Hail to you aNDRoMeDIaN!

A message into the void –

Date: d27-m10-y2012

Hail to you aNDRoMeDIaN!

I’ve caught your blinking beam

Perhaps in my dream

So here I am

Beaming my reply back

In a stream of blue light

Though my feet

Have been rooted deep

On this planet of mine

So brown and green

But looks so blue

From across the yonder where

My eyes have always been

Beaming across those vast

Expanses of indigo voids

Seeking hidden histories

Divining concealed mysteries

Of life –

With gladdened heart

I welcome you – fellow seeker

From an alien galaxy

Somewhere out there

In the indigo void

Tell me friend

What you feel

What you think

As you seek

Your path through

Inscrutable life’s

Immense perplexities

I’d like to know

My alien friend

What makes you

The way you are

Whoever you are

Out there in that

Great indigo void

Fellow traveller of the void

Countless light years away

What is it that you seek

What have you learnt

Along the way

Through time and space

Under which tree

Do you choose to rest

Which wayside flower

Do you pause to smell

What pebble do you

Bend down and pick

In what alien music

Does your ear

Find its trembling soothing

And which are the streams

Where you stop

To quench your thirst

What strange fruits

Feed your hunger

And what are the crimson sunsets

That make your heart

Stop and wonder

And when the fingers

Of an alien morning sun

Reach out and touch

Your mind’s eye

What thoughts do they

Awaken there –

As for me

Alone I am –

Beaming and blinking

So far away from you

Strange codes – Strange urges

That my heart pulses

Out to you through

The vast indigo voids

As for my life

I’m trying to make

My place under

The waning sun

Of my blue planet

Sometimes I feel

As if I’m almost there

On my way

To a place

I know not where

And sometimes I feel

All clogged up

As if I haven’t begun at all

But most times I just feel

Alone – Lost

In this indigo void

Sometimes I feel

I just want to

Shut my beam

And put myself to sleep

In an indigo void

Forever –

But then I caught your beam

Your strange green stream

And hope has begun to seep

In my blinking heart deep

Perhaps some day

Somewhere You and I will meet

Under some other sky

In the light of some strange sun

Perhaps in some other world

Will you know me then?

Will I recognize you there?

Will our beams form the same

Synchrony of streams?

Will we dream

The same dreams?

 Will our hearts blink

With the same intensity

With the same harmony

As they do now

Though so far away

We are from each other?

My name is RP-d21-m09-y1955

What’s yours?

-by Rita Putatunda

My Grandmother’s Chholar Dal

We lived far away from our native state, West Bengal, all through our growing years. Andhra Pradesh was our home state because my father got a job there as a coal mining engineer. While it was a wonderful place to grow up in because the coal mines were situated in jungle area where we were surrounded by trees and wilderness, which we kids revelled in, still, our annual visits to Calcutta – where the rest of the clan lived – during our school holidays were also something we looked forward to eagerly.

Because of all the excitement involved in the whole experience, travelling from Kothagudem/Bellampalli/Ramagundam (the small coal towns we lived in) to Calcutta was a thrilling event all by itself. Those were the days of steam engines and our coal town railway stations were insignificant blips on the map of the great Indian railways. Hence, this huge great black steam engine would come chuff-chuffing into our tiny station billowing huge black plumes of smoke from its chimney, in which sweating train drivers frenziedly shovelled coal into the huge orange belly of the furnace that powered those what seemed like great monsters to our childish eyes. These trains would usually have their halt at our station at some wee hour of the night.

The journey to Calcutta took three whole days and involved changes of trains en route – usually in the middle of the night. All of which involved meticulous planning and packing by my parents. My mother filled tiffin-carriers full of food and snacks, since she didn’t trust the food the railways provided, or that available at stations where the train halted. She also was in charge of packing our suitcases, the clothes we would need for a month’s (usually) stay there. My father was in charge of the bedding which was carried in a huge, unwieldy, brown hold-all – pillows, bed sheets, blankets and so on.

