A moment of closings, endings, finales. A moment of leave taking. A moment of what has been, what could have been, what would have been.
A moment, a fraction in the river of time, a brief heartbeat, a pause - 365 more days of your life gone!
A moment when the silent canvas turns blank. To be painted anew with fresh colours, with tints of new memories, new life stories.
A moment to catch a sun drop, hold it tight in your fist. A moment to let go. Let it slip through your fingers. A moment of yesterdays. A moment of new tomorrows.
I’m a boat floating in this flow of time. A moment to tether myself to a ghat, and watch a sun set. A moment to glance back, at the landscape I’ve traversed. A moment of adieu.
A moment of purple skies, the moons of yesteryears lingering over the hill, the howling winds of time lamenting, dying. A moment of time being reborn with the lusty song of the newborn.
And the river, as old as time, flows on. The music of the waters beckons me. Untie yourself. The ghat is not your destination. Traveller, your journey carries on.
A moment of new beginnings. A moment of continuations. A moment of new suns, new moons, new skies. And the river, as old as time, flows on. The journey carries on.
-by Rita Putatunda
Friday, December 30, 2011
Friday, December 9, 2011
Husshhh … Listen!
Husshhh … Listen!
Can you hear it?
Can you hear
The sound of the wings
Of a bird
Soaring high
In the shimmering sky
Plummeting
Down … down … to the ground?
Can you hear
The butterfly lingering
In the chill sun
Flitting from flower to flower
Sipping the sweet nectar
Of life
Dying
With a silent scream
Its iridescent wings fading
In a smothered dream?
Can you hear
The sound of the verdant earth
Drinking the green of life
Turning into bone white
Dry dust?
The sound of a teardrop
Trembling on the tender tip
Of another day, another sun
Choked
In a winter’s grief?
The sound of the stars
Blazing in the night sky
Extinguished
One by one by one?
You’d think the sky would rant and rage
All it does is watch mute and dumb
Like a trapped scream
In a gilt cage
And a shooting star streaks
Across the face
Of the sobbing moon
While the sound of the footsteps
Of Night approaches
Like toxic fumes
Softly, stealthily
Sly as death
Listen …
Listen to the sound
Of a flower curling
Slowly
Back into a twisted bud
Can you hear it?
The sound of poems
Never to be written
As I walk along
The razor edge
Of life?
Husshhh … Listen
Listen to the butterfly’s dying scream
Its glittering wings
Quivering in a bloodstained dream
-by Rita Putatunda
Can you hear it?
Can you hear
The sound of the wings
Of a bird
Soaring high
In the shimmering sky
Plummeting
Down … down … to the ground?
Can you hear
The butterfly lingering
In the chill sun
Flitting from flower to flower
Sipping the sweet nectar
Of life
Dying
With a silent scream
Its iridescent wings fading
In a smothered dream?
Can you hear
The sound of the verdant earth
Drinking the green of life
Turning into bone white
Dry dust?
The sound of a teardrop
Trembling on the tender tip
Of another day, another sun
Choked
In a winter’s grief?
The sound of the stars
Blazing in the night sky
Extinguished
One by one by one?
You’d think the sky would rant and rage
All it does is watch mute and dumb
Like a trapped scream
In a gilt cage
And a shooting star streaks
Across the face
Of the sobbing moon
While the sound of the footsteps
Of Night approaches
Like toxic fumes
Softly, stealthily
Sly as death
Listen …
Listen to the sound
Of a flower curling
Slowly
Back into a twisted bud
Can you hear it?
The sound of poems
Never to be written
As I walk along
The razor edge
Of life?
Husshhh … Listen
Listen to the butterfly’s dying scream
Its glittering wings
Quivering in a bloodstained dream
-by Rita Putatunda
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Drinking Coffee on a Bangalore Balcony
We’ve got a flat in Bangalore – lying empty now because we don’t live there anymore. I plan on going back there some time, to live, or, failing that, to sell it. Which will be a little sad. No, it’s not a particularly fancy flat or anything like that. In fact, it’s a pretty ordinary one, in one of those govt development housing plots, which are usually shoddily built. The flat, situated on the topmost floor in a five storey building, has its share of shoddiness, poor quality of doors and windows and other fittings, lousy finishing, and stuff. And yet, it has something about it, a certain cheerful character, which is unusual in mass produced blocks of government built flats.
A little away from the main city, bang in the middle of lush greenery (Bangalore is the most green city of all Indian cites I’ve been to), the blocks of flats are spread over a fairly large area, hence, not the usual cramped feeling you get in the usual housing plots. The interiors are roomy and airy, especially now without a stick of furniture, the ceilings uncharacteristically high, which gives a more spacious ambience. Most flats of this kind have a low-ceilinged shoebox feel about them. The flat has two bedrooms, accompanied by their bathrooms, a long sitting-cum-dining area which leads directly into a kitchen. Also, a long, fairly wide passage which connects the sit-cum-dine with the rest of the rooms, and leads out at one end into the balcony.
The balcony of that flat is especially lovely. There is a Krishnamachura tree on one side, the branches of which sort of cradle the balcony. The tree has broad luxuriant leaves and blood red fist sized blooms. On the other side stands a tall badam tree, which also has lovely lush leaves, some of which turn a delightful fiery orangeish-red. Out on the balcony, you feel as if you’re a bird perched on a tree. There are whole bunches of birds who keep you company, passing their time on the branches. They don’t fly away once they realise you’re not going to bother them. The koel being the most profuse, rending the air with their joyous koo-koo. But there are pigeons too that constantly go mumble-mumble, and the ubiquitous crows with their caw-caw, the occasional bulbul, and the sudden screech of parrots in their periodic migrations. And scampering squirrels with their bright little eyes, which stop suddenly when they spot you sitting on their territory, pulling up stock still, watchful, then carrying on, chasing each other, hopping from branch to branch, their bushy tails bobbing up and down, erupting in their rapid high pitched call – kik-kik-kik-kik.
I go to the Bangalore flat sometimes when I want to be by myself. I am that kind of a person – I get occasional bouts of I-want-to-be-left-alone-to-be-by-myself fits. And I sit on that balcony for hours, sipping South Indian filter coffee. I hardly ever drink tea when I go to Bangalore, though tea is really my beverage since I am a Bengali and tea is what has always been made at home. But, in Bangalore, I just feel like coffee. Every home, every street, every roadside coffee stall is infused with its aroma, which my senses eagerly savour. It is the flavour and the uniqueness of Bangalore. And nothing defines this city more than its savoury filter coffee.
Now, I can’t make the coffee myself, at least, not like the Bangaloreans do. Like tea, coffee needs practice and familiarity, to be able to extract its soul from within its dark brown ground beans. So, when I go to Bangalore, about the first thing I do in the morning is trudge down to my favourite street side eatery, Udupas – a 45 minute walk – whose coffee is unrivalled, according to me, even in Bangalore – with a flask swinging on my shoulder. And the first thing I do when I reach Udupas is of course drink a quick cup there – nothing like piping hot fresh coffee straight from the constantly gurgling coffee pot. Then, tanking up the flask I trudge back home, to sit in my balcony where the sun pierces through the leaves and makes patterns on the mosaic floor. And, letting my mind drift along with a gentle breeze, I drink cup after cup, letting the aroma of the brown liquid filter through every pore of my being, as the day wears on and dies in the dusk, listening to the constant chatter of the birds.
Drinking coffee and dreaming. Drinking coffee and writing. Drinking coffee and feeling at one with the universe in which I exist as a speck of life in a leaf enclosed, sun spattered, bird-song filled balcony in Bangalore.
-by Rita Putatunda
A little away from the main city, bang in the middle of lush greenery (Bangalore is the most green city of all Indian cites I’ve been to), the blocks of flats are spread over a fairly large area, hence, not the usual cramped feeling you get in the usual housing plots. The interiors are roomy and airy, especially now without a stick of furniture, the ceilings uncharacteristically high, which gives a more spacious ambience. Most flats of this kind have a low-ceilinged shoebox feel about them. The flat has two bedrooms, accompanied by their bathrooms, a long sitting-cum-dining area which leads directly into a kitchen. Also, a long, fairly wide passage which connects the sit-cum-dine with the rest of the rooms, and leads out at one end into the balcony.
The balcony of that flat is especially lovely. There is a Krishnamachura tree on one side, the branches of which sort of cradle the balcony. The tree has broad luxuriant leaves and blood red fist sized blooms. On the other side stands a tall badam tree, which also has lovely lush leaves, some of which turn a delightful fiery orangeish-red. Out on the balcony, you feel as if you’re a bird perched on a tree. There are whole bunches of birds who keep you company, passing their time on the branches. They don’t fly away once they realise you’re not going to bother them. The koel being the most profuse, rending the air with their joyous koo-koo. But there are pigeons too that constantly go mumble-mumble, and the ubiquitous crows with their caw-caw, the occasional bulbul, and the sudden screech of parrots in their periodic migrations. And scampering squirrels with their bright little eyes, which stop suddenly when they spot you sitting on their territory, pulling up stock still, watchful, then carrying on, chasing each other, hopping from branch to branch, their bushy tails bobbing up and down, erupting in their rapid high pitched call – kik-kik-kik-kik.
I go to the Bangalore flat sometimes when I want to be by myself. I am that kind of a person – I get occasional bouts of I-want-to-be-left-alone-to-be-by-myself fits. And I sit on that balcony for hours, sipping South Indian filter coffee. I hardly ever drink tea when I go to Bangalore, though tea is really my beverage since I am a Bengali and tea is what has always been made at home. But, in Bangalore, I just feel like coffee. Every home, every street, every roadside coffee stall is infused with its aroma, which my senses eagerly savour. It is the flavour and the uniqueness of Bangalore. And nothing defines this city more than its savoury filter coffee.
Now, I can’t make the coffee myself, at least, not like the Bangaloreans do. Like tea, coffee needs practice and familiarity, to be able to extract its soul from within its dark brown ground beans. So, when I go to Bangalore, about the first thing I do in the morning is trudge down to my favourite street side eatery, Udupas – a 45 minute walk – whose coffee is unrivalled, according to me, even in Bangalore – with a flask swinging on my shoulder. And the first thing I do when I reach Udupas is of course drink a quick cup there – nothing like piping hot fresh coffee straight from the constantly gurgling coffee pot. Then, tanking up the flask I trudge back home, to sit in my balcony where the sun pierces through the leaves and makes patterns on the mosaic floor. And, letting my mind drift along with a gentle breeze, I drink cup after cup, letting the aroma of the brown liquid filter through every pore of my being, as the day wears on and dies in the dusk, listening to the constant chatter of the birds.
Drinking coffee and dreaming. Drinking coffee and writing. Drinking coffee and feeling at one with the universe in which I exist as a speck of life in a leaf enclosed, sun spattered, bird-song filled balcony in Bangalore.
-by Rita Putatunda
Monday, December 5, 2011
I Thought I Saw You
(This has been inspired by a chat I'm having with E.S. Shridhar @esshridhar, my friend on twitter)
I thought I saw you behind the fire face of the sun; Behind the cold face of the moon.
I thought I saw you looking at me from behind that blue mask you wear on your face.
Is that you in the billowing clouds swollen with rain? Are you the rain? Are you the storm you unleash?
Is that your voice I hear in your thunder and lightning? In the destructions you wreak?
Is that you I perceive in the Cosmos of infinite creations?
Are you that river that meanders across the earth like eternity?
Are you that ocean that exists like time without end?
Is that you being born as new grass, new fruit, new star, new life?
Is that you who died in the funeral pyre last night?
I thought I heard you in the entreaty of a prayer; In the supplication of the clanging temple bell.
In the chants, in the intonations, in the pleas, in the flower offerings, in the curling fumes of burning incense, in the blowing of conch shells, in the beseechings of unshakeable devotions.
Are you that deity with the face of stone that stands so mute, so aloof?
I look for you in my yesterdays, In my todays, In my tomorrows; In my past lives, In my future deaths. I look for you in the skeins of dreams you have woven around me in all my existences; In all my extinctions. I look for you in every lamp you ignite; In every flame you extinguish.
I look for you within me; I look for you outside of me.
I thought I saw you everywhere; I see you nowhere.
I see you nowhere!
-by Rita Putatunda
I thought I saw you behind the fire face of the sun; Behind the cold face of the moon.
I thought I saw you looking at me from behind that blue mask you wear on your face.
Is that you in the billowing clouds swollen with rain? Are you the rain? Are you the storm you unleash?
Is that your voice I hear in your thunder and lightning? In the destructions you wreak?
Is that you I perceive in the Cosmos of infinite creations?
Are you that river that meanders across the earth like eternity?
Are you that ocean that exists like time without end?
Is that you being born as new grass, new fruit, new star, new life?
Is that you who died in the funeral pyre last night?
I thought I heard you in the entreaty of a prayer; In the supplication of the clanging temple bell.
In the chants, in the intonations, in the pleas, in the flower offerings, in the curling fumes of burning incense, in the blowing of conch shells, in the beseechings of unshakeable devotions.
Are you that deity with the face of stone that stands so mute, so aloof?
I look for you in my yesterdays, In my todays, In my tomorrows; In my past lives, In my future deaths. I look for you in the skeins of dreams you have woven around me in all my existences; In all my extinctions. I look for you in every lamp you ignite; In every flame you extinguish.
I look for you within me; I look for you outside of me.
I thought I saw you everywhere; I see you nowhere.
I see you nowhere!
-by Rita Putatunda
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
A Conversation With A Stranger
After Oh, how lovely this is … to see you! And How long has it been?
Comes the first sip of wine, and after that a clash of cutlery,
The shuffling shoes of the receding waiter, then the silence – brief.
So brief, you almost don’t hear it. What are the smallest objects you have lost?
What sudden smells make you stop and think back? Oh, that song, isn’t this the one we…?
And the squinting into a past. He interrupts, and between forking morsels of food in his mouth,
Talks about the news of the day – a theory, a speculation, an interpretation.
Asks for a story about an old friend, About your mother and father and brother and sister –
How are they, by the way?
Old friend … How many old friends have died, and where do you think they’ve gone?
And your mind is slowly opening, becoming a hollow cavity, a cavern, a grotto
In which what had been hidden from you by the din, hitherto,
Now darts around like winged creatures with their insistent, intimate, supersonic squeaking.
My eyes begin listening in black and white. Did your mother like you?
How do you construct a conversation with an old stranger?
But by now the answers come easier, more flowing, a zone, a spigot, a well.
What parts of yourself have you given up since leaving your home town?
Did your father know you existed? Have you asked your brother and sister and friends
What they thought of you, back then? You can tell me anything and I will believe you.
Look at me! Have you ever wandered into breakdown? Did you witness the demise
Of the old cracked teapot? There are lizards lurking in the corners of his eyes.
The dinner is done. He folds his used napkin in a neat square. I crumple mine.
The wine glass is empty, except for dregs. The bill is paid.
He straightens up, his face a vacant dinner plate, the fork and knife neatly laid, side by side.
And when he enters the taxi and waves goodbye, you are left standing at the entrance
Of the temple of lost conversations, wearing that ridiculous dress you had bought to please.
Your hands hanging limp, you stand sniffing the ancient air
For clues, for distillations, for forgotten perfumes. The crow on the tension wire,
Suspended between the sky and earth, steadies itself in the fitful breeze.
Smoothing its ruffled feathers with its beak, it caws plaintively –
Have you ever? Have you ever?
-by Rita Putatunda
Comes the first sip of wine, and after that a clash of cutlery,
The shuffling shoes of the receding waiter, then the silence – brief.
So brief, you almost don’t hear it. What are the smallest objects you have lost?
What sudden smells make you stop and think back? Oh, that song, isn’t this the one we…?
