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 …

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

Apr 6, 2013 Original Poetry

Dancing Bells
(Honoring my Daughter’s First Ghungroo Ceremony)
©By Vijaya Sundaram
April 6th, 2013

A deity smiles

Benignly down

At the offerings

And the flowers.

Indian food and chai

Compete with incense

The air is quiet

Awaiting blessing.

Today, my girl learns

What tradition is

And she turns on the

Hinge of creation

She to her teacher,

She to her teacher,

Connected by bells

Strung tight together.

Wise words are spoken.

Her teacher evokes

A sense of sweet awe

Reaching for realness.

Hot tears sting my eyes

Mine too, he whispers,

As I dab at them

With my dupatta.

The ceremony

Glows through the morning

A quiet reverence

Saturates the air

Bells on their ankles

Tender and thrilling

Quell their pressing doubts

Render them quiet.

Then, they whirl and twist

They twirl and they stamp

And turn, her young friends

And she, dancers all.

The bells ring out clear

And bright, and tender

The blessings linger

In hands, feet and hearts.

Now, she is one with

Her dancing self and

She sees where the road

Leads.  She is unfazed.

She is persistent,

She is stubborn,

Reverential.

These will move her feet.

And her arms will shape

The air into song

Sculpting song into

A pattern for her days.

And her teacher’s words

Will string the small bells

Of each dance into

Bells that ring for life.

For the tradition

Comes through each of them

Through the student and

Into tomorrow.

Tags: #Life, #NaPoWriMo, Anklet bells, dance, Daughter and Teacher, Ghungroo Ceremony, Guru, Kathak Dance, tradition

Apr 2, 2013 Original Short Stories

Life – A Story About

©By Vijaya Sundaram

April 2, 2013

NOTE:

(Story Begun on April 2, 2013)

(1,969 words during the first half of the

day, the remaining ones post-dinner today.)

 Part I (not because it makes logical sense, but because I left it where I left it, to be continued on another day.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The nine-year old boy lay on his exquisitely-appointed, silk-covered bed, and stared at the sparkling gold and blue ceiling. His name was Uyir Arasan, and his name meant Life-King.

He was confused. He thought about things he had never thought before. He didn’t know how to express them.

And he didn’t know to whom he could express them.

He was the product of a social upheaval, the inheritor of chaos and solitude. He was all alone in the world. He had been alone for eight of his nine years. Of the first year, he had no memory.

There were times when Uyir was tired of it all, but he wouldn’t have known how to say that.

He had been in his room his whole life. He wasn’t sure how he got to be there. That was his entire existence. His Keeper was kind to him, but he never saw him or her or it. Food and water appeared miraculously and routinely several times a day. His room was cleaned and tidied daily, probably when he was in deep sleep. He never thought to ask how his sleep was so deep that he didn’t hear any sounds.

There was something wrong with the room. Uyir didn’t know what it was, but you would have known it instantly had you walked in.

It had no windows (he didn’t know that they had been blocked from the outside, and painted over with a pretty scene). It had no observable doors, either (he didn’t know that there were two doors, and both had been blocked up as well, and big door-sized scenes of dragons slaying humans were painted over them).

There was a slot, though, covered over with velvet. Through it, a mechanical arm would extend a beautiful silver plate, laden with delicately prepared, delectable food, fit for a Prince. The mechanical arm would also extend a silver-chased cup filled with water.

(Once, bitten by curiosity, the little boy had lain on the floor, and looked out through the slot. There was a red carpet that stretched in both directions, but otherwise, nothing was visible. In wonder, he watched as a mouse scampered by. He stretched out his fingers, and it climbed onto his hand. He pulled his arm in, and gazed in admiration at the little creature. It did not seem afraid. It looked back at him with little beady eyes, and twitching whiskers. Then, it clambered up his arm, and went close to his neck. It seemed to lean up and whisper in his ear. He loved the feel of it. When he stroked it, it closed its eyes and went to sleep. From then on, the mouse was his sole companion, and kept him from going insane).

When it was supposed to be day, light streamed in, light which emanated from no known source. (Uyir could not have been able to tell you what a true day felt like, although he could dutifully repeat the information imparted to him by an unseen voice.)