How my brother and I would fight for the window seat! What excitement there was in watching the huge landscape, right from down south to an eastern state – which involved a travelling distance of almost half the sub-continent – rolling by outside the train window. The train halting at stations with fascinating names. The vendors selling sweetmeats and toys and knick-knacks. My father getting off the train and frenziedly filling our water bottles at stations while I’d feel my heart thud anxiously until he’d come back into the compartment – I always felt he would be left behind. And then the thrill of the arrival at the crowded Howrah station itself – people milling about hurriedly, either rushing to catch a train, or disembarking and rushing out to grab taxies. People haggling with coolies, who would carry loads of luggage on their head, shoulders, hands.

And then driving through the great, hazy, grey streets of Calcutta in a rattly old taxi. The rows and rows of what looked to our young eyes as huge crumbling buildings lining the streets, the innumerable shops, the crowded roads and footpaths, until we reached the five storeyed house of my maternal grand-father’s, on a broad street called Vivekananda Road, where the rest of my mother’s family lived in a joint family.

I remember how the taxi would come to a halt by the house, and everyone on every floor upstairs would be looking down from the balconies, watching for us to arrive, smiling. And how my Badamama (my mother’s eldest brother), who sat with my grandfather in the Ayurvedic clinic which they ran on the ground floor of the house, would hurry out, his crisp white dhoti flowing, his eyes crinkled in a big twinkling smile, and swing me and my brother out of the taxi and carry us inside. My grandfather chuffing me on my chin, ruffling my hair, playfully. And then climbing up the stairs – stopping at each floor to greet the relatives – aunts, uncles, cousins – to the third floor which was my grandmother’s domain.

The instant I’d step on to the third floor I would smell it. The heavenly smell of chholar dal cooking in the kitchen. For, my grandmother knew that chholar dal and Ilish maach (Hilsa fish) were our absolute favourites, and she always made those for us whenever we went to Calcutta.

My grandmother, who stood at five foot nothing and had a head full of flowing thick salt and pepper waist length hair, and wore the crisp, red bordered, white Bengal handloom saris (tangail and thaath) Bengali women wear at home, was the greatest cook in the world, as far as I was concerned. She didn’t use much masalas and she didn’t have any kitchen gadgets, except for the traditional ones, such as the huge slab of stone on which fresh masalas were ground each day and the earthen chulas which were filled with coal and lit each morning for the day’s cooking. It was with these simple contraptions that she created magic in the kitchen, her realm where she was the queen.

She cooked for the whole family – it was a huge family of seven sisters and three brothers, their husbands and wives and children – (though the married sisters moved out they usually converged in with kids and husbands in tow during school holidays) – of course with the help of the other women of the house, and servants. I would often sit by my grandmother watching as she sat on her pidi (a flat wooden short stool) with her boti (a sharp sickle shaped knife held down by the foot which was used for cutting and chopping vegetables and fish) as she would begin her cooking chores.

When chholar dal was on the menu, she would measure out the dal in a big brass utensil from one of the huge storage bins in the store room (which I found a fascinating dark place where all kinds of food stuffs were stored away) and take it into the kitchen and wash it thoroughly, and put it aside for the water residue to soak into the dal. In the meantime one of the servants would grind ginger into a smooth paste, and separately, jeera and red chillies with water into a reddish brown paste.

My grandmother meanwhile would crack open a fresh coconut, expertly pouring out the sweet water into a glass which I drank in a gulp, into two even halves. She would then proceed to scrape on the round serrated end of her boti, fixed there just for this purpose, into little mounds of fresh, white scraped coconut – which she let me nibble at – milky sweet to taste. She would save some of the coconut as hard white wedges which she sliced into thin slivers.

Then would begin the actual cooking process. A big kadai would be placed on the chula, now burning with a hot orange glow, into which she would pour in some mustard oil. When the oil let off a bluish plume of smoke, she would toss in half a handful of whole jeera and a few bay leaves, once those roasted a little, she would toss in the thin slivers of coconut and brown them lightly. And then would go in the jeera/red chilli paste, which she would stir about a little with her heavy long brass spatula, and then add the ginger paste, which would get another stir or two. Then in would go the soaked chholar dal, and some water – enough to cover the dal, but not too much – and salt and turmeric powder. She would cover this and allow it to simmer and cook, lifting the lid occasionally to check the grains of dal, and give it a stir or two.