And the squinting into a past. He interrupts, and between forking morsels of food in his mouth,
Talks about the news of the day – a theory, a speculation, an interpretation.
Asks for a story about an old friend, About your mother and father and brother and sister –
How are they, by the way?
Old friend … How many old friends have died, and where do you think they’ve gone?
And your mind is slowly opening, becoming a hollow cavity, a cavern, a grotto
In which what had been hidden from you by the din, hitherto,
Now darts around like winged creatures with their insistent, intimate, supersonic squeaking.
My eyes begin listening in black and white. Did your mother like you?
How do you construct a conversation with an old stranger?
But by now the answers come easier, more flowing, a zone, a spigot, a well.
What parts of yourself have you given up since leaving your home town?
Did your father know you existed? Have you asked your brother and sister and friends
What they thought of you, back then? You can tell me anything and I will believe you.
Look at me! Have you ever wandered into breakdown? Did you witness the demise
Of the old cracked teapot? There are lizards lurking in the corners of his eyes.
The dinner is done. He folds his used napkin in a neat square. I crumple mine.
The wine glass is empty, except for dregs. The bill is paid.
He straightens up, his face a vacant dinner plate, the fork and knife neatly laid, side by side.
And when he enters the taxi and waves goodbye, you are left standing at the entrance
Of the temple of lost conversations, wearing that ridiculous dress you had bought to please.
Your hands hanging limp, you stand sniffing the ancient air
For clues, for distillations, for forgotten perfumes. The crow on the tension wire,
Suspended between the sky and earth, steadies itself in the fitful breeze.
Smoothing its ruffled feathers with its beak, it caws plaintively –
Have you ever? Have you ever?
-by Rita Putatunda
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Someone Near, Someone Dear
The night was pitch dark. The road disappearing into the gloom was lit every now and then by streetlights, which formed pools of ochre wherever they stood. Except for an occasional truck thundering by, the road was empty. It was late, about 2 o’clock.
In the distance I heard the roar of an approaching motorbike. It was coming fast. Too fast. Then I saw the powerful single beam of its light slicing through the dark of the night. As it drew closer I saw a young man hunched over the handles of the bike. I could not see his face. But something told me that I knew him. That he was someone near. Someone dear.
Even as I watched, I heard him rev up his bike to a faster speed. You’re driving too fast, I wanted to warn him. I tried again to see who he was, but to no avail. His face was shrouded in darkness. Yet, I knew that I knew him. He was a part of me – as tender to me as my own heart. Closer to me than my own soul. But who was it? His body, the way he held it, was so familiar. His name was on the tip of my tongue – and yet, try as I might, I could not bring his name to mind.
Suddenly, with a shiver of dread, I heard the growl of a truck approaching from the opposite side. And it too was coming fast, driven with the abandon of a big powerful machine having the freedom of an empty road. It had only one light on, and from a distance it looked like another two-wheeler. My eyes, for some reason, had taken on the power of seeing great lengths of distances. And I could see the both – the young man on his bike and the enormous truck – hurtling towards each other in an inexorable rush.
I wanted to shout out. I wanted to scream and tell the young man to stop. To please at least slow down. I opened my mouth, but no sound could I emit through my throat. Hand clutching my voiceless throat, I watched helplessly, as they came closer. And still closer. I wanted to run out into the middle of the road, outstretched hands waving to catch his attention – to stop somehow, anyhow, this dreadful drama from unfolding. But my body was immobile. My muscles caught in a dead freeze. And all I could do was watch with stricken eyes. The nameless sense of dread pervading my being.
And they drew closer. Ever closer. The still night waiting and watching. The street lights standing aloof and unperturbed. I broke out in a cold sweat. My heart beating in frantic thuddings and juddings. I tried to break out of my petrified immobility. Sweat poured and drenched me with the effort. I had turned into stone. Paralysed, with horror in my eyes, I watched powerlessly, and saw what I knew I could have stopped from happening, happen.
The motorbike hit the colossal truck front-on with its engine going at full throttle. The night was splintered by the sound of the tremendous crash . . . metal upon metal . . . screeching brakes . . . calamitous clank-clank!
The motorbike, glancing off the face of the truck, and with the force of the impact, flew into the air. Turning slowly, almost lazily, almost for an eternity, in mid air. As if time did not matter anymore now. As if speed was superfluous now. It hit the ground, the force still dragging it, metal tearing and screaming against tarmac, coming at last to a halt some distance away, the broken, inert body of the young man lying by its side. I tried again to look into his face. It was still masked in darkness.
But I knew in my heart, with the wisdom of the ages, that a great loss had befallen me. Someone near, someone dear, was lost to me forever. Someone I could not replace ever. Someone I would not replace ever. Someone who had crossed the great divide and gone. Gone over to the other side, into the void. Leaving me here – alone – bereft – forever.
I turned my face to the unfeeling night and wanted to cry out – Oh, Weep, Weep, Lament for one gone forever! I turned to the unseeing streetlights and wanted to say – Oh, Shed a tear for a beloved, departed! But, no matter how much I struggled, not a single word could I utter. A relentless force held me in its dark grip.
When I awoke from my dream my body was drenched in sweat. My heart still thudding and judding. And I was still filled with the nameless feeling of fear. I looked at my watch, it was 2 in the night. Staggering, I made my way to the bathroom and allowed myself to feel the sting of the cold water that I splashed on my face. I then walked slowly – a little unsteady – to the kitchen and made myself a hot cup of tea. I took my tea out into the balcony where I sat and felt the sips of the hot liquid course comfortingly through me. Slowly, I started breathing normally again. An uneasy calm descended on me.
It was only a nightmare I told myself. Probably indigestion. It was really silly to get so worked up about a dream, however vivid it may have been. But I had had nightmares before – none of them had been quite so lucid as this. And the feeling of foreboding would not leave me. I felt alone. I paced up and down breathing in the slightly chill night air deeply. That made me feel better. I breathed in deeply once or twice more. Then feeling much better I decided to try and go back to sleep.
The muffled brrinng-brrinng of the phone woke me up. It was early, just five, my bedside clock told me. I ignored the phone. It persisted. Groaning, cursing, I picked it up.
“Hello!” said a voice. It was Sanjay, an old friend. My sleep filled mouth refused to speak.
“Hello? Amita? Are you awake? It’s Sanjay here.” His insistent voice pierced through my consciousness. Why was he so insistent, I wondered irritably, still half asleep.
“Yeah, now I am. No thanks to you,” I said, trying to put sarcasm into my sleep thick voice. But then, his next words sent a charge of electricity through me, bringing me fully awake instantly.
“It’s bad news Amita. I’m coming over now. In about 10 minutes.”
My mind jumped sharply alive. The dread of the night swamped me. Somehow I knew what the bad news was going to be. I insisted that he tell me whatever it was on the phone, but he told me in a grave voice that he had to say it personally. When the doorbell rang, and I let him in, I resisted listening to his next words. I wanted to scream – I don’t want to know – Oh please, please, I don’t want to know – I wanted to shut my ears.
When he spoke, he used a gentle tone. “It’s about Ajay, Amita. He died in a motorbike accident last night.”
We had planned. We had plotted. Ajay and I. I and Ajay. Amita and Ajay. Ajay and Amita – To be wed. To be locked together forever in life. Nothing – No power – On earth – Or heaven – Would tear us asunder. To keep us apart. We had promised each other.
The wedding cards had already been sent. Death rendered them annulled.
-by Rita Putatunda
This story is based on a true incident which occurred in my life when I was about 20 yrs old. I later read up about lucid dreaming and precognition, which I found was quite common and experienced by many people.
In the distance I heard the roar of an approaching motorbike. It was coming fast. Too fast. Then I saw the powerful single beam of its light slicing through the dark of the night. As it drew closer I saw a young man hunched over the handles of the bike. I could not see his face. But something told me that I knew him. That he was someone near. Someone dear.
Even as I watched, I heard him rev up his bike to a faster speed. You’re driving too fast, I wanted to warn him. I tried again to see who he was, but to no avail. His face was shrouded in darkness. Yet, I knew that I knew him. He was a part of me – as tender to me as my own heart. Closer to me than my own soul. But who was it? His body, the way he held it, was so familiar. His name was on the tip of my tongue – and yet, try as I might, I could not bring his name to mind.
Suddenly, with a shiver of dread, I heard the growl of a truck approaching from the opposite side. And it too was coming fast, driven with the abandon of a big powerful machine having the freedom of an empty road. It had only one light on, and from a distance it looked like another two-wheeler. My eyes, for some reason, had taken on the power of seeing great lengths of distances. And I could see the both – the young man on his bike and the enormous truck – hurtling towards each other in an inexorable rush.
I wanted to shout out. I wanted to scream and tell the young man to stop. To please at least slow down. I opened my mouth, but no sound could I emit through my throat. Hand clutching my voiceless throat, I watched helplessly, as they came closer. And still closer. I wanted to run out into the middle of the road, outstretched hands waving to catch his attention – to stop somehow, anyhow, this dreadful drama from unfolding. But my body was immobile. My muscles caught in a dead freeze. And all I could do was watch with stricken eyes. The nameless sense of dread pervading my being.
And they drew closer. Ever closer. The still night waiting and watching. The street lights standing aloof and unperturbed. I broke out in a cold sweat. My heart beating in frantic thuddings and juddings. I tried to break out of my petrified immobility. Sweat poured and drenched me with the effort. I had turned into stone. Paralysed, with horror in my eyes, I watched powerlessly, and saw what I knew I could have stopped from happening, happen.
The motorbike hit the colossal truck front-on with its engine going at full throttle. The night was splintered by the sound of the tremendous crash . . . metal upon metal . . . screeching brakes . . . calamitous clank-clank!
The motorbike, glancing off the face of the truck, and with the force of the impact, flew into the air. Turning slowly, almost lazily, almost for an eternity, in mid air. As if time did not matter anymore now. As if speed was superfluous now. It hit the ground, the force still dragging it, metal tearing and screaming against tarmac, coming at last to a halt some distance away, the broken, inert body of the young man lying by its side. I tried again to look into his face. It was still masked in darkness.
But I knew in my heart, with the wisdom of the ages, that a great loss had befallen me. Someone near, someone dear, was lost to me forever. Someone I could not replace ever. Someone I would not replace ever. Someone who had crossed the great divide and gone. Gone over to the other side, into the void. Leaving me here – alone – bereft – forever.
I turned my face to the unfeeling night and wanted to cry out – Oh, Weep, Weep, Lament for one gone forever! I turned to the unseeing streetlights and wanted to say – Oh, Shed a tear for a beloved, departed! But, no matter how much I struggled, not a single word could I utter. A relentless force held me in its dark grip.
When I awoke from my dream my body was drenched in sweat. My heart still thudding and judding. And I was still filled with the nameless feeling of fear. I looked at my watch, it was 2 in the night. Staggering, I made my way to the bathroom and allowed myself to feel the sting of the cold water that I splashed on my face. I then walked slowly – a little unsteady – to the kitchen and made myself a hot cup of tea. I took my tea out into the balcony where I sat and felt the sips of the hot liquid course comfortingly through me. Slowly, I started breathing normally again. An uneasy calm descended on me.
It was only a nightmare I told myself. Probably indigestion. It was really silly to get so worked up about a dream, however vivid it may have been. But I had had nightmares before – none of them had been quite so lucid as this. And the feeling of foreboding would not leave me. I felt alone. I paced up and down breathing in the slightly chill night air deeply. That made me feel better. I breathed in deeply once or twice more. Then feeling much better I decided to try and go back to sleep.
The muffled brrinng-brrinng of the phone woke me up. It was early, just five, my bedside clock told me. I ignored the phone. It persisted. Groaning, cursing, I picked it up.
“Hello!” said a voice. It was Sanjay, an old friend. My sleep filled mouth refused to speak.
“Hello? Amita? Are you awake? It’s Sanjay here.” His insistent voice pierced through my consciousness. Why was he so insistent, I wondered irritably, still half asleep.
“Yeah, now I am. No thanks to you,” I said, trying to put sarcasm into my sleep thick voice. But then, his next words sent a charge of electricity through me, bringing me fully awake instantly.
“It’s bad news Amita. I’m coming over now. In about 10 minutes.”
My mind jumped sharply alive. The dread of the night swamped me. Somehow I knew what the bad news was going to be. I insisted that he tell me whatever it was on the phone, but he told me in a grave voice that he had to say it personally. When the doorbell rang, and I let him in, I resisted listening to his next words. I wanted to scream – I don’t want to know – Oh please, please, I don’t want to know – I wanted to shut my ears.
When he spoke, he used a gentle tone. “It’s about Ajay, Amita. He died in a motorbike accident last night.”
We had planned. We had plotted. Ajay and I. I and Ajay. Amita and Ajay. Ajay and Amita – To be wed. To be locked together forever in life. Nothing – No power – On earth – Or heaven – Would tear us asunder. To keep us apart. We had promised each other.
The wedding cards had already been sent. Death rendered them annulled.
-by Rita Putatunda
This story is based on a true incident which occurred in my life when I was about 20 yrs old. I later read up about lucid dreaming and precognition, which I found was quite common and experienced by many people.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Of Snakes, Monitor Lizards and Other Creatures
I had a chat the other day with Jaideep Bhattacharya @jadeepb, a twitter friend, reminiscing about our similar past, the colonial bungalows and gardens we lived in, and about the wild animals we had encountered, and thought why not write about the forest creatures of my childhood and youth. So here goes, a glimpse into my world of snakes and monitor lizards and other creatures.
During the rainy season, rains pour incessantly day and night, causing mould and fungus to erupt in green and white furry patches. Clothes remain damp, get a fusty smell. The air feels wet wet wet. The earth is clogged and saturated with water running in rivulets, which become streams, which become gushing rivers, that overflow their banks, and flood and cause havoc.
I remember at the start of the rainy seasons of being warned about watching out for snakes. For it is in this season that snakes come out from their water logged burrows. Our houses have these little jutting steps constructed at the foot of doorways which are supposed to snake-proof our dwellings. Well, they didn’t. Snakes, determined to come in from the rain, always managed to breach those snake-proofs. So it became almost second nature to look before you did anything…check behind you before you sink into that sofa in your sitting room, there could be a snake snoozing there! Watch out before riffling through your books in your study, there could be a studious snake hidden among the tomes! Do make a thorough reccy before entering your bathroom, snakes too love that sanctum sanctorum that you prize!
The coal pile outside, at the back of the house, was a favourite haunt of snakes. Coal was the fuel we used since we lived in a coal mining region, so every once a week a truck would trundle in and tip over a truckload of coal behind each house of the bungalow area. I loved to spend time mucking around there, getting myself coal black all over, much to my mom’s constant horror. Coal comes in various textures and shades of black, some soft and powdery, others hard and glittering like black diamonds. I used to hang around Rajam, our servant, when he broke the big chunks, which had come straight from the mines, into small pieces, which he then arranged, almost artistically, in the huge cast-iron oven-cum-stove in the kitchen.
Anyway, like I said, snakes too loved the coal pile, because it was kept dry under a shed, had plenty of nooks and crannies, and most of all provided almost perfect camouflage. We always had to take special care in the coal-shed, because snakes always lurked there, and not only in the rainy season.
