by Sindhuja Ramasubramanian
A Morning in Virinchipuram*
I wake to the call of parakeets,
And take lazy steps to the front yard.
The smell of burning cow dung,
sweetened with pumpkin flowers,
and water
cleanses me.
I don’t need another bath.
Stainless steel pots,
water tipping out,
are carried
into the house.
Plastic caskets,
overflow with flowers,
some picked from the
trees in the yard
and some
furtively, from
the neighbor’s.
It’s not stealing
if it’s for divine causes.
The day has started to grow,
sunlight condenses on
my shirt.
I must go in now.
Breakfast of dosas**
and milagai podi*** –
leaves me thirsting
for more.
Electric clangs
sound everywhere-
it’s time for
deepa aradhanai****
in the temple.
the village wakes
in my stride,
as I make my way
to the river side.
Easy chairs are laid out,
rustle of newspapers,
rendered richer
by the cackle
of hens and crows.
Scattered pails of water,
among sandy weeds-
the river had seen better times,
when the sky wasn’t as hungry,
and had some water to spare.
The cracked ground,
is thirstier than ever-
wrapping it’s arms
around my feet.
The heat form
a swamp around me-
I trudge home,
panting with
the effort.
And suddenly,
all the tranquility
makes sense.
Maybe the cooked greens,
I’ll eat at lunch
and the nap after,
will cool me down.
* A village in the state of Tamil Nadu, India
** A type of Indian pancake
*** A mixture of dried ground spices, usually eaten as a condiment with dosas or idlis.
**** A daily ceremony in temples involving lamps and bells.
A Coracle Ride
I squat on one side
of the basket – boat,
ready to be propelled across
the green river’s girth.
Unequally balanced,
by the weights of
those aboard,
it threatens to tip over –
and I feel a heat rise up my legs.
Soon they are soaked
in a cocktail of sweat –
my own thanks to the heat,
that from the taut arms
of the oarsman,
that from the frame
of woven reed underneath –
enmeshed with the fruit of toil,
of a long forgotten artisan.
Prayer (a sonnet)
Sandalwood fumes form a half curtain,
lamps and incense cast an orange glow,
Multi coloured flowers, tulsi* garlands,
compete with each other as they cling
to the perfectly chiselled dainty form.
The toll of bells – electric, deafening,
drowns out the hastily whispered prayers.
Traces of milk, turmeric
on the floor of the sanctum santorum-
remnants of the holy abishekam,**
performed earlier, with due diligence
by the priest, clad in his pure white dothi.***
She stands still, hoping to bury the pain
within the pleats of the goddess’sari.
*Holy basil
**A temple ritual, involving giving the gods a bath.
*** A white garment, popular in India
Afternoon Tea
I always dream
of a cup of tea
in the afternoons.
More so, after
I saw tea
being poured out
of an exquisite
tea pot
in a British TV show.
A golden brown
stream of liquid
issued from the
white spout,
finding it’s way
into the dainty
gold – rimmed tea cup.
Milk was added,
lightening it,
giving it
a light chocolaty color.
The clinking
of the tiny spoon
against the tea cup,
as the sugar
was stirred,
The tea I sip
every afternoon,
out of a paper cup,
never quite
takes me there.