While cooking it, my grandmother would tell the women who happened to be in the kitchen, my mother and aunts, the servants, that the thing about chholar dal is that it should not be overcooked or undercooked. Overcooking makes it an unpalatable mash, undercooking leaves the water of the dal too watery and the dal grains distastefully hard. The grains should remain chewy, yet the dal should be a thickish consistency, not watery. Deciding just at what point the dal is done is the secret of making great chholar dal – which my grandmother intuitively knew. (Though I’ve sat beside her and watched her make it innumerable times, I’ve never ever been able to make chholar dal like my grandmother’s.)

Then the cooked dal would be taken off the chula and garnished with homemade ghee, a little sugar stirred in, sliced green chillies, and the scraped coconut. We kids would quickly sit in rows on pidis with big brass thalis in front and have the dal ladled, thick, rich, golden coloured and aromatic, over steaming hot rice. Slurrrrp!

-by Rita Putatunda

Mahishasura~*~Mardini

She is the Divine Mother, She is the terrifying Destroyer, She is the Glorious Protector, She is Ma Durga,  She is Mahishasura Mardini

She is Parvati, Kali, Ambe, Chandi, Lakshmi, Saraswati – One hundred and eight names has She

In all her forms, She is the embodiment of magnificent grace, divine benevolence, splendid majesty

The beloved of Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva, The adored one of the heavens – She is Sathya Swaroopini

She is the beauteous Goddess with the vivid vermilion mark on her forehead

Her face more beautiful than ten thousand moons, her three eyes, like lotus petals, emit divine power and light

The protector of the Universe, Like a tigress She arrives in feline ferocity, from Mount Kailasha, her abode

Dressed in blood-red attire, her skin the colour of sunflower-gold

A garland of crimson hibiscus adorning her throat, Her hair flowing like the ripples of the Ganga

Her ears and nose bejeweled with dazzling stones, Her arms bedecked with glittering bracelets

Goddess Durga arrives, resplendent, astride the fearsome tawny beast, her mount

Her ten hands bestowed with the majestic armour of the celestial Gods

She arrives, Ma Chandika, Ma Bhavani, Ma Asurakshayamkari, to do battle and relieve mankind

From the terrors of Mahishasura – the dreadful demon

Nine days of bloody battle she does, fiery, fearsome Durga

Her eyes ablaze like ten thousand suns, her ten hands strike with the might of all the Gods in the heavens

And there is the sound of ten thousand bolts of lightning and thunder

And all the earth and the skies tremble in terrible fear and wonder

And great swirling storms over mountain and river raze and plunder

And the trees bend and sway, and all living beings shudder, and all the suns in the Cosmos quiver

And even the Gods in the heavens fall silent in great ponder

The demon king is strong and cunning, He uses stealth, deceit and craft

He uses his great might, his giant body rippling with the power of the evil slayer

He takes many guises, he uses many ruses, to destroy the Mother of the Universe

To no avail! - On the tenth day - On the day of Bijoya Dashami, She triumphs

Piercing the demon’s massive breast with her trident, She triumphs

– O Durga, O Chamunda – Henceforth to be known as Mahishasura Mardini

The slayer of the terrible Mahishasura

And the Gods in the heavens, and all mankind on earth

Blow conch shells and offer oblations to celebrate the great victory of this mighty deity

They sing, and they beat their drums, and they rejoice

As the divine Mother of the Universe – O Kali, O Tribhuvaneshwari –

O Queen consort of Shiva – Ma Durga looks on in divine radiance

Bestowing peace, joy and prosperity to her ardent devotees

Dancing in a trance of sublime bliss to the mystic beat of the dhak

Chanting – O Devi, O Shakti, O Kushmanda, O Gauri, O Bestower of harmony and tranquility to the Universe

O Divine Mother, We bow our heads to Thee, Keep us forever in your lotus bosom, Protect us from all misery

Remove all difficulties from our earthly existence, Bestow upon us your golden rays of everlasting happiness

And Shiva dances his tandava to the celestial thunder of the damaru and the tamboura

In celebration of the great victory of the Siddhidatri – O  Durgé, Durgé, Namastuté –

-by Rita Putatunda

Mumbling in the Wind

Can you hear the sound of my poem? Will you tell me what you hear? I often find I want to know the answers to those questions. Explaining a poem makes it banal. So I rarely explain mine. And most poets shy away from elucidating theirs. A poem stands by itself, once written, detached from its composer. Like a sunrise on the horizon. Like a flower opening to the morning sun. There to be experienced and savoured. Full of meaning, yet redundant of meaning.

