from the Divine, and may not be refused;

Where temple bells ring on Holy Days,
And the chanting of fat Brahmin vadiyars
Weaves a moody spell in the mid-morning heat
That mingles with the radiant burst of marigolds
Forming garlands for the gods, or priests,
While starving men and dogs sit outside the gates
Some waiting, others rooting through trash;

Where puritannical prudery persists
And the tyranny of tradition holds sway,
Where rules are made, and followed blindly,
Unquestioningly, and no sense emerges
Save that one must uphold tradition;
Where kindness saves, and community
Knits lost people together during floods;

Where dancers, musicians, thinkers
Create new worlds, rich with art;
Where technogeeks leave in droves
To find more sympathetic stomping grounds;

Where curd rice and pickles are enough
To keep body and soul together
In searing heat, and grinding poverty;

Where the sun beats down without mercy
And the rains slash down without ceasing,
Where the Bay and the Ocean
Drum incessantly against the land,
And the sun floods the waves in the early morn,
Strewing leaves of gold that skitter
Across the troughs and swells –
– This was the land of my youth. –

Where do you come from?
They asked, when I moved a few states Northward.
I answered, simply, “The South.”
And they said, Ah yes, I thought so.

Where do you come from?
They asked, when I moved across the ocean.
And I answered, “From India.”

But it is the South which beats in my body
Like a drum or a pulse.
And I shall return some day,
Unless the sea claims it first.

And if the sea does claim it,
I shall transform into a South Indian mermaid,
And swim home to the land under the sea.

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In response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt:  South

Tags: #DailyPrompt, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #South, #SouthIndianReferences, #TheDailyPost