The garden of course was perfect for snakes to loiter in. They swung greenly among the branches and only our eyes trained by experience could pick them out. They hung about in the gullies and ditches dug to collect water, probably hunting rats and squirrels, or in the summer, to cool off. While there were a great variety of kinds of snakes, from the harmless rat snake, to the poisonous krait, the most common snake we encountered was the cobra, or the naag. The common cobra is quite different from the king cobra. The cobra is mud-brown in colour usually marked with dark striations and the characteristic U-shape marking displayed on its flared hood, and is smaller than the king, though large compared to other snakes, and faster, and certainly more adventurous, since they always seemed to be about. The king cobra, on the other hand, is huge comparatively, coal black, sluggish and slow. And very shy – they were hardly to be seen. When they were spotted, they were treated with great respect and awe by us. A king can be a match, strength to strength, with a python. We found engorged, snoozing pythons sleepily digesting their meal against fallen trunks of trees in the jungle that surrounded our bungalow area. We found slewed off snakeskin, transparent, and still marked with patterns, all over the place. Sometimes I would touch them and feel a shiver run down my spine as I felt the dry smooth texture.
Where there are snakes, there are also scorpions. Another thing we were told to keep a sharp watch for. They came in all sizes and shades. From the huge, deadly looking black creatures, their sting looking like scimitars, to the little brown things that crawled into your cupboards and lurked among your clothes. Where there are scorpions, there are centipedes and millipedes, looking for all the world like trains going to some destination, when they crawled in the house or in the garden. Large black ants, red ants, small black ones, bees, wasps, dragonflies, beetles, butterflies – insects were everywhere in abundant numbers, turning sleepy hot afternoons into an opera of buzzing, droning sounds.
Where there is snake, there is mongoose. The snake is the favourite snack for the mongoose. Watching a snake and a mongoose fight beats any heavyweight championship, or a karate or judo match. They are usually equally skilled in speed and lightning strikes – the fight could go either way – fifty-fifty chance of one becoming the meal of the other.
Where there is snake and mongoose, there are lizards, of all sizes and shapes. From the quaint chameleons that changes colour according to where it happens to be, twitching its periscope eyes 360 degrees, each independently, to the huge monitor lizards.
I remember once, I must have been 8 or 9 years old, a monitor wandered into our courtyard which faced the kitchen and the dining room. Rayamallu, the cook, walked out of the kitchen, spotted it, and let out a yell. It was huge, the head flat and narrow, its forked tongue flicking evilly in and out, eyes beady, like sinister black stones stuck in its head. My mom, my brother and I ran out to see what the commotion was. Rayamallu yelled for us to go back in, and gave chase to the lizard for some crazy reason. The lizard panicked and streaked towards us, its body undulating, lifted high on all four legs – it was swift as lightning. We panicked and ran back into the dining room. The lizard made straight for my mother, the slowest, lagging behind. There was screaming, yelling, yelping. My un-athletic mom leapt up on the dining table with great agility, un-motherly-like leaving us, her kids, to fend for ourselves. We managed to jump on the dining chairs, which seemed dangerously close to the ground and to the lizard.
The lizard streaked in, stopped short, and took stock of the situation. Spotted my mother screaming and doing a panic hopping dance on the table, and reared up on its hind legs, mouth gaping, displaying rows of sharp teeth, and that deadly flickering tongue, looking massive and terrifying – like a monster from prehistory. Just then Rayamallu charged in and almost tripped over the lizard’s thick, lashing tail. Feeling ambushed from behind, the lizard turned swiftly on Rayamallu. Causing Rayamallu to turn tail and run back from where he had just come. The last we saw of the lizard was it giving chase to a fleeing Rayamallu. It was about ten minutes later that a panting Rayamallu came back and told us the lizard had disappeared into the undergrowth outside the garden.
We sat around, our hearts still thumping hard, as Rayamallu regaled us with tales of the monitor lizard. They were very powerful and strong we were told. They have this peculiarity that once their jaws lock around something, your limb, for instance, or the branch of a tree, even a mechanical crane wouldn’t be able to pull them loose. The Marattha Kings, like Shivaji, who fought many battles against the Moghul army, used them to scale the ramparts of forts built into the craggy Deccan mountains.
While much of the lore surrounding the monitor is probably exaggerated, the monitor lizard is a dwindling species, hunted by the villagers for its meat – deliciously delicately flavoured, according to Rayamallu – and also its habitat, the scrub forest, being systematically destroyed by increasing urbanisation. And so are the snake and the mongoose and other creatures.
The bear, for example. While I never saw one in our bungalow area, our watchman had a tale to tell us. But first I must tell you about the layout of the bungalow area. There were about ten or eleven bungalows that stood in a large circle along a narrow circular tarmac path, which enclosed a grassy area that contained a few trees and was used as a golf field by the golfing enthusiasts amongst my father’s colleagues, our neighbours. The path had streetlights that just about provided some light in the night. Each bungalow was provided with a watchman by the company, the Singareni Coal Mines.
Anyway, like our watchman told us, one dark night, at quite a late hour, he was feeling sleepy and so decided to take a little stroll on the path, just outside the gate. As he stepped out and wanted to light a bidi, he discovered he had no matches. It was then he suddenly saw somebody walking a little distance away in the shadows. Thinking it was the neighbouring bungalow’s watchman, wanting a match, he called out to him, and got no response. He called even louder and started walking towards the shadowy person, still got no response. In fact, the person started walking away faster. Getting suspicious, our watchman started blowing his whistle, to alert the neighbour’s watchman, and began running towards, what he was now convinced was a thief. Hearing all the commotion, the neighbour’s watchman too stepped out on the path, took one look at the speeding shadowy person, and yelling ‘bhaalu, bhaalu’ ran back in. Our watchman stopped in his tracks and watched in silence as the shadowy bear disappeared into the dark.
Adilabad district of Andhra Pradesh is one of the areas where Singareni Coal Mines are located. Adilabad district also had a fair number of tigers in its jungles. While most of the time they lived deep in the jungle, sometimes they would stray into human populated areas. Singareni Collieries had started making tarmac roads, but there were many areas that had just kaccha roads, especially the ones that went through deep jungle to access remote mines, and also provided a route to other areas of the tiny town of Bellampalli, more a village, really, but was getting progressively urbanized by the coal mines. The miners that came from nearby villages needed safe roads to travel to and from the mines to their homes. Plus the officers needed safe roads too.
The senior officers were provided with cars (the ubiquitous Ambassadors) for urban use and jeeps or jongas for use in rough terrain. One night, returning home after a dinner at one of my parent’s friends’ house, we were crossing through a jungle path in our jeep. The path had a tangle of trees and brush on either side which were briefly lit as we drove past by the jeep’s headlights. Suddenly, in the distance ahead, by the path, we saw a pair of eyes glittering in the dark, catching some of the light from the headlights. We didn’t think much of it because cattle often wandered in those areas; we thought it was a cow. My Dad was driving pretty fast, as we jolted along and got nearer, suddenly the headlights picked up a sight I will never forget. Frozen in the light was a full grown tiger! My Dad braked instinctively and we came to a standstill. The tiger gave one look towards us (or the jeep) and with one swift orange and black striped flash leaped across the path and disappeared into the jungle. We were left marveling in silence. Dad shifted gears and we went home talking excitedly about what we had just witnessed.
In the summer, when we kids came home from our boarding schools in Hyderabad/Secunderabad, all of us in the bungalow area would go on night picnics, because the days were too hot. The picnic spot was usually inside the jungle, usually on the soft sand of a semi-dry river or stream bed. Because they are rain fed, the rivers and streams in Andhra Pradesh dry down to a trickle, swelling again with water with the onset of the monsoons. So, we would all set out, Moms, Dads and us kids in our jeeps and jongas and settle down on a river bed to enjoy the cool of the night lit by moonlight and stars, to sing songs playing anthakshari, of course, the aunties and uncles would chat and gossip, the women about the usual, servants, cooking, gossip about some neighbor who wasn’t present there, children, etc. The men would talk about the mines, what was happening on the promotions of each, gossip about some colleague who wasn’t present there, politics and so on. The bridge enthusiasts, which my parents were, would deal out their cards in the light of petromax lamps and call their bids, the rummy enthusiasts would sit a little distance away and get engrossed in their hand of cards, the servants would get busy making chuhlas using the dried sticks, which were plentiful there, and start cooking the picnic meal.
Sometimes, in these nightly picnics, the wild life enthusiasts in the group (including me, of course), would all climb into a jonga driven by some knowledgeable person who knew just where to find them. So, suddenly we would come to a patch of clearing and discover a bunch of spotted deer feeding in the dark. When the light of the vehicle hit them they would all look at us and stand motionless. They never ran away, just stood stock still, until we drove away, the sound of the revving engine finally making them react and flee. Or we would come across a solitary nilgai, as dark as the night, and foxes were plenty and they would sit by the narrow jungle path like tame dogs.
Many precious moments of my childhood and youth were spent watching and wondering and admiring the forest creatures that abounded. I was often scared, but there were times I could have played god with them, but kept my distance. For us in our little forest paradise teeming with snakes, lizards and other creatures, wonder and awe are what we always felt for the forest and its inhabitants, rather than regarding them as peculiar, frightening or exotic creatures. And at night, when I slept snugly in my cozy bed, enclosed in the night sounds of the jungle, the croak-croak-croak of the frogs in the streams and ponds, the constant kirrrrrrr sound of the cicadas in the dark, I would often be woken up by the sudden strange laughing call of the hyena piercing through the night, and I would listen in the dark to mysterious rustling sounds outside, wondering what creature was out there.
Though our worlds were juxtaposed, we tried not to encroach much into theirs. Though they accidentally did encroach sometimes into ours, but they always preferred to slither, crawl, or run away when discovered. Through all those years that we lived there, never have we ever been bitten. Of course we were on our guard, so there was little chance of being accidentally bitten. But accidents do happen, however careful one may be – yet not once. I do believe they were the ones that chose to leave us alone.
I live in protected urbanised surroundings now, away from the kind of nature that I grew up in, and have regrettably lost contact with it. But I am thankful and lucky that my growing years were spent close to the earth, the forest, and its myriad creatures. And all I need to go back there is to have a chat and get inspired to write about it and thus relive a time lost in my past.
-by Rita Putatunda
During the rainy season, rains pour incessantly day and night, causing mould and fungus to erupt in green and white furry patches. Clothes remain damp, get a fusty smell. The air feels wet wet wet. The earth is clogged and saturated with water running in rivulets, which become streams, which become gushing rivers, that overflow their banks, and flood and cause havoc.
I remember at the start of the rainy seasons of being warned about watching out for snakes. For it is in this season that snakes come out from their water logged burrows. Our houses have these little jutting steps constructed at the foot of doorways which are supposed to snake-proof our dwellings. Well, they didn’t. Snakes, determined to come in from the rain, always managed to breach those snake-proofs. So it became almost second nature to look before you did anything…check behind you before you sink into that sofa in your sitting room, there could be a snake snoozing there! Watch out before riffling through your books in your study, there could be a studious snake hidden among the tomes! Do make a thorough reccy before entering your bathroom, snakes too love that sanctum sanctorum that you prize!
The coal pile outside, at the back of the house, was a favourite haunt of snakes. Coal was the fuel we used since we lived in a coal mining region, so every once a week a truck would trundle in and tip over a truckload of coal behind each house of the bungalow area. I loved to spend time mucking around there, getting myself coal black all over, much to my mom’s constant horror. Coal comes in various textures and shades of black, some soft and powdery, others hard and glittering like black diamonds. I used to hang around Rajam, our servant, when he broke the big chunks, which had come straight from the mines, into small pieces, which he then arranged, almost artistically, in the huge cast-iron oven-cum-stove in the kitchen.
Anyway, like I said, snakes too loved the coal pile, because it was kept dry under a shed, had plenty of nooks and crannies, and most of all provided almost perfect camouflage. We always had to take special care in the coal-shed, because snakes always lurked there, and not only in the rainy season.
The garden of course was perfect for snakes to loiter in. They swung greenly among the branches and only our eyes trained by experience could pick them out. They hung about in the gullies and ditches dug to collect water, probably hunting rats and squirrels, or in the summer, to cool off. While there were a great variety of kinds of snakes, from the harmless rat snake, to the poisonous krait, the most common snake we encountered was the cobra, or the naag. The common cobra is quite different from the king cobra. The cobra is mud-brown in colour usually marked with dark striations and the characteristic U-shape marking displayed on its flared hood, and is smaller than the king, though large compared to other snakes, and faster, and certainly more adventurous, since they always seemed to be about. The king cobra, on the other hand, is huge comparatively, coal black, sluggish and slow. And very shy – they were hardly to be seen. When they were spotted, they were treated with great respect and awe by us. A king can be a match, strength to strength, with a python. We found engorged, snoozing pythons sleepily digesting their meal against fallen trunks of trees in the jungle that surrounded our bungalow area. We found slewed off snakeskin, transparent, and still marked with patterns, all over the place. Sometimes I would touch them and feel a shiver run down my spine as I felt the dry smooth texture.
Where there are snakes, there are also scorpions. Another thing we were told to keep a sharp watch for. They came in all sizes and shades. From the huge, deadly looking black creatures, their sting looking like scimitars, to the little brown things that crawled into your cupboards and lurked among your clothes. Where there are scorpions, there are centipedes and millipedes, looking for all the world like trains going to some destination, when they crawled in the house or in the garden. Large black ants, red ants, small black ones, bees, wasps, dragonflies, beetles, butterflies – insects were everywhere in abundant numbers, turning sleepy hot afternoons into an opera of buzzing, droning sounds.
Where there is snake, there is mongoose. The snake is the favourite snack for the mongoose. Watching a snake and a mongoose fight beats any heavyweight championship, or a karate or judo match. They are usually equally skilled in speed and lightning strikes – the fight could go either way – fifty-fifty chance of one becoming the meal of the other.
Where there is snake and mongoose, there are lizards, of all sizes and shapes. From the quaint chameleons that changes colour according to where it happens to be, twitching its periscope eyes 360 degrees, each independently, to the huge monitor lizards.
I remember once, I must have been 8 or 9 years old, a monitor wandered into our courtyard which faced the kitchen and the dining room. Rayamallu, the cook, walked out of the kitchen, spotted it, and let out a yell. It was huge, the head flat and narrow, its forked tongue flicking evilly in and out, eyes beady, like sinister black stones stuck in its head. My mom, my brother and I ran out to see what the commotion was. Rayamallu yelled for us to go back in, and gave chase to the lizard for some crazy reason. The lizard panicked and streaked towards us, its body undulating, lifted high on all four legs – it was swift as lightning. We panicked and ran back into the dining room. The lizard made straight for my mother, the slowest, lagging behind. There was screaming, yelling, yelping. My un-athletic mom leapt up on the dining table with great agility, un-motherly-like leaving us, her kids, to fend for ourselves. We managed to jump on the dining chairs, which seemed dangerously close to the ground and to the lizard.
The lizard streaked in, stopped short, and took stock of the situation. Spotted my mother screaming and doing a panic hopping dance on the table, and reared up on its hind legs, mouth gaping, displaying rows of sharp teeth, and that deadly flickering tongue, looking massive and terrifying – like a monster from prehistory. Just then Rayamallu charged in and almost tripped over the lizard’s thick, lashing tail. Feeling ambushed from behind, the lizard turned swiftly on Rayamallu. Causing Rayamallu to turn tail and run back from where he had just come. The last we saw of the lizard was it giving chase to a fleeing Rayamallu. It was about ten minutes later that a panting Rayamallu came back and told us the lizard had disappeared into the undergrowth outside the garden.
We sat around, our hearts still thumping hard, as Rayamallu regaled us with tales of the monitor lizard. They were very powerful and strong we were told. They have this peculiarity that once their jaws lock around something, your limb, for instance, or the branch of a tree, even a mechanical crane wouldn’t be able to pull them loose. The Marattha Kings, like Shivaji, who fought many battles against the Moghul army, used them to scale the ramparts of forts built into the craggy Deccan mountains.