Light was gradually turned down, and then switched off when it was supposed to be night. (Uyir could not have told you what night was, either, except to repeat what he had been told.)

He didn’t know what sunlight was, or rain, except from the book that mentioned that the one was bright and the other was wet. He would not have known to ask. How could he, when he had seen neither?

He didn’t know what it meant to have a mother or father, or to have someone love him, hug him and take care of him. The concept was alien to him. How could he know what a mother or father was, when he had known neither?

Someone had taught him language. He hadn’t seen the person who taught him, but heard the voice. Someone had trained him to express himself and his feelings through words, but his face remained, for the most part, immobile. He had no human models to imitate. When he was happy, he would smile, but it looked more like a primate. When he was sad, he felt the sting of a painful substance, which trickled down his cheeks, and could feel his face crumple up. He was told the stinging wet substance in his eyes was known as tears and that tears came when people were sad, or when they hurt, so he supposed that that was what he felt. As for the strange crumpling up he felt his face do, he supposed that that was what the face had to do when the tears trickled down.

So, he lay there, thinking of nothing in particular, and an alien thought entered his mind, that of freedom. He had no word for it. All he knew was that to stay in this room for one more day was insupportable. He wanted to break loose,and dance in the open, where the ceiling disappeared and the walls faded away.

One does not need to learn the concept of freedom from a book. Every living creature knows this feeling in its ganglions, even if she, he or it might not know the word. It is that which makes us happy. It is that which shows us the way to the stars.  It is that for which all social revolutions have happened.  It is that which makes us human.

The word “freedom” was one which he had not encountered in his daily lessons with the unseen voice. That was one word that was carefully omitted. Only books which didn’t contain that word were chosen for his education.

For he was being trained to be obedient, subservient, and make others in their turn, subservient – to him.

He was a Young Prince: A King in the Making.

A Regent had been appointed in his stead by the people who had overthrown the rule of his father.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

His mother and his father had been slain brutally in the upheaval which had taken place when he was a year old.

His father, the King, had been seen as too idealistic, too modern, too progressive. He was all these, and it spelled death for him in a land where all three concepts were anathema to the ears of the Traditionalists.

For the King had been talking about abandoning the old ways, and about embracing change. He had talked about tapping into the energy of the sun and the winds to create automatic machinery that did the traditional work of the oppressed laborers, who coaxed the fields to yield up their harvest to feed the Fat Ones, who lived in indolence and luxury.

The Fat Ones had a smug certainty about their position in the hierarchy of things. Among the things they were certain about was that they wanted their food grown by hapless humans who were subservient to them. They liked the pomp and circumstance which attended the annual Harvest Festival, with their kowtowing serfs, farmers, millers, milk-maidens and horse-trainers and cow-keepers. They loved the idea of the different Guilds which were required to pay obeisance to them every month in the form of new artifacts and amusing toys. They chuckled with delight every September, when the skilled artisans brought them beautifully wrought gold and silver objets d’art which featured moving, automated figurines that danced, bowed, did cart-wheels and so on.

The Fat Ones considered this their right and that which was justly due unto them.

They did not like the idea of being shifted from one scheme of things to another. The Fat Ones consulted their underlings, and kept their thoughts private, but amassed their own smaller armies. The King had already abandoned the old custom of keeping spies (Why do we need spies if we are honest? was his question, and the ministers looked at each other surreptitiously).

Then, he spoke about allowing men to marry men, and women to marry women. “Why not?” he argued, “It is love, and love is good.”

Oh heresy upon heresy! The populace shuddered violently. The small section of the people among them who agreed with the king couldn’t voice their agreement. It was too dangerous, and might mean death for them. So, they joined in the abuse-heaping that ensued, even more vociferously than the others, for fear of detection.

He spoke about the disbanding of the religion that gripped the land in its vice-like claw. Religion, which made them act beastly and hate and kill. Religion, which made EVERYONE into slaves, even the Fat Ones. Religion, which was always about the ones in power oppressing the ones without any. How did they all buy into that? was his question. I won’t be the one controlling everyone, he asserted. And I certainly will not have the priests ruling us all!

This was the last straw. The pot had been boiling, and now it foamed over.

The ravening hordes arrived, plundered and looted the palace, and killed everything that moved.