The creator of every work of art, whether a poem, a painting, a piece of melody, or even architecture, has already done with the thing he/she has created. It is then up to the observer, or the reader, to take that work of art from there. Giving it their interpretation, according to their life experiences, or ways of thinking.

I usually like to leave my poems standing alone for the reader to form his/her own impressions. But sometimes I’m curious to know what those impressions are. I feel a deep sense of fulfillment when a response tells me that I have connected, somehow, with my poem. And sometimes I am surprised at the different dimensions given to it, each dimension creating a new facet that I had never thought of. Bringing my poem alive to me again and again.

For, a poem is a living thing. Felt, experienced, lived, breathed. I began writing in this strange way only recently. I wrote my first poem about 10 or 12 years back. And I write only when the mood takes me. I can never force a poem out of me. It either happens, or it doesn’t. Hence, I have not been terribly prolific. And each poem that I write is a precious gift to me from I know not where. And each time I finish writing one, I always wonder if this is the last one. If there ever will be another next one.

All forms of art of course are modes of communication. The artist reaching out to the world outside. Trying to connect. And trying to let the outside world glimpse into his/her inner world. But there is something inexplicably visceral about poetry that no other art form can quite match, I feel. Writing a poem, for me, is a cathartic experience, that I do not experience to quite such a degree of intensity in the other things that I do. I paint too, look at art, listen to music deeply. Though not trained, I do have a good singing voice which I let loose whenever I feel like. All, forms of self-expression, that must find their way out from within me. Through either my experiencing it, or doing it.

But, when I write my poetry, I plummet such depths, it is almost an otherworldly experience. And nothing else can give me quite the same satisfaction as I derive from writing a poem. And yet, strangely, after finishing writing one, and on re-reading it, I’m often surprised at the sense of detachment that I feel towards it. I even often catch myself wondering, “Did I write that?” “Why did I?”

But going beyond myself and my poetry, in one sense through poetry, or any other art form, the human soul tries to become one with its cosmic origins or entity. Trying to set itself free from its corporeal bondage. Trying to overcome and go beyond the limitedness of its immediate being. Striving to find its ultimate destiny. Poetry is the emancipation of imagination. Imagination is the name we give to our facility of entering with fullness into insight, whether our own, or someone else’s.

Poetry does not seek to answer questions, and also makes questions irrelevant. “Poetry is subsequent or indeed precedent to logic ... more simple, sensuous and passionate,” said Milton. Simple, because poetry is non-analytical, the aim of poetry being, if it must have any aim at all, to express the whole tenor or nuance of an experience, not to reduce it to its elements. Sensuous refers to the propinquity of poetic wisdom which leads it to garb itself more naturally in the language of perception rather than deliberation. Or which gives thought itself the directness of the senses. Passion lends the emotional timbre which is inherent to most human self-expression. And which, in poetry, becomes a sustaining force, and a moving power.

Through poetry we transcend existence, wherein Life tries to rule, or constrain us. Or, to confine and define us within the constraints of our existence. In poetry humanity seems to be saying that there is more to mere existence than can be defined or explained. Because human imagination knows no bounds. And what can be imagined, can be experienced. Or lived. Through poetry.

While writing poetry is reward in itself, still, it is rather disheartening to find that hardly anyone reads poetry these days. In today’s mass culture of mass media, with its pre-occupation and obsession with celebrities, political imbroglios, hype, sex, violence and a numbing dumbing down of our movies and TV shows, all of which goes in the name of entertainment, who has the time or the inclination for poetry? When I write my poetry I feel as if I am mumbling in the wind. All alone.

Poetry is sold in a desolate market

Where none come to buy

And in the wither’d field where

The farmer ploughs for bread in vain

(with apologies to William Blake)

-by Rita Putatunda