While much of the lore surrounding the monitor is probably exaggerated, the monitor lizard is a dwindling species, hunted by the villagers for its meat – deliciously delicately flavoured, according to Rayamallu – and also its habitat, the scrub forest, being systematically destroyed by increasing urbanisation. And so are the snake and the mongoose and other creatures.
The bear, for example. While I never saw one in our bungalow area, our watchman had a tale to tell us. But first I must tell you about the layout of the bungalow area. There were about ten or eleven bungalows that stood in a large circle along a narrow circular tarmac path, which enclosed a grassy area that contained a few trees and was used as a golf field by the golfing enthusiasts amongst my father’s colleagues, our neighbours. The path had streetlights that just about provided some light in the night. Each bungalow was provided with a watchman by the company, the Singareni Coal Mines.
Anyway, like our watchman told us, one dark night, at quite a late hour, he was feeling sleepy and so decided to take a little stroll on the path, just outside the gate. As he stepped out and wanted to light a bidi, he discovered he had no matches. It was then he suddenly saw somebody walking a little distance away in the shadows. Thinking it was the neighbouring bungalow’s watchman, wanting a match, he called out to him, and got no response. He called even louder and started walking towards the shadowy person, still got no response. In fact, the person started walking away faster. Getting suspicious, our watchman started blowing his whistle, to alert the neighbour’s watchman, and began running towards, what he was now convinced was a thief. Hearing all the commotion, the neighbour’s watchman too stepped out on the path, took one look at the speeding shadowy person, and yelling ‘bhaalu, bhaalu’ ran back in. Our watchman stopped in his tracks and watched in silence as the shadowy bear disappeared into the dark.
Adilabad district of Andhra Pradesh is one of the areas where Singareni Coal Mines are located. Adilabad district also had a fair number of tigers in its jungles. While most of the time they lived deep in the jungle, sometimes they would stray into human populated areas. Singareni Collieries had started making tarmac roads, but there were many areas that had just kaccha roads, especially the ones that went through deep jungle to access remote mines, and also provided a route to other areas of the tiny town of Bellampalli, more a village, really, but was getting progressively urbanized by the coal mines. The miners that came from nearby villages needed safe roads to travel to and from the mines to their homes. Plus the officers needed safe roads too.
The senior officers were provided with cars (the ubiquitous Ambassadors) for urban use and jeeps or jongas for use in rough terrain. One night, returning home after a dinner at one of my parent’s friends’ house, we were crossing through a jungle path in our jeep. The path had a tangle of trees and brush on either side which were briefly lit as we drove past by the jeep’s headlights. Suddenly, in the distance ahead, by the path, we saw a pair of eyes glittering in the dark, catching some of the light from the headlights. We didn’t think much of it because cattle often wandered in those areas; we thought it was a cow. My Dad was driving pretty fast, as we jolted along and got nearer, suddenly the headlights picked up a sight I will never forget. Frozen in the light was a full grown tiger! My Dad braked instinctively and we came to a standstill. The tiger gave one look towards us (or the jeep) and with one swift orange and black striped flash leaped across the path and disappeared into the jungle. We were left marveling in silence. Dad shifted gears and we went home talking excitedly about what we had just witnessed.
In the summer, when we kids came home from our boarding schools in Hyderabad/Secunderabad, all of us in the bungalow area would go on night picnics, because the days were too hot. The picnic spot was usually inside the jungle, usually on the soft sand of a semi-dry river or stream bed. Because they are rain fed, the rivers and streams in Andhra Pradesh dry down to a trickle, swelling again with water with the onset of the monsoons. So, we would all set out, Moms, Dads and us kids in our jeeps and jongas and settle down on a river bed to enjoy the cool of the night lit by moonlight and stars, to sing songs playing anthakshari, of course, the aunties and uncles would chat and gossip, the women about the usual, servants, cooking, gossip about some neighbor who wasn’t present there, children, etc. The men would talk about the mines, what was happening on the promotions of each, gossip about some colleague who wasn’t present there, politics and so on. The bridge enthusiasts, which my parents were, would deal out their cards in the light of petromax lamps and call their bids, the rummy enthusiasts would sit a little distance away and get engrossed in their hand of cards, the servants would get busy making chuhlas using the dried sticks, which were plentiful there, and start cooking the picnic meal.
Sometimes, in these nightly picnics, the wild life enthusiasts in the group (including me, of course), would all climb into a jonga driven by some knowledgeable person who knew just where to find them. So, suddenly we would come to a patch of clearing and discover a bunch of spotted deer feeding in the dark. When the light of the vehicle hit them they would all look at us and stand motionless. They never ran away, just stood stock still, until we drove away, the sound of the revving engine finally making them react and flee. Or we would come across a solitary nilgai, as dark as the night, and foxes were plenty and they would sit by the narrow jungle path like tame dogs.
Many precious moments of my childhood and youth were spent watching and wondering and admiring the forest creatures that abounded. I was often scared, but there were times I could have played god with them, but kept my distance. For us in our little forest paradise teeming with snakes, lizards and other creatures, wonder and awe are what we always felt for the forest and its inhabitants, rather than regarding them as peculiar, frightening or exotic creatures. And at night, when I slept snugly in my cozy bed, enclosed in the night sounds of the jungle, the croak-croak-croak of the frogs in the streams and ponds, the constant kirrrrrrr sound of the cicadas in the dark, I would often be woken up by the sudden strange laughing call of the hyena piercing through the night, and I would listen in the dark to mysterious rustling sounds outside, wondering what creature was out there.
Though our worlds were juxtaposed, we tried not to encroach much into theirs. Though they accidentally did encroach sometimes into ours, but they always preferred to slither, crawl, or run away when discovered. Through all those years that we lived there, never have we ever been bitten. Of course we were on our guard, so there was little chance of being accidentally bitten. But accidents do happen, however careful one may be – yet not once. I do believe they were the ones that chose to leave us alone.
I live in protected urbanised surroundings now, away from the kind of nature that I grew up in, and have regrettably lost contact with it. But I am thankful and lucky that my growing years were spent close to the earth, the forest, and its myriad creatures. And all I need to go back there is to have a chat and get inspired to write about it and thus relive a time lost in my past.
-by Rita Putatunda
Saturday, November 19, 2011
My Writing is My Mind Doodling with the Keyboard
My twitter friend G_puriji introduced me to David McKirdy. I’ve not met either of them, G_puriji I meet regularly on my twitter TL. David is a poet and a bike/car enthusiast, and he has taken the trouble to critique some of my writing. This is my response to it.
First, David:
Dear Rita,
G forwarded your blog address to me and for whatever the opinion of a car mechanic is worth I have read and enjoyed the work. The first one 'The Golden Cage' reminds me somewhat of Maya Angelou's poem 'I know why The Caged Bird Sings', although yours has more repetitive, chiming lines that I suspect would work well in performance. Another difference is that Maya Angelou doesn't say 'Fuck' in any of her poems but perhaps she should consider it! I use profanity from time to time but I think writers are best advised to limit it to one or two repetitions at most, otherwise it loses the power to jolt the reader or listener into a different mindset and is in danger of being perceived purely for shock value and as a cliche. The two nature poems 'Moments of Silence' and 'Silver Sea' were particularly strong I thought - I do like brevity in poetry and these two fit the bill, although I also enjoyed the prose piece 'Mangoes of My Childhood'. I think you both describe and evoke well the feelings and emotions of 'Nature' and I would like to read more along these lines. The '3 a.m. Poem' will be recognised by any writer who has been ambushed by something inspirational at some ungodly hour, I know I certainly have.
Are you a member of a poetry group and do you ever read your work in public? I have found that reading my poems out loud really helps to give me a sense of whether they work or not and I would generally not commit something to its final draft until I have read it a couple of times, I sometimes read to myself out loud just to get a sense of the rhythm and the fluidity or lack thereof of a particular piece.
I am currently working on a new collection which I hope to have ready for print in a couple of months, most of the subject matter is about cultural dislocation, relocation and the relationship between the colonisers and the colonised, I hope to do a few festivals during 2012 to promote the new book as well as my recently re-published first collection, hopefully they might have me at The Jaipur Festival and I also want to do a return trip to Singapore where my work was well received during the recent Singapore Writer's Festival.
Warmest Regards
David
Now, my reply:
Dear David,
First of all, I must be honest with you, I do get prickly when confronted with criticism. It’s a strange dichotomy; I know I need good, knowledgeable, detached feedback on what I write in order for me to grow, but when it does offer itself, I rebel against it – the Tom Petty song comes to mind ‘You don’t know what it feels, to be me.’ My Hindu philosophy teaches me to develop detachment, because attachment leads to sorrow. But detachment, especially of my writing, for whatever its worth, is hard. As for sorrow, I wallow in it; it’s my muse, most of the time. Anyway, so I read your critique, got prickles, decided to let it be for a while, ruminate, and take what I could from it. So, my response now is with a prickle free head. Well, almost :- )
About the use of profanity. Language, words, are simply expressions of what I’m feeling. A profane word is just that - a word. If ‘fuck’ does the job for me, I will use it. I don’t use words merely for shock value, or in order to jolt the reader. I never write with any reader in mind - though, I’m writing this with you in mind, but this is in response to what you said. I write to express - it’s a need - more for myself than for anybody else - even this, by the way, although I’m using you as the sounding board to express myself. Which is a happy thing, and happens quite often when I find anybody making interesting comments about my writing, or somebody else’s. This is as much a peek into my own mind for me, as an attempt to explain myself to you.
I will not use the word ‘catharsis’ to describe my need to write, not because it’s a cliché, but because that’s not quite what it is. I revel in my joys, but also in my pain, for pain, more often than not, brings out the muse in me. And I enjoy the muse in me. And then I put it out there, for that too is a need. But primarily, it’s my need to express, and not a catering to a reader’s need to read, that is the driving force. Repetition of words, sentences, happens naturally to me, in other words, it’s not a deliberate device that I use. Actually, profanity does not come naturally to me – it’s not a part of my everyday language, usually. I’ve never used it in any of my other writing. But in this poem, it spilled out, almost without my volition. My poems are mostly about my emotions, I have not explored writing on other subject matter yet, such as detached political thought.
While writing ‘The Golden Cage’ I visualized a trapped animal/bird/creature. I’m sure you’ve seen one or two. It struggles, it fights, with all its might, to get free. Flapping, flailing, struggling, until it loses all its life’s strength and then quietens down, accepting death, or its fate almost, in stoic silence. And then, I put myself in that bird’s place (or maybe the bird has always been me – caught in life’s trap – a trap I didn’t ask for but has been thrust on me willynilly - What’s that song that goes something like ‘stop the world turning, ‘coz I want to get off’), and all I could do was say ‘fuck’ ‘fuck’ ‘fuck’ for being so stupid to have got myself in that trap in the first place (though I hardly had a choice – since I was put in life’s trap by something beyond my control). No other word could have expressed it, and it had to be repeated like the relentless flapping struggle of the bird – a prisoner thrashing against the cage of its circumstance.
I’ve not read Maya Angelou’s poem - I will, now.
Now, about ‘nature’ poems. Again, I have trouble with any categorization of my writing, because I feel imprisoned by it. Nature is what I’ve grown up with – my childhood/youth, the happiest parts, were spent bang in practically a jungle world – hence, nature is what I can describe most, and use to express my feelings most, because that’s what I am familiar with. If I’d grown up, lived, in a concrete room, without a glimpse of nature outside, that is what I would’ve used, if in a gutter, then the gutter would have been my voice. My point being, nature is just a device, it’s my feelings, that are primarily what I want to express.
The post-modern poets of Bengal reject what they term as the highfalutin romanticism of Tagore’s poetry. They want to talk about life’s struggles, the hunger, the pain, the need, the want, the poverty of the everyday life that surrounds them. But, I’ve never understood why they need to reject Tagore for that? Tagore’s circumstance was that of a well-to-do higher middle-class, surrounded by literature, music, arts, philosophy, and the political situation of the country at that time. His mind had the freedom to dwell on those aspects. Nature, the vagaries of the seasons, features predominantly in his writing. His stories/plays usually portray the middle class he has been familiar with. If Tagore had been born in want and need, I’m sure he would have written about those. If the footpath of Calcutta had been his home, and not the genteel home he lived in, then the footpath would’ve been his poetry. Yes, there was much poverty even then, but perhaps Tagore was shielded from it due to his circumstance. (I miss my father now, he would’ve had a better explanation about Tagore.)
In ‘Mangoes of my Childhood’ I enjoyed becoming the child I used to be (or one facet of the child I used to be). It’s also about a time caught in my memory, but which is gone. My father, whom I mention in the piece, is gone; the thread of his life came to an end. But he’s still with me. And, yet, time passes inexorably towards an end of my own existence. And he will die with me when I’m gone. I try to recapture that time in the past, not merely for nostalgia, but because childhood remains an enigmatic part of me. Who was I? Was I the same me that I am today? Why was I? Why am I? What is this end I am going towards?
As for brevity, or a lengthy write, again, these are devices, usually not within my control. If something needs to be brief, it will be. If more words are needed, that’s how it must be. I enjoy both – in writing and reading. Look at this response to you – it’s long and meandering – I’m loving it. (Gulp! Hope you do too, of course - :- ) – apologies if I’m boring you! )
I’m not a member of any poetry group. Reclusive by nature, I shy away from group displays of my writing, which I consider amateurish, anyway. My writing is just my mind doodling with my keyboard, which has largely replaced my pen. However, I have attended some poetry reading by others, and have found that a very enjoyable experience. I will take your advice, however, about reading aloud what I’ve written, though I’ll do it in the safety of my own self as the listener :- )
I must thank you, and G, for taking the trouble, to read and to critique. In our jam-packed life, I know how precious each moment is. I know from G that you’re a nifty car/bike enthusiast, who also writes great poetry. I’ve read your poetry and find them very interesting, especially given your background. I am looking forward to your new book, especially given the subject matter.
I hope you don’t mind if I put your critique and my response up on my blog. I want to do it, because I think I’ve touched on interesting aspects about myself and my writing.
Hoping to hear more from you,
With very warm regards,
Rita
To which David replied:
Dear Rita,
Please don't misread my comments about profanity as disapproval, there is no finer word than 'fuck' for the right occasion, my comment was simply to try to suggest that you think about multiple repetitions of the word and whether or not this dilutes the effect you are trying for in the piece. A good example where repetition works is the opening scene in the movie 'Four Weddings and a Funeral' in this example it is entirely appropriate and highly amusing. 'Philip Larkin also wrote a poem where the first line is; 'They fuck you up your Mum and Dad' it is one of the British readers favourites, so I'm all for swearing, in fact in the Cantonese vernacular every 2nd word is profane. I therefore tend to swear a lot in my daily interaction with others, but only sparingly in my poetry.
I find it is hard to get any kind of constructive comments from readers or listeners and in fact there is a very good friend of mine who doesn't like my poetry at all, but really like my prose. I don't much like care for her poetry either but she is one of my most valuable critics, because if ever I write poem that she likes I will probably scrap it immediately. I think as a poet if I write something that speaks to one person then I have done my job, I don't expect or even want my work to be everything to everyone, it would then become like the music in an elevator and I'd prefer to provoke displeasure rather than lull my listener into a coma.
If you get a chance why not attend a poetry reading in your area simply as a member of the audience, you may find out a thing or two about your own approach from observing what others are doing.
Warmest regards
David
And the conversation will continue when I reply back.
