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.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
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
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