The carnage that resulted was appalling. The entrance to the Royal Kitchens was a standing pool of blood. At the edges of the pool were the slain ones, arms outstretched in supplication, terrors in their open, unseeing eyes. The gold-liveried Guards at the front of the palace had been casually killed, their throats cut, or their hearts stabbed. They lay there, like pieces of crumpled grandeur in their gold and red garb. The pretty palace maids clad in sky-blue and white pinafores had been in the gardens, hanging up clothes, or feeding the Royal Chickens, or herding the Royal Geese, or chivvying the Royal Peacocks. They had turned at the sounds and cries emanating from the courtyards, and tried to flee, but had been caught and killed. They lay there, supine and formerly pretty on the painfully green grass, their blood quenching the earth’s thirst, their stunned open eyes gazing up at the absurdly bright blue sky, while birds twittered happily around them.

It is always thus: Calamity and beauty, death and life, all these happen in those freeze-framed moments, when it seems well-nigh impossible that the world, and life, could be anything other than free and lovely, for the taking by all.

Alas, that day, life was taken from some by the others.

The King had been slaughtered with his ministers, where he had sat, holding state. The Queen had raced down the corridors to scoop up her baby and flee, but had been stabbed casually by a passing marauder.

And the baby had lain, warm and happy, gazing up with his bright brown eyes at the gold and blue ceiling of the room which had been his home for that whole year.

Who knew what he thought? Perhaps, he loved that ceiling, even then, and always looked at it. Or perhaps, he hated it, and wanted it to open, and reveal what lay beyond. For even one-year old babies have the urge to go beyond the edges of things and experience free-fall in space.

The baby had been saved, as babies often are in such stories.

How had that come to be?

After the upheaval, only the palace had been left standing, ready to be torched and burned to the ground the next day. The rebels went home, presumably to have a good meal and rest before their next spree. Nothing satisfies the lust for death as much as that which gives people life: Food and sleep. So, they went home, and their wives fed them, and treated them as if they were heroes.

After lusty eating, drinking, and mounting their women, the men went to bed, and had uneasy dreams. They hallucinated about the dead. They swore the next morning that the king had appeared before them all, and his voice had rung out from the edges of death, promising revenge. They woke up trembling and tired.

Uyir’s mother had died only a few feet from him. He might have died too, but for some reason, the marauders had been distracted by a commotion further down the hall, and had gone to add to the killing madness there.

Hiding in the huge closet to his room was his terrified nurse, Chaya. She had seen it all, and it was all she could do to keep herself from screaming hysterically when she saw the men, crazed by their lust for blood, slaughtering the Queen as if she had been a sow in a butcher’s shop.

When the sounds of their butchering spree had receded into the halls down the other end of the palace, Chaya, the maid, had crept out, shaking like the last leaf on a tree in a storm. Weeping bitterly, her hands shaking as though with palsy, she went swiftly up to her Queen, dipped her hands in the Queen’s blood, and came back to the baby. She daubed him with his mother’s blood, and then fled for her life.

She was the reason he was alive.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

I wonder who I am.

The thought leaped unbidden into the young Prince’s mind, swiftly following the first indefinable thought which smelled sweetly of of a thing that we would call Freedom.

Is anyone else in this world besides me?

This thought stayed with him. He knew it to be true, because one didn’t have to be told there were others there. We are like creatures with antennae. Our antennae pick up signals, even in our sleep. We know that that there are unseen presences among us. Our skin registers the shift in the air molecules, displaced by the presence of someone else, even when our eyes are shut, and we are in deep sleep.

I wonder how I came to be.

This thought stayed with him. For some reason, he was acutely agitated.

None of the books from which he was patiently taught by that unseen Voice mentioned parents. Mostly, the books were about science, mechanics, solitary people and adventures in which parents didn’t figure. If they did, he did not register them as possibilities.

Just then, the mouse ran up his arm and squeaked in his ear. He felt an uprush of tenderness. Stroking the quivering little thing with a gentle forefinger, he spoke softly to it. The creature’s presence calmed him, and he was consoled.

—————–To Be Continued———————–

Tags: #Freedom, #Life, #Solitude, Change, Coming of Age, epistemology, Language, Original Story-Part I, tradition, Uyir, young adult