First, David:
Dear Rita,
G forwarded your blog address to me and for whatever the opinion of a car mechanic is worth I have read and enjoyed the work. The first one 'The Golden Cage' reminds me somewhat of Maya Angelou's poem 'I know why The Caged Bird Sings', although yours has more repetitive, chiming lines that I suspect would work well in performance. Another difference is that Maya Angelou doesn't say 'Fuck' in any of her poems but perhaps she should consider it! I use profanity from time to time but I think writers are best advised to limit it to one or two repetitions at most, otherwise it loses the power to jolt the reader or listener into a different mindset and is in danger of being perceived purely for shock value and as a cliche. The two nature poems 'Moments of Silence' and 'Silver Sea' were particularly strong I thought - I do like brevity in poetry and these two fit the bill, although I also enjoyed the prose piece 'Mangoes of My Childhood'. I think you both describe and evoke well the feelings and emotions of 'Nature' and I would like to read more along these lines. The '3 a.m. Poem' will be recognised by any writer who has been ambushed by something inspirational at some ungodly hour, I know I certainly have.
Are you a member of a poetry group and do you ever read your work in public? I have found that reading my poems out loud really helps to give me a sense of whether they work or not and I would generally not commit something to its final draft until I have read it a couple of times, I sometimes read to myself out loud just to get a sense of the rhythm and the fluidity or lack thereof of a particular piece.
I am currently working on a new collection which I hope to have ready for print in a couple of months, most of the subject matter is about cultural dislocation, relocation and the relationship between the colonisers and the colonised, I hope to do a few festivals during 2012 to promote the new book as well as my recently re-published first collection, hopefully they might have me at The Jaipur Festival and I also want to do a return trip to Singapore where my work was well received during the recent Singapore Writer's Festival.
Warmest Regards
David
Now, my reply:
Dear David,
First of all, I must be honest with you, I do get prickly when confronted with criticism. It’s a strange dichotomy; I know I need good, knowledgeable, detached feedback on what I write in order for me to grow, but when it does offer itself, I rebel against it – the Tom Petty song comes to mind ‘You don’t know what it feels, to be me.’ My Hindu philosophy teaches me to develop detachment, because attachment leads to sorrow. But detachment, especially of my writing, for whatever its worth, is hard. As for sorrow, I wallow in it; it’s my muse, most of the time. Anyway, so I read your critique, got prickles, decided to let it be for a while, ruminate, and take what I could from it. So, my response now is with a prickle free head. Well, almost :- )
About the use of profanity. Language, words, are simply expressions of what I’m feeling. A profane word is just that - a word. If ‘fuck’ does the job for me, I will use it. I don’t use words merely for shock value, or in order to jolt the reader. I never write with any reader in mind - though, I’m writing this with you in mind, but this is in response to what you said. I write to express - it’s a need - more for myself than for anybody else - even this, by the way, although I’m using you as the sounding board to express myself. Which is a happy thing, and happens quite often when I find anybody making interesting comments about my writing, or somebody else’s. This is as much a peek into my own mind for me, as an attempt to explain myself to you.
I will not use the word ‘catharsis’ to describe my need to write, not because it’s a cliché, but because that’s not quite what it is. I revel in my joys, but also in my pain, for pain, more often than not, brings out the muse in me. And I enjoy the muse in me. And then I put it out there, for that too is a need. But primarily, it’s my need to express, and not a catering to a reader’s need to read, that is the driving force. Repetition of words, sentences, happens naturally to me, in other words, it’s not a deliberate device that I use. Actually, profanity does not come naturally to me – it’s not a part of my everyday language, usually. I’ve never used it in any of my other writing. But in this poem, it spilled out, almost without my volition. My poems are mostly about my emotions, I have not explored writing on other subject matter yet, such as detached political thought.
While writing ‘The Golden Cage’ I visualized a trapped animal/bird/creature. I’m sure you’ve seen one or two. It struggles, it fights, with all its might, to get free. Flapping, flailing, struggling, until it loses all its life’s strength and then quietens down, accepting death, or its fate almost, in stoic silence. And then, I put myself in that bird’s place (or maybe the bird has always been me – caught in life’s trap – a trap I didn’t ask for but has been thrust on me willynilly - What’s that song that goes something like ‘stop the world turning, ‘coz I want to get off’), and all I could do was say ‘fuck’ ‘fuck’ ‘fuck’ for being so stupid to have got myself in that trap in the first place (though I hardly had a choice – since I was put in life’s trap by something beyond my control). No other word could have expressed it, and it had to be repeated like the relentless flapping struggle of the bird – a prisoner thrashing against the cage of its circumstance.
I’ve not read Maya Angelou’s poem - I will, now.
Now, about ‘nature’ poems. Again, I have trouble with any categorization of my writing, because I feel imprisoned by it. Nature is what I’ve grown up with – my childhood/youth, the happiest parts, were spent bang in practically a jungle world – hence, nature is what I can describe most, and use to express my feelings most, because that’s what I am familiar with. If I’d grown up, lived, in a concrete room, without a glimpse of nature outside, that is what I would’ve used, if in a gutter, then the gutter would have been my voice. My point being, nature is just a device, it’s my feelings, that are primarily what I want to express.
The post-modern poets of Bengal reject what they term as the highfalutin romanticism of Tagore’s poetry. They want to talk about life’s struggles, the hunger, the pain, the need, the want, the poverty of the everyday life that surrounds them. But, I’ve never understood why they need to reject Tagore for that? Tagore’s circumstance was that of a well-to-do higher middle-class, surrounded by literature, music, arts, philosophy, and the political situation of the country at that time. His mind had the freedom to dwell on those aspects. Nature, the vagaries of the seasons, features predominantly in his writing. His stories/plays usually portray the middle class he has been familiar with. If Tagore had been born in want and need, I’m sure he would have written about those. If the footpath of Calcutta had been his home, and not the genteel home he lived in, then the footpath would’ve been his poetry. Yes, there was much poverty even then, but perhaps Tagore was shielded from it due to his circumstance. (I miss my father now, he would’ve had a better explanation about Tagore.)
In ‘Mangoes of my Childhood’ I enjoyed becoming the child I used to be (or one facet of the child I used to be). It’s also about a time caught in my memory, but which is gone. My father, whom I mention in the piece, is gone; the thread of his life came to an end. But he’s still with me. And, yet, time passes inexorably towards an end of my own existence. And he will die with me when I’m gone. I try to recapture that time in the past, not merely for nostalgia, but because childhood remains an enigmatic part of me. Who was I? Was I the same me that I am today? Why was I? Why am I? What is this end I am going towards?
As for brevity, or a lengthy write, again, these are devices, usually not within my control. If something needs to be brief, it will be. If more words are needed, that’s how it must be. I enjoy both – in writing and reading. Look at this response to you – it’s long and meandering – I’m loving it. (Gulp! Hope you do too, of course - :- ) – apologies if I’m boring you! )
I’m not a member of any poetry group. Reclusive by nature, I shy away from group displays of my writing, which I consider amateurish, anyway. My writing is just my mind doodling with my keyboard, which has largely replaced my pen. However, I have attended some poetry reading by others, and have found that a very enjoyable experience. I will take your advice, however, about reading aloud what I’ve written, though I’ll do it in the safety of my own self as the listener :- )
I must thank you, and G, for taking the trouble, to read and to critique. In our jam-packed life, I know how precious each moment is. I know from G that you’re a nifty car/bike enthusiast, who also writes great poetry. I’ve read your poetry and find them very interesting, especially given your background. I am looking forward to your new book, especially given the subject matter.
I hope you don’t mind if I put your critique and my response up on my blog. I want to do it, because I think I’ve touched on interesting aspects about myself and my writing.
Hoping to hear more from you,
With very warm regards,
Rita
To which David replied:
Dear Rita,
Please don't misread my comments about profanity as disapproval, there is no finer word than 'fuck' for the right occasion, my comment was simply to try to suggest that you think about multiple repetitions of the word and whether or not this dilutes the effect you are trying for in the piece. A good example where repetition works is the opening scene in the movie 'Four Weddings and a Funeral' in this example it is entirely appropriate and highly amusing. 'Philip Larkin also wrote a poem where the first line is; 'They fuck you up your Mum and Dad' it is one of the British readers favourites, so I'm all for swearing, in fact in the Cantonese vernacular every 2nd word is profane. I therefore tend to swear a lot in my daily interaction with others, but only sparingly in my poetry.
I find it is hard to get any kind of constructive comments from readers or listeners and in fact there is a very good friend of mine who doesn't like my poetry at all, but really like my prose. I don't much like care for her poetry either but she is one of my most valuable critics, because if ever I write poem that she likes I will probably scrap it immediately. I think as a poet if I write something that speaks to one person then I have done my job, I don't expect or even want my work to be everything to everyone, it would then become like the music in an elevator and I'd prefer to provoke displeasure rather than lull my listener into a coma.
If you get a chance why not attend a poetry reading in your area simply as a member of the audience, you may find out a thing or two about your own approach from observing what others are doing.
Warmest regards
David
And the conversation will continue when I reply back.
My Yoga Routine
Let me begin by saying that I hate exercising. Period. But, I'm forced to exercise because things tend to get too out of hand otherwise (I tend to put on weight easily). Back in my childhood, I used to love sports. I was part of my school teams of badminton, table tennis, basket ball, net ball and throw ball. I love swimming too. I always like the competitiveness of sports hence I enjoyed them, and also got my dose of exercise without my realizing it. It’s the regulated kinds of exercise that tend to bore me, but which I’m forced to do now. So physical activity has always been a part of me.
Over the years I've done all forms of exercises, from Jane Fonda workouts to weight training to jogging out on the roads to, of course, yoga. When I began learning yoga, about 20 years back, I discovered that yoga had an almost infinite number of asanas, from the simplest to the unimaginably convoluted. I also discovered that my body was comfortable with a few, and as long as these few asanas targeted all the major parts of my body, it was enough. In other words, you don’t need to do the tough ones to be healthy, the simple ones are quite adequate.
Hence, I've pared my yoga routine down to the barest of the bare minimum, using simple, easy-to-do asanas. About a 20-30 minute yoga workout which has 13 asanas , including the Shavasana, which is the last one, plus the Surya Namaskar. And, by the way, though the Shavasana seems nothing but lying flat on your back with your eyes closed, it is the asana that gets you in touch with all your body and mind, and therefore, the best asana of all, according to me. You can stretch the 20-30 minutes by holding each asana for a longer period of time, which I do often when I feel in tune with my body. So, here it is – my yoga routine.
To begin with, put on some soft, soothing music... try Hariprasad Chaurasia's bansuri(my favourite) or Ravi Shankar's sitar. Or any soft, soothing music of your choice. Oh, and breathe normally through all these exercises. And also, don't force your body to stretch beyond its capacity. Take it easy, and stretch progressively further as you become more flexible with regular practice. So, here goes –
I always begin my yoga by standing still and breathing deeply for a few moments. This gets my mind and body prepared for the asanas.
Surya Namaskar
I always begin by doing the Surya Namaskar. I have found the Surya Namaskar, a flowing series of a number of asanas, the best way to warm up, preparing my body for the other asanas that follow. The Surya Namaskar also tones up the large muscles of the body, making them supple. It is especially beneficial for increasing the flexibility and strength of the spine. As one gets stronger and more flexible, one can increase the speed and repetition of the Surya Namaskar. I go according to how my body feels; some days I feel like going slow, with fewer repetitions of the cycle of asanas, while at other times, I like to quicken the pace and do more reps. These asanas of the Surya Namaskar should be done in a smooth flow. The asanas of the Surya Namaskar are: 1) Stand with your body erect with your palms joined together in a namaste. Inhale and lift your arms overhead and join your palms. 2) Exhale and bend forward until your hands touch your feet. 3) Inhale, put the right leg back, arch your back, and lift your chest and chin. 4) Exhale, put your left leg back and go into the plank position. Keep your back and legs in a straight line, supporting your weight on your hands and feet. 5) Retain your breath, lower your knees, chest, and forehead, keeping your hips up and toes curled under. 6) Inhale, straighten your body on the floor and arch your back, supporting your upper body on your hands (the bhujangasan or cobra pose). 7) Exhale, curl your toes under, press down on your heels, and lift your hips up towards the ceiling, supporting your upper body with your hands. 8) Inhale, bring your right leg forward, keeping the left leg back, and lift your chest and chin in an arching stretch. 9) Exhale, bring your left leg forward, lift your hips up towards the ceiling, and go into the forward bend position, with your hands touching your feet. 10) Inhale, lift your torso up until you are standing erect, then stretching your arms upward overhead, slowly bend backward from the waist, arching your spine. 11) Exhale, and gently straighten your body in an erect position, with your palms joined in a namaste.
Utthita Trikonasana
Stand with your feet a little more than shoulder width apart. Turn the foot of your right leg outward, and the foot of your left leg a little inward. Raise your arms by your sides and hold them parallel to the floor. Now, bend sideways from the waist to touch your right foot with your right hand, with the left arm stretched toward the ceiling. Hold this position for a minute. Straighten up. And repeat on the other side. This asana gives a wonderful stretch and improves the flexibility of the body. Improves your balance too.
Padahastasana
Stand with your feet together. Raise your arms overhead and bend forward from your waist and touch your toes. As you become more flexible, you can grab hold of your ankles and try to get your forehead to touch your knees. Hold for one minute. And return to the starting position. The spine and the hamstrings get a great stretch.
Veerabhadrasana
Stand with your feet a little more than shoulder width apart. Turn the foot of your right leg outward, and the foot of your left leg a little inward. Raise your arms by your sides and hold them parallel to the floor. Now bend the knee of your right leg and stretch your body towards your right side, you left leg straight, planted firmly on the floor. Turn your face towards your right and hold this position for a minute. Return to starting position and repeat on the other side. Strengthens the muscles of the legs and improves balance.
Janushirsasana
Sit on the floor with your legs straight out in front of you. Bend you left leg at the knee so that the sole of the foot rests on the inside thigh of your right leg. Now raise your arms and bend forward, and get hold of your right leg's toes with both your hands. Try to get your face as close as possible to your right knee. Hold for one minute and come up. Repeat on the other side. A good stretch for the hamstrings and the back. Gives your internal organs a massage.
Upavishtakonasana
Sit with your legs stretched sideways as far out as possible. Bend forward and try to touch your chin on the floor in front of you, while you grab hold of your toes on either side with your hands. Try to keep your spine as straight as possible, and try not to bend your knees. Hold for one minute. And release the stretch. This gives an intense stretch to the inner thighs. Improves the flexibility of the pelvic region.
Paschimottanasana
Sit erect with your legs together and stretched out in front of you. Now raise your arms up overhead and bend forward and grab hold of your toes. Try to get your face as close to your knees as you can. Don't allow your knees to lift off the floor. Hold for a minute and come up. The spine, hamstrings, and calf muscles get a good stretch. Massages the abdominal region.
Shalabhasana
Lie flat on the floor on your belly, with your arms by your sides. Now lift your head, torso, arms, and legs off the floor, so that you are balancing on the lower part of your belly. Hold for one minute, and come down gently. Great for toning the back muscles. Strengthens the spine. Also strengthens the core muscles.
Bhujangasana
Lie flat on your belly, face down on the floor. Place your palms on the floor at shoulder level. Now lift your head and chest off the floor, straightening your arms, while the lower portion of your body, from abdomen down, remains on the floor. Stretch your head back, looking up at the ceiling. Hold for a minute, and come down gently. Wonderful stretch for the spine. Also gives a nice stretch to the chest and strengthens arm muscles.
Dhanurasana
Lie on your belly, face down. Bend your knees. Reach back with your hands to grab hold of each ankle with each hand. Now, pull your legs up from behind, and lift your head and torso up. Hold for one minute, and release out of the stretch gently. Another wonderful asana for your back muscles and spine.
Urdhwa Prasaritapadasana
Begin by lying on your back, arms by your side. Now, place your hands, palms down, under your lower back. Then, tautening your abs and tightening your leg muscles, lift both legs off the floor to a height of about 30 degrees. Hold them there for a few seconds (count a slow ten silently). Then raise your legs to a height of about 60 degrees, and hold for a few seconds. Then lift up to 90 degrees or straight up. Then reverse the process, coming down to 60 degrees, then 30 degrees, then down on the floor. Very good for the abs.
Halasana
Lie on your back. Lift both your legs and your hips up, off the floor, and swing them over to reach over your head, so that the tips of your toes touch the floor above your head. Hold for one minute. Terrific for the spine, and massages the abs too. But requires some expertise. So get expert help for this one.
Sarvangasana
Lie on your back. Lift both your legs and your hips off the floor, lifting them straight up, until your whole body is balanced on your shoulders and the nape of your neck, with your hands supporting your waist from behind. This is considered to be the queen of all the asanas (the king being the Sirshasana, or the head stand, which is too advanced for me). Anyway, the Sarvangasana tones the whole body, including the glandular system deep inside. But this exercise too needs a fair amount of expertise. So, learn the technique from an expert first.
Shavasana
Lie flat on your back. Close your eyes and let your whole body go limp. Breathe deeply and slowly. And relax completely for one minute. Feel the soft music flowing over you and through you. Great relaxation after doing all the asanas.
Well, that's it. Actually, the fun thing about this set is that you get a total body workout in just about 20-30 minutes, depending on how long you hold each asana. Also, after each asana, it is advisable to take rest for a minute or so and then get into the next asana. Sometimes, when in the mood, I take an hour to do all the asanas, holding each asana for a longer period of time. And about the breathing pattern of each asana, a rule of thumb is to inhale when you bend back or straighten your body, and exhale when you bend forward. When in position of any asana it is important to breathe normally. I also follow up these exercises with some pranayama during which I sit in the Padmasana.
By the way, all forms of exercise are liable to cause injury, so expert help by your side at first is advisable.
-by Rita Putatunda
Over the years I've done all forms of exercises, from Jane Fonda workouts to weight training to jogging out on the roads to, of course, yoga. When I began learning yoga, about 20 years back, I discovered that yoga had an almost infinite number of asanas, from the simplest to the unimaginably convoluted. I also discovered that my body was comfortable with a few, and as long as these few asanas targeted all the major parts of my body, it was enough. In other words, you don’t need to do the tough ones to be healthy, the simple ones are quite adequate.
Hence, I've pared my yoga routine down to the barest of the bare minimum, using simple, easy-to-do asanas. About a 20-30 minute yoga workout which has 13 asanas , including the Shavasana, which is the last one, plus the Surya Namaskar. And, by the way, though the Shavasana seems nothing but lying flat on your back with your eyes closed, it is the asana that gets you in touch with all your body and mind, and therefore, the best asana of all, according to me. You can stretch the 20-30 minutes by holding each asana for a longer period of time, which I do often when I feel in tune with my body. So, here it is – my yoga routine.
To begin with, put on some soft, soothing music... try Hariprasad Chaurasia's bansuri(my favourite) or Ravi Shankar's sitar. Or any soft, soothing music of your choice. Oh, and breathe normally through all these exercises. And also, don't force your body to stretch beyond its capacity. Take it easy, and stretch progressively further as you become more flexible with regular practice. So, here goes –
I always begin my yoga by standing still and breathing deeply for a few moments. This gets my mind and body prepared for the asanas.
Surya Namaskar
I always begin by doing the Surya Namaskar. I have found the Surya Namaskar, a flowing series of a number of asanas, the best way to warm up, preparing my body for the other asanas that follow. The Surya Namaskar also tones up the large muscles of the body, making them supple. It is especially beneficial for increasing the flexibility and strength of the spine. As one gets stronger and more flexible, one can increase the speed and repetition of the Surya Namaskar. I go according to how my body feels; some days I feel like going slow, with fewer repetitions of the cycle of asanas, while at other times, I like to quicken the pace and do more reps. These asanas of the Surya Namaskar should be done in a smooth flow. The asanas of the Surya Namaskar are: 1) Stand with your body erect with your palms joined together in a namaste. Inhale and lift your arms overhead and join your palms. 2) Exhale and bend forward until your hands touch your feet. 3) Inhale, put the right leg back, arch your back, and lift your chest and chin. 4) Exhale, put your left leg back and go into the plank position. Keep your back and legs in a straight line, supporting your weight on your hands and feet. 5) Retain your breath, lower your knees, chest, and forehead, keeping your hips up and toes curled under. 6) Inhale, straighten your body on the floor and arch your back, supporting your upper body on your hands (the bhujangasan or cobra pose). 7) Exhale, curl your toes under, press down on your heels, and lift your hips up towards the ceiling, supporting your upper body with your hands. 8) Inhale, bring your right leg forward, keeping the left leg back, and lift your chest and chin in an arching stretch. 9) Exhale, bring your left leg forward, lift your hips up towards the ceiling, and go into the forward bend position, with your hands touching your feet. 10) Inhale, lift your torso up until you are standing erect, then stretching your arms upward overhead, slowly bend backward from the waist, arching your spine. 11) Exhale, and gently straighten your body in an erect position, with your palms joined in a namaste.
Utthita Trikonasana
Stand with your feet a little more than shoulder width apart. Turn the foot of your right leg outward, and the foot of your left leg a little inward. Raise your arms by your sides and hold them parallel to the floor. Now, bend sideways from the waist to touch your right foot with your right hand, with the left arm stretched toward the ceiling. Hold this position for a minute. Straighten up. And repeat on the other side. This asana gives a wonderful stretch and improves the flexibility of the body. Improves your balance too.
Padahastasana
Stand with your feet together. Raise your arms overhead and bend forward from your waist and touch your toes. As you become more flexible, you can grab hold of your ankles and try to get your forehead to touch your knees. Hold for one minute. And return to the starting position. The spine and the hamstrings get a great stretch.
Veerabhadrasana
Stand with your feet a little more than shoulder width apart. Turn the foot of your right leg outward, and the foot of your left leg a little inward. Raise your arms by your sides and hold them parallel to the floor. Now bend the knee of your right leg and stretch your body towards your right side, you left leg straight, planted firmly on the floor. Turn your face towards your right and hold this position for a minute. Return to starting position and repeat on the other side. Strengthens the muscles of the legs and improves balance.
Janushirsasana
Sit on the floor with your legs straight out in front of you. Bend you left leg at the knee so that the sole of the foot rests on the inside thigh of your right leg. Now raise your arms and bend forward, and get hold of your right leg's toes with both your hands. Try to get your face as close as possible to your right knee. Hold for one minute and come up. Repeat on the other side. A good stretch for the hamstrings and the back. Gives your internal organs a massage.
Upavishtakonasana
Sit with your legs stretched sideways as far out as possible. Bend forward and try to touch your chin on the floor in front of you, while you grab hold of your toes on either side with your hands. Try to keep your spine as straight as possible, and try not to bend your knees. Hold for one minute. And release the stretch. This gives an intense stretch to the inner thighs. Improves the flexibility of the pelvic region.
Paschimottanasana
Sit erect with your legs together and stretched out in front of you. Now raise your arms up overhead and bend forward and grab hold of your toes. Try to get your face as close to your knees as you can. Don't allow your knees to lift off the floor. Hold for a minute and come up. The spine, hamstrings, and calf muscles get a good stretch. Massages the abdominal region.
Shalabhasana
Lie flat on the floor on your belly, with your arms by your sides. Now lift your head, torso, arms, and legs off the floor, so that you are balancing on the lower part of your belly. Hold for one minute, and come down gently. Great for toning the back muscles. Strengthens the spine. Also strengthens the core muscles.
Bhujangasana
Lie flat on your belly, face down on the floor. Place your palms on the floor at shoulder level. Now lift your head and chest off the floor, straightening your arms, while the lower portion of your body, from abdomen down, remains on the floor. Stretch your head back, looking up at the ceiling. Hold for a minute, and come down gently. Wonderful stretch for the spine. Also gives a nice stretch to the chest and strengthens arm muscles.
Dhanurasana
Lie on your belly, face down. Bend your knees. Reach back with your hands to grab hold of each ankle with each hand. Now, pull your legs up from behind, and lift your head and torso up. Hold for one minute, and release out of the stretch gently. Another wonderful asana for your back muscles and spine.
Urdhwa Prasaritapadasana
Begin by lying on your back, arms by your side. Now, place your hands, palms down, under your lower back. Then, tautening your abs and tightening your leg muscles, lift both legs off the floor to a height of about 30 degrees. Hold them there for a few seconds (count a slow ten silently). Then raise your legs to a height of about 60 degrees, and hold for a few seconds. Then lift up to 90 degrees or straight up. Then reverse the process, coming down to 60 degrees, then 30 degrees, then down on the floor. Very good for the abs.
Halasana
Lie on your back. Lift both your legs and your hips up, off the floor, and swing them over to reach over your head, so that the tips of your toes touch the floor above your head. Hold for one minute. Terrific for the spine, and massages the abs too. But requires some expertise. So get expert help for this one.
Sarvangasana
Lie on your back. Lift both your legs and your hips off the floor, lifting them straight up, until your whole body is balanced on your shoulders and the nape of your neck, with your hands supporting your waist from behind. This is considered to be the queen of all the asanas (the king being the Sirshasana, or the head stand, which is too advanced for me). Anyway, the Sarvangasana tones the whole body, including the glandular system deep inside. But this exercise too needs a fair amount of expertise. So, learn the technique from an expert first.
Shavasana
Lie flat on your back. Close your eyes and let your whole body go limp. Breathe deeply and slowly. And relax completely for one minute. Feel the soft music flowing over you and through you. Great relaxation after doing all the asanas.
Well, that's it. Actually, the fun thing about this set is that you get a total body workout in just about 20-30 minutes, depending on how long you hold each asana. Also, after each asana, it is advisable to take rest for a minute or so and then get into the next asana. Sometimes, when in the mood, I take an hour to do all the asanas, holding each asana for a longer period of time. And about the breathing pattern of each asana, a rule of thumb is to inhale when you bend back or straighten your body, and exhale when you bend forward. When in position of any asana it is important to breathe normally. I also follow up these exercises with some pranayama during which I sit in the Padmasana.
By the way, all forms of exercise are liable to cause injury, so expert help by your side at first is advisable.
-by Rita Putatunda
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Unknown to me
The dawn tiptoes through
Shuttered streets
Where night still dreams
Drugged in yesterday’s sleep
The wind blows
Dried leaves
Fallen under brooding trees
Where last summer’s music weeps
When the sun’s first rays spilled
Through clouded reams
Of my slumbering reverie
Yesterday took my leave
Unknown to me
-by Rita Putatunda
Shuttered streets
Where night still dreams
Drugged in yesterday’s sleep
The wind blows
Dried leaves
Fallen under brooding trees
Where last summer’s music weeps
When the sun’s first rays spilled
Through clouded reams
Of my slumbering reverie
Yesterday took my leave
Unknown to me
-by Rita Putatunda
Thursday, November 10, 2011
The Golden Cage
Looking out at the golden world
Through the golden bars
Of my golden cage
I see pasted against
Blue skies so free
Birds flying free
Clouds scudding free
The breeze rustling
Through treetops free
The sun riding the sky free
Night’s dark face
Sprinkled with stars free
The buzzing insect-creatures
Swarming around
My golden cage
Stick their sharp knives
Of freedom
Deep into my caged heart
Beating bleating screaming
To be free free free
Free of the golden cage
To breathe the air free
To spread my wings
And fly in the blue expanse
Darting gliding free
Through the scudding clouds
Winging dashing free
Over oceans mountains
Waving fronds
Singing songs sweet
Free free free
And then you look down
To the place
You’ll have to land
When tired grow the wings
When hunger captures the belly
To the place you’ll have to nest
When weary become your eyes
And you see
The fucking muck the fucking hunger
The fucking anger
The fucking need want dearth
The seething sweating louts
Caged in their fucking toil
The clods and the clowns
Fighting over scraps
Sleeping in their own crap
And you wonder
What’s the big flap
You’re making about
Your nice little trap
And you swiftly
Tuck the wings
Of your longings
In your perfumed armpits
And settle on your
Golden swing
In the sterile sanctuary of
Your golden cage
Waiting impatiently
For someone
To hurry the fuck up
With the fucking feed
-by Rita Putatunda
Through the golden bars
Of my golden cage
I see pasted against
Blue skies so free
Birds flying free
Clouds scudding free
The breeze rustling
Through treetops free
The sun riding the sky free
Night’s dark face
Sprinkled with stars free
The buzzing insect-creatures
Swarming around
My golden cage
Stick their sharp knives
Of freedom
Deep into my caged heart
Beating bleating screaming
To be free free free
Free of the golden cage
To breathe the air free
To spread my wings
And fly in the blue expanse
Darting gliding free
Through the scudding clouds
Winging dashing free
Over oceans mountains
Waving fronds
Singing songs sweet
Free free free
And then you look down
To the place
You’ll have to land
When tired grow the wings
When hunger captures the belly
To the place you’ll have to nest
When weary become your eyes
And you see
The fucking muck the fucking hunger
The fucking anger
The fucking need want dearth
The seething sweating louts
Caged in their fucking toil
The clods and the clowns
Fighting over scraps
Sleeping in their own crap
And you wonder
What’s the big flap
You’re making about
Your nice little trap
And you swiftly
Tuck the wings
Of your longings
In your perfumed armpits
And settle on your
Golden swing
In the sterile sanctuary of
Your golden cage
Waiting impatiently
For someone
To hurry the fuck up
With the fucking feed
-by Rita Putatunda
Monday, November 7, 2011
Moments of silences
I tip-toe wearing red nail paint
and silver toe-rings
my face dyed in butterfly wings
that flutter like monsoon rain drip.
The frangipani in the corner
of your garden
trembles restlessly
kissed by the grey cloud
that the leaves gather
and sprinkle on my eyelids.
Tread softly and run your
finger tips like feathers in my hair
for life is lived in
moments of silences
breathed in whispers
that linger in the corners
of my rain-drenched heart beat.
And we’ll wait for the
first flush of dawn
to lift the mist of night’s mystery.
-by Rita Putatunda
and silver toe-rings
my face dyed in butterfly wings
that flutter like monsoon rain drip.
The frangipani in the corner
of your garden
trembles restlessly
kissed by the grey cloud
that the leaves gather
and sprinkle on my eyelids.
Tread softly and run your
finger tips like feathers in my hair
for life is lived in
moments of silences
breathed in whispers
that linger in the corners
of my rain-drenched heart beat.
And we’ll wait for the
first flush of dawn
to lift the mist of night’s mystery.
-by Rita Putatunda
Thursday, November 3, 2011
The Mangoes of my Childhood
This is a longish ramble through a slice of my childhood. So, get yourself a cup of coffee or tea, relax, take your time, and I hope you enjoy the tour.
I grew up surrounded by sprawling gardens with trees, shrubs, creepers – nameless plants of every kind bearing flowers and fruits of myriad hue. We lived in tiny coal-mining towns - Kothagudem, Bellampalli, Ramagundam - situated in Adilabad and Khammam districts, in the state of Andhra Pradesh - shifting from one place to the other as and when we were transferred. Here, I’m describing a bungalow where we spent many years – though the bungalows in the other places were quite similar. Singareni Collieries, the coal mining company, was set up by the British, and when they left, taken over by Indian management, comprising mainly of mining engineers, of which my father was one.
Every once in a while my father and brother – not really genuine gardening buffs – got into planting fits. They generally attacked the usually fallow vegetable patch, behind the bungalow - which was the living quarters of the officers, and hence home for us. And so, our dining table would suddenly begin groaning under kilo-fulls of lady fingers – the plants grew easily and fruited abundantly; strange button sized, ruby red, tomatoes, that were succulent and sweet to taste; fat, purple brinjals, which when fried crisp brown, turned butter soft inside – delicious when eaten with steaming hot rice and dal, into which a few drops of tangy lime juice would be squeezed.
The limes came green and fresh from the unruly thicket that grew near the compound wall. Beside which grew the papaya trees whose bulbous green skinned fruit often burst open in the summer heat, revealing their fleshy orange soul, pitted with gelatinous black seeds that looked like the frogs’ eggs that the frogs laid in the cement tanks. These cement tanks were built to store water that was let out in rivulets of shallow furrows dug in the earth that led to all the different parts of the garden. Especially the corner where the copse of banana plants waved their broad emerald-green leaves in passing winds. These were thirsty plants, my father explained, they needed plenty of water to quench their thirst. The fruit they bore in hanging bunches were sun yellow coloured, not much larger than my childish fist, in which I held many a peeled fruit – sugar sweet to taste.
The coconut palms that grew in a row were really ornamental; we couldn’t eat the loads of fruit that came down with loud crashing thumps when they ripened. The garden was hedged with henna, the leaves of which I would painstakingly collect and crush on the grinding stone in the kitchen and smear into intricate patterns on my hands. The rusty stains would remain for days which I would proudly display to my generally unenthusiastic family.
The neem tree in one corner of the garden spread big and wide, the little berry like bitter fruit lay strewn like yellow droplets of paint on the ground, untouched by the crows, parrots, doves, pigeons, mynahs, sparrows that flew and hopped about, rending the air with their caws, screeches, chirps, hums. The tamarind tree in another corner bore strings of sour brown tamarinds that you brought down with wild flings of chunky stones (by me) and well-aimed homemade catapults (by my brother). These were then dipped in salt, and licked and eaten with smacking sounds, the salty sourness peeling the skin in your mouth.
The large jamun tree that grew beside the dining room, sprouted luscious purple-black fruit that you put in a tin with a dash of salt, red chilli powder, and a few drops of mustard oil, covered and shook with all your might, then settled down under the shade of the gulmohar tree, to curl your tongue around each sweetish sourish chilli tinged mustardy salty soft fruit – your lips and tongue turning purple black – listening to the koel hidden in the branches wailing – Coo-oo Coo-oo – the earth crimson with the fallen flaming flowers.
There were plenty of smaller flowering plants too. The star like asters that grew in beds, the rows of marigold that burst into flower in daubs of brassy yellow, the sunflower patch where I spent many long hours on hot summer days, because I had been told that the heavy flower heads followed the sun’s path, and I wanted to see that in action. I never could make up my mind with certainty whether they really did, or it was only the breeze.
Then, there were the bright sprays of bougainvillea – magenta, fairy white, bronze-orange – that leaned against the trellises here and there. And roses of course. There were pink roses that flowered copiously and filled the garden with their heady scent, there were dusky red ones that bloomed in smaller numbers and stood in regal aloofness on their thick stalks, and the ones I loved the most, with peach-edged petals and yellow centres. The wasps, bumblebees, and dragonflies had long buzzing conversations amongst this profusion of petals, perfumes, and thorns, while the butterflies flitted and fluttered from flower to flower.
But beloved of all were the mango trees – about ten or twelve in all – each bearing a different variety of fruit. Each with distinctive size, shape, flavour, and colour. The mangoes that grew in our garden were not commercially available and so were mostly nameless. Come March, and the branches would be tipped by little whitish innocuous looking flowers. If you plucked a sprig and pressed your nose into it, you could smell the mango that was forming within its womb. As the sun grew hotter, the mangoes grew rounder and riper. The hotter the summer, the sweeter the mango – so went wise lore!
There was the little, fist sized, vermillion coloured tangy sweet Sinduri, which grew in copious bunches. Then there was the huge green variety, each fruit weighing about a kilo or so; they hung heavy, but few. The tree would yield about ten or twelve in a prolific season, usually you were lucky if you got six or seven. The pulp of these was softened by pressing and kneading the fruit – in my small childish hands, that was something like massaging a sumo wrestler!
Then, when suitably softened, the pustule, from which it had been attached to its stalk, would be nipped, and then mouth to fruit, you suckled at all the sweet, orange coloured thick pulp, which ran down your chin, into the front of your dress. Or, you made your mother squeeze the mash into a dish, add a dollop of cream, put in the freezer, and hey presto, you had fresh mango ice-cream! The fruit was so sweet, you didn’t need to add any sugar.
Then there was the variety which never ripened into yellow fruit, but remained hard, raw green outside, and white and sour inside. You plucked them by the basket full, washed, and laid them out in the sun, to dry the moisture. And then cut them into inch sized cubes, and pickled them inside huge jars, with oil into which would be mixed a pungent paste of red chillies and other tongue tingling condiments. The open jars, full of pickling mangoes, would then be set out in the blazing sun, and the air would be redolent with the aroma of spices, oil, and sour green mangoes slowly turning chilli red. You then got homemade mango pickle to eat with your rice and dal for the rest of the year.
There was also the table variety which you cut into slices and ate politely when you had guests for dinner, and it was served as dessert. Or, preferably, simply peeled and attacked with gusto, in succulent bites, the juice smearing your cheeks and chin, and your hands becoming slithery sticky. You kept at it until you came to the kernel, which you gnawed at until it was bone dry white.
Of course, you competed for the ripest and the most luscious fruits that grew in the inaccessible topmost branches, where marauding bands of monkeys cocked a snook at you as you looked up from way down below, burning with sweaty aggravation, while they sampled the best fruits, then impudently chucked half eaten fruit at you, in response to the ineffectual pieces of stones that you flung at them.
And not to forget the pesky mobs of screeching parrots that turned the sky green, when in their multitudes they converged in, into the mango trees. They could wipe out a tree in minutes. So, you joined in with full-throated glee in the blood curdling yells, and great banging of old tins, of the mali, the ayah, the cook, and the watchman, accompanied by the enthusiastic barking of Ginnie, the dog, to try and chase them away – to little avail.
The parrots never ate the whole fruit. They dug their sharp, curved beaks into one fruit now, and when bored, on to another fruit next, leaving behind pitted useless fruit, which rotted and fell. We got the leftovers from such dastardly looting and pillaging. But still, since it was only me my brother my sister my parents, and of course, the mali, the ayah, the cook, and the watchman, there really was always plenty to go around.
And summers meant mangoes as breakfast, mangoes at lunch, mangoes at dinner, mangoes when you were bored and wanted something to munch, mangoes at picnics, mangoes when you climbed trees to play hide and seek, mangoes when you came out dripping and famished from the swimming pool – mangoes mangoes mangoes – filled sun drenched days, their tangy smell mingling with the heady scent of the flowers of the night, the mogra, the jasmine, and the raat-ki-rani, wafting in on a summer breeze, stealing into your dreams at night.
And though those days have been left far behind now, and I have been replanted away from that soil, it is in the gardens of my childhood and youth, where I grew and bloomed, that my roots still remain. When it is summer now, and the days become hot ad searing, just right for the ripening of mangoes that I’m sure still grow there, I buy a kilo of fruit from the market and bite into the juicy flesh, and feel a strong tug at those old roots of my childhood and youth.
-by Rita Putatunda
I grew up surrounded by sprawling gardens with trees, shrubs, creepers – nameless plants of every kind bearing flowers and fruits of myriad hue. We lived in tiny coal-mining towns - Kothagudem, Bellampalli, Ramagundam - situated in Adilabad and Khammam districts, in the state of Andhra Pradesh - shifting from one place to the other as and when we were transferred. Here, I’m describing a bungalow where we spent many years – though the bungalows in the other places were quite similar. Singareni Collieries, the coal mining company, was set up by the British, and when they left, taken over by Indian management, comprising mainly of mining engineers, of which my father was one.
Every once in a while my father and brother – not really genuine gardening buffs – got into planting fits. They generally attacked the usually fallow vegetable patch, behind the bungalow - which was the living quarters of the officers, and hence home for us. And so, our dining table would suddenly begin groaning under kilo-fulls of lady fingers – the plants grew easily and fruited abundantly; strange button sized, ruby red, tomatoes, that were succulent and sweet to taste; fat, purple brinjals, which when fried crisp brown, turned butter soft inside – delicious when eaten with steaming hot rice and dal, into which a few drops of tangy lime juice would be squeezed.
The limes came green and fresh from the unruly thicket that grew near the compound wall. Beside which grew the papaya trees whose bulbous green skinned fruit often burst open in the summer heat, revealing their fleshy orange soul, pitted with gelatinous black seeds that looked like the frogs’ eggs that the frogs laid in the cement tanks. These cement tanks were built to store water that was let out in rivulets of shallow furrows dug in the earth that led to all the different parts of the garden. Especially the corner where the copse of banana plants waved their broad emerald-green leaves in passing winds. These were thirsty plants, my father explained, they needed plenty of water to quench their thirst. The fruit they bore in hanging bunches were sun yellow coloured, not much larger than my childish fist, in which I held many a peeled fruit – sugar sweet to taste.
The coconut palms that grew in a row were really ornamental; we couldn’t eat the loads of fruit that came down with loud crashing thumps when they ripened. The garden was hedged with henna, the leaves of which I would painstakingly collect and crush on the grinding stone in the kitchen and smear into intricate patterns on my hands. The rusty stains would remain for days which I would proudly display to my generally unenthusiastic family.
The neem tree in one corner of the garden spread big and wide, the little berry like bitter fruit lay strewn like yellow droplets of paint on the ground, untouched by the crows, parrots, doves, pigeons, mynahs, sparrows that flew and hopped about, rending the air with their caws, screeches, chirps, hums. The tamarind tree in another corner bore strings of sour brown tamarinds that you brought down with wild flings of chunky stones (by me) and well-aimed homemade catapults (by my brother). These were then dipped in salt, and licked and eaten with smacking sounds, the salty sourness peeling the skin in your mouth.
The large jamun tree that grew beside the dining room, sprouted luscious purple-black fruit that you put in a tin with a dash of salt, red chilli powder, and a few drops of mustard oil, covered and shook with all your might, then settled down under the shade of the gulmohar tree, to curl your tongue around each sweetish sourish chilli tinged mustardy salty soft fruit – your lips and tongue turning purple black – listening to the koel hidden in the branches wailing – Coo-oo Coo-oo – the earth crimson with the fallen flaming flowers.
There were plenty of smaller flowering plants too. The star like asters that grew in beds, the rows of marigold that burst into flower in daubs of brassy yellow, the sunflower patch where I spent many long hours on hot summer days, because I had been told that the heavy flower heads followed the sun’s path, and I wanted to see that in action. I never could make up my mind with certainty whether they really did, or it was only the breeze.
Then, there were the bright sprays of bougainvillea – magenta, fairy white, bronze-orange – that leaned against the trellises here and there. And roses of course. There were pink roses that flowered copiously and filled the garden with their heady scent, there were dusky red ones that bloomed in smaller numbers and stood in regal aloofness on their thick stalks, and the ones I loved the most, with peach-edged petals and yellow centres. The wasps, bumblebees, and dragonflies had long buzzing conversations amongst this profusion of petals, perfumes, and thorns, while the butterflies flitted and fluttered from flower to flower.
But beloved of all were the mango trees – about ten or twelve in all – each bearing a different variety of fruit. Each with distinctive size, shape, flavour, and colour. The mangoes that grew in our garden were not commercially available and so were mostly nameless. Come March, and the branches would be tipped by little whitish innocuous looking flowers. If you plucked a sprig and pressed your nose into it, you could smell the mango that was forming within its womb. As the sun grew hotter, the mangoes grew rounder and riper. The hotter the summer, the sweeter the mango – so went wise lore!
There was the little, fist sized, vermillion coloured tangy sweet Sinduri, which grew in copious bunches. Then there was the huge green variety, each fruit weighing about a kilo or so; they hung heavy, but few. The tree would yield about ten or twelve in a prolific season, usually you were lucky if you got six or seven. The pulp of these was softened by pressing and kneading the fruit – in my small childish hands, that was something like massaging a sumo wrestler!
Then, when suitably softened, the pustule, from which it had been attached to its stalk, would be nipped, and then mouth to fruit, you suckled at all the sweet, orange coloured thick pulp, which ran down your chin, into the front of your dress. Or, you made your mother squeeze the mash into a dish, add a dollop of cream, put in the freezer, and hey presto, you had fresh mango ice-cream! The fruit was so sweet, you didn’t need to add any sugar.
Then there was the variety which never ripened into yellow fruit, but remained hard, raw green outside, and white and sour inside. You plucked them by the basket full, washed, and laid them out in the sun, to dry the moisture. And then cut them into inch sized cubes, and pickled them inside huge jars, with oil into which would be mixed a pungent paste of red chillies and other tongue tingling condiments. The open jars, full of pickling mangoes, would then be set out in the blazing sun, and the air would be redolent with the aroma of spices, oil, and sour green mangoes slowly turning chilli red. You then got homemade mango pickle to eat with your rice and dal for the rest of the year.
There was also the table variety which you cut into slices and ate politely when you had guests for dinner, and it was served as dessert. Or, preferably, simply peeled and attacked with gusto, in succulent bites, the juice smearing your cheeks and chin, and your hands becoming slithery sticky. You kept at it until you came to the kernel, which you gnawed at until it was bone dry white.
Of course, you competed for the ripest and the most luscious fruits that grew in the inaccessible topmost branches, where marauding bands of monkeys cocked a snook at you as you looked up from way down below, burning with sweaty aggravation, while they sampled the best fruits, then impudently chucked half eaten fruit at you, in response to the ineffectual pieces of stones that you flung at them.
And not to forget the pesky mobs of screeching parrots that turned the sky green, when in their multitudes they converged in, into the mango trees. They could wipe out a tree in minutes. So, you joined in with full-throated glee in the blood curdling yells, and great banging of old tins, of the mali, the ayah, the cook, and the watchman, accompanied by the enthusiastic barking of Ginnie, the dog, to try and chase them away – to little avail.
The parrots never ate the whole fruit. They dug their sharp, curved beaks into one fruit now, and when bored, on to another fruit next, leaving behind pitted useless fruit, which rotted and fell. We got the leftovers from such dastardly looting and pillaging. But still, since it was only me my brother my sister my parents, and of course, the mali, the ayah, the cook, and the watchman, there really was always plenty to go around.
And summers meant mangoes as breakfast, mangoes at lunch, mangoes at dinner, mangoes when you were bored and wanted something to munch, mangoes at picnics, mangoes when you climbed trees to play hide and seek, mangoes when you came out dripping and famished from the swimming pool – mangoes mangoes mangoes – filled sun drenched days, their tangy smell mingling with the heady scent of the flowers of the night, the mogra, the jasmine, and the raat-ki-rani, wafting in on a summer breeze, stealing into your dreams at night.
And though those days have been left far behind now, and I have been replanted away from that soil, it is in the gardens of my childhood and youth, where I grew and bloomed, that my roots still remain. When it is summer now, and the days become hot ad searing, just right for the ripening of mangoes that I’m sure still grow there, I buy a kilo of fruit from the market and bite into the juicy flesh, and feel a strong tug at those old roots of my childhood and youth.
-by Rita Putatunda
Saturday, October 29, 2011
3 a.m. Poem
It’s 3 a.m. My fevered brain
Is still unconscious but vaguely aware
Of a murmur –
Like flies buzzing on dead meat.
Then, like a butcher’s hatchet
Breaks open a skull
My eyes fly open in the dark.
A 3 a.m. dark crawling with tendrils of spider’s webs, coiled snakes, scurrying centipedes.
With a parched tongue, scorched belly, spewing entrails,
A poem, half formed is insisting on being born.
Why can’t it be at 3 p.m.? My half formed half born,
I wish you’d let me stay in my dreamless dream.
-Rita Putatunda
Is still unconscious but vaguely aware
Of a murmur –
Like flies buzzing on dead meat.
Then, like a butcher’s hatchet
Breaks open a skull
My eyes fly open in the dark.
A 3 a.m. dark crawling with tendrils of spider’s webs, coiled snakes, scurrying centipedes.
With a parched tongue, scorched belly, spewing entrails,
A poem, half formed is insisting on being born.
Why can’t it be at 3 p.m.? My half formed half born,
I wish you’d let me stay in my dreamless dream.
-Rita Putatunda
Friday, October 28, 2011
death ... life
death
hold back hold back
hide your dark face
within your fearsome shadows
halt your dreaded feet’s
unrelenting advance
towards my door
do not embrace me
in your hungry ardour
life
hold me hold me
hold on to me tight
do not let go of my hand
your arms have
grown unfeeling
your breasts have
run dry of life’s fever
still I cling still I cling
to your withered teats
with hungry ardour
-Rita Putatunda
hold back hold back
hide your dark face
within your fearsome shadows
halt your dreaded feet’s
unrelenting advance
towards my door
do not embrace me
in your hungry ardour
life
hold me hold me
hold on to me tight
do not let go of my hand
your arms have
grown unfeeling
your breasts have
run dry of life’s fever
still I cling still I cling
to your withered teats
with hungry ardour
-Rita Putatunda
Thursday, October 20, 2011
The Gnarled Snail and the Windblown Rose
The windblown rose bloomed in a desolate corner of the garden.
The gnarled snail, bent with the burden of life, winding his way through the garden,
which burgeoned with many a beauteous flower and painted leaf of myriad hue,
chanced upon the windblown rose in the corner of the garden,
and he halted in his tracks, struck with wonder –
This little rose, that grew in this unkempt corner of the garden,
almost lost in the unruly tangle of weed and grass,
wafted a faint, but heady perfume; she bloomed with a rare rosy plume.
He crept up to her, keeping himself hidden from her face,
dragging his heavy shell on his bent back,
and looked at her windblown beauty in silent reverence.
He then dragged himself around and looked at her rosy face
with his heavy gaze. In his heart he knew at once,
the windblown rose was his, and his alone. To her heart
he decided to lay claim.
With gravel in his voice, a throb in his words, the snail
demanded of the rose her heart.
The windblown rose was startled out of her reverie.
So desolate had she been in all this time,
in that abandoned corner of the garden where she dwelt,
she had forgotten how to hear, how to know,
how to speak the language of love.
And here stood this bent, gnarled snail at her feet,
who spoke to her of love with his gravel voice so full of
the throb of his heart.
The silent longing in her heart wanted to break free
and cascade like a gushing waterfall to slake
the thirst of her soul.
But when she cast her eyes on the snail,
she was aghast – This creature, so bent, so gnarled with time,
Was making claim to her heart? To her soul? To her love?
She disdained the longing she saw in the eyes of the bent snail.
She scorned the throb she heard in the gravel voice of the bent snail.
She, the beauteous windblown rose, longed
For a beauteous prince who would
Sing paeans to her beauty with honeyed voice,
Fill her heart with a gaze overflowing with love’s sweet pining.
But, so lonesome was she, this beauteous windblown rose,
-- her prince had not come to sweep her in love’s joyous clamour,
though she had waited long --
to while away her time, until her real prince happened along,
she decided to play along with this, her suitor,
this bent, gnarled snail, with longing in his voice,
with throb in his voice, laying claim to her windblown heart.
So, in reply, to keep her lover in her thrall, she spun
webs of sweet words in skeins of silk.
To entrap him in the lure of her charms,
she swayed, she danced, she bloomed,
pirouetted and pranced in the beguiling breeze.
Using her enticing song as wings on her feet,
she swirled, she twirled, she whirled,
with carefree abandon.
Using her rapier skills of enticement,
she thrust her brilliant bounty
into the enraptured heart of the gnarled snail,
with a matador’s cruel skill --
-- to blood him -- to bring him to his knees --
to hide the ashes in her heart.
The snail, gnarled with time, bent with wisdom,
although mesmerized by his windblown rose’s charms,
knew in his heart that this display
of wondrous grace was but a charade.
While his windblown rose offered him
the make believe sweet affection of her rosy plume,
the blush of her deep heart she kept veiled.
With entreaty in his eyes, with imploring voice,
He beseeches, pleads, prays
to his windblown rose – to open her heart
to ignore his outer shell, gnarled and bent with time,
to instead look within his tender soul
that yearned for but a glance, a touch,
a single note of truth that would reveal
the unfeigned beauty of her, his windblown rose’s,
true heart.
The silent longing in her heart wanted to break free
and cascade like a gushing waterfall to slake
the thirst of her soul.
The windblown rose cast her gaze
once more on the snail – and all of a sudden
she knew, her heart knew – she saw beyond
the gnarled shell, she looked within his tender soul,
she heard at last the throb in his gravel voice,
she understood at last the longing in his heart.
But woebegone was she, the windblown rose,
her long desolation had hardened her heart.
Though feather soft bloomed her petals,
the sweet song of love had deserted her soul.
After the dry heat of the long summer months,
when the monsoon shower had come at last
to drench her with life anew, she knew
she had forgotten what words the cloud spoke to the rain,
how birds sang and made themselves understood,
how bees made love to the blushing flower.
She had forgotten how to speak the language of love.
She had only rapier words left churning
from the ashes of her burnt soul.
But the snail is adamant, stubborn, resolute.
He wants to teach his rose how to bloom, how to blush again –
Lugging his heavy shell he straightens his bent back,
and begins a slow waltz, crooning a love song.
First, a song sung in hushed voice,
to melt her heart, to soften her soul. And then,
with words of urgency, tinged with the sharp call of an eagle,
he seeks to quicken her sluggish pulse with stabbing need.
The silent longing in her heart wants to break free
and cascade like a gushing waterfall to slake
the thirst of her soul.
The windblown rose listens with a heavy heart
to the song sung by her love, the gnarled snail – a heart
that longed to utter the words that she had forgotten how to speak.
Instead, she withdraws with a piercing cry – she spews anew
feigned words with rapier thrust.
She knew no other language to speak her need.
She had only her sharp thorns – the thorns
left churning from the ashes of her burnt heart.
With an agonized cry the snail turns on his beloved rose—
With gravel voice heavy with pain he says,
You only have beautiful petals my rose, mere heady perfume,
but you cruelly pierce with your sharp thorns your lover’s heart,
and your soul, where your soul should have been,
is only an empty and dark tomb—
I will seek another rose, a rose as beautiful as you,
but without your thorns – Goodbye, farewell, adieu
my windblown rose, I will no longer lay claim to your heart,
a heart as dry as the ashes of burnt cinder.
With these bitter words, slowly, the saddened snail
crawled away from his beloved rose, dragging his heavy shell
on his bent back. Leaving behind a silver trail which the windblown rose
clung to with her forlorn eyes.
The silent longing in her heart wanted to break free
and cascade like a gushing waterfall to slake
the thirst of her soul.
But she had only her rapier words to speak to him.
She knew no other language to speak her need.
She had only her thorns – the thorns
left churning from the ashes of her burnt soul.
-by Rita Putatunda
The gnarled snail, bent with the burden of life, winding his way through the garden,
which burgeoned with many a beauteous flower and painted leaf of myriad hue,
chanced upon the windblown rose in the corner of the garden,
and he halted in his tracks, struck with wonder –
This little rose, that grew in this unkempt corner of the garden,
almost lost in the unruly tangle of weed and grass,
wafted a faint, but heady perfume; she bloomed with a rare rosy plume.
He crept up to her, keeping himself hidden from her face,
dragging his heavy shell on his bent back,
and looked at her windblown beauty in silent reverence.
He then dragged himself around and looked at her rosy face
with his heavy gaze. In his heart he knew at once,
the windblown rose was his, and his alone. To her heart
he decided to lay claim.
With gravel in his voice, a throb in his words, the snail
demanded of the rose her heart.
The windblown rose was startled out of her reverie.
So desolate had she been in all this time,
in that abandoned corner of the garden where she dwelt,
she had forgotten how to hear, how to know,
how to speak the language of love.
And here stood this bent, gnarled snail at her feet,
who spoke to her of love with his gravel voice so full of
the throb of his heart.
The silent longing in her heart wanted to break free
and cascade like a gushing waterfall to slake
the thirst of her soul.
But when she cast her eyes on the snail,
she was aghast – This creature, so bent, so gnarled with time,
Was making claim to her heart? To her soul? To her love?
She disdained the longing she saw in the eyes of the bent snail.
She scorned the throb she heard in the gravel voice of the bent snail.
She, the beauteous windblown rose, longed
For a beauteous prince who would
Sing paeans to her beauty with honeyed voice,
Fill her heart with a gaze overflowing with love’s sweet pining.
But, so lonesome was she, this beauteous windblown rose,
-- her prince had not come to sweep her in love’s joyous clamour,
though she had waited long --
to while away her time, until her real prince happened along,
she decided to play along with this, her suitor,
this bent, gnarled snail, with longing in his voice,
with throb in his voice, laying claim to her windblown heart.
So, in reply, to keep her lover in her thrall, she spun
webs of sweet words in skeins of silk.
To entrap him in the lure of her charms,
she swayed, she danced, she bloomed,
pirouetted and pranced in the beguiling breeze.
Using her enticing song as wings on her feet,
she swirled, she twirled, she whirled,
with carefree abandon.
Using her rapier skills of enticement,
she thrust her brilliant bounty
into the enraptured heart of the gnarled snail,
with a matador’s cruel skill --
-- to blood him -- to bring him to his knees --
to hide the ashes in her heart.
The snail, gnarled with time, bent with wisdom,
although mesmerized by his windblown rose’s charms,
knew in his heart that this display
of wondrous grace was but a charade.
While his windblown rose offered him
the make believe sweet affection of her rosy plume,
the blush of her deep heart she kept veiled.
With entreaty in his eyes, with imploring voice,
He beseeches, pleads, prays
to his windblown rose – to open her heart
to ignore his outer shell, gnarled and bent with time,
to instead look within his tender soul
that yearned for but a glance, a touch,
a single note of truth that would reveal
the unfeigned beauty of her, his windblown rose’s,
true heart.
The silent longing in her heart wanted to break free
and cascade like a gushing waterfall to slake
the thirst of her soul.
The windblown rose cast her gaze
once more on the snail – and all of a sudden
she knew, her heart knew – she saw beyond
the gnarled shell, she looked within his tender soul,
she heard at last the throb in his gravel voice,
she understood at last the longing in his heart.
But woebegone was she, the windblown rose,
her long desolation had hardened her heart.
Though feather soft bloomed her petals,
the sweet song of love had deserted her soul.
After the dry heat of the long summer months,
when the monsoon shower had come at last
to drench her with life anew, she knew
she had forgotten what words the cloud spoke to the rain,
how birds sang and made themselves understood,
how bees made love to the blushing flower.
She had forgotten how to speak the language of love.
She had only rapier words left churning
from the ashes of her burnt soul.
But the snail is adamant, stubborn, resolute.
He wants to teach his rose how to bloom, how to blush again –
Lugging his heavy shell he straightens his bent back,
and begins a slow waltz, crooning a love song.
First, a song sung in hushed voice,
to melt her heart, to soften her soul. And then,
with words of urgency, tinged with the sharp call of an eagle,
he seeks to quicken her sluggish pulse with stabbing need.
The silent longing in her heart wants to break free
and cascade like a gushing waterfall to slake
the thirst of her soul.
The windblown rose listens with a heavy heart
to the song sung by her love, the gnarled snail – a heart
that longed to utter the words that she had forgotten how to speak.
Instead, she withdraws with a piercing cry – she spews anew
feigned words with rapier thrust.
She knew no other language to speak her need.
She had only her sharp thorns – the thorns
left churning from the ashes of her burnt heart.
With an agonized cry the snail turns on his beloved rose—
With gravel voice heavy with pain he says,
You only have beautiful petals my rose, mere heady perfume,
but you cruelly pierce with your sharp thorns your lover’s heart,
and your soul, where your soul should have been,
is only an empty and dark tomb—
I will seek another rose, a rose as beautiful as you,
but without your thorns – Goodbye, farewell, adieu
my windblown rose, I will no longer lay claim to your heart,
a heart as dry as the ashes of burnt cinder.
With these bitter words, slowly, the saddened snail
crawled away from his beloved rose, dragging his heavy shell
on his bent back. Leaving behind a silver trail which the windblown rose
clung to with her forlorn eyes.
The silent longing in her heart wanted to break free
and cascade like a gushing waterfall to slake
the thirst of her soul.
But she had only her rapier words to speak to him.
She knew no other language to speak her need.
She had only her thorns – the thorns
left churning from the ashes of her burnt soul.
-by Rita Putatunda
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Silver Sea
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Cinnamon Dreams
The flower in its cupped hands
Clasps the seeds
Of life unknown
Tomorrow sleeps snug
Curled in a cinnamon dream
The hummingbird and the bumblebee tumble
And dip their lips to lick
The sunshine sweet
The inky pink petals flutter
Despair like feathers on a duster
The dream can be nipped
Snipped with a scissors’ clip
Clasps the seeds
Of life unknown
Tomorrow sleeps snug
Curled in a cinnamon dream
The hummingbird and the bumblebee tumble
And dip their lips to lick
The sunshine sweet
The inky pink petals flutter
Despair like feathers on a duster
The dream can be nipped
Snipped with a scissors’ clip
Thursday, October 13, 2011
I See My God
I see my God
In everything I see
Around me, within me
And even in what I do not see -
Just perceiveI see my God in the birth of a flower bud
Unfurling petal by petal into glorious blossom
I see my God in the myriad hued butterfly
That springs open its wings from its pupa
--- Flitting from flower to flower
Tasting the nectar of sweet life---
I see my God in a fallen leaf
Turning brown with decay
Disappearing into the earthI hear my God in the voice of early morning birdsong
Incessantly, insistently crying
Day break, day break, day break -
I see my God in the faltering step
Of feeble age when evening shadows fall
Proclaiming the death of another day
I see my God in a stone lying by the wayside
In a tree with its spreading branches
My God gazes at me
From the eyes of a street dog
I see my God in the wide eyed gaze
Of a laughing child
I feel my God in the monsoon breeze
In the billowing rain-clouds
I hear my God’s gentle footsteps
In the patter of life-giving rain
I hear my God’s terrifying voice
In the crack of lightning
That rips open the skies
---the crashing roar of thunder
That envelopes the earth
The devastating power of the unseen
Unleashed in a thunderstorm
In the quake of the earth
In the destruction of a distant star
I sense my God in the endless swish-swish-swish
Of the sea lapping the sands of the shore
The salt of the sea breeze
The endless surging and ebbing of tides
I feel my God in the light that awakens
The earth each morning
In the darkness that engulfs
The earth each nightI see my God in the dim light
Of a moon beam filtering through
Gathering clouds
Of the stars that come out at night
Speaking of countless worlds
The countless swirling galaxies
Of suns, planets, moons, and stardust
That make up the Universe
I see my God in you, I see my God in me
I see my God in the fullness of everything
I see my God in the emptiness of nothingMost of all I sense my God
Within my soul
In every breath I take
In every heartbeat
That pulses through me
And when life has fled me
Silencing my breath, stilling my heartbeat
Into that God who is beyond this Universe
I will merge
Becoming the fullness of everything
Becoming the emptiness of nothing
Maybe to remain in nothing
Maybe to re-awaken into everything
God is creation, conception
God is decay, destruction
God is rebirth, resurrection
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