Impressions of Southern India
Written in Bangalore, August 2005
Trucks named Ayyappa, trucks named Ganesha,
Trucks names TATA, always saying, “goodbye goodbye.”
Altars on dashboards – traveling temples with garlands, colored beads,
Drivers proclaiming devotion to their chosen deities,
Asking blessings and protection from the gods that they adore,
As they navigate the traffic on the streets of Bangalore.
Uniformed schoolgirls giggling as they walk,
Carbon copies of each other in their shirts, skirts and ties.
Clothes pressed to pleated crispness by servants or ammas,
Walking in black-strapped shoes – practical and plain,
Their glossy hair coiled in circled braids, tied ‘round with matching bows,
Backpacks on their shoulders, black umbrellas opened out,
They know the streets and landmarks as they walk their daily route.
Crows and myna birds, hungry bats at sundown,
And hundreds of nameless street dogs, neither large nor small,
Medium-sized and short haired, they’re mostly tan and white.
Lean, hungry wanderers, looking for scraps of food.
Searching for a handout, hoping for a little more,
Wandering, ever-wandering on the streets of Bangalore.
Rural India, like a separate world apart from the pace of the city,
Where time seems slowed down somehow,
Patterns of family and religion are repeated with little change.
Seasons of planting and harvesting, cycles that never end,
A mixture of struggle and survival, changelessness and contentment,
Sameness and simplicity, repeated again and again.
Vistas of verdant rice paddies in geometric squares and shapes,
Proclaiming the continuing play of creation and renewal,
Fields of baby corn and ragi, lady fingers, carrots, peas,
Cucumbers and tomatoes, and rows and rows of banana trees!
The food of Southern India – such a blessing for the body!
A myriad of tastes and textures, of colors bold and subtle,
Idli, sambhar, chutney, chappati, wada, roti, and lots of rice and curries,
All filled with sparkling vibrant prana – unseen silver brilliance blessed by Shiva’s love,
Each molecule soaked in the nourishment of life,
With explosions of microscopic energy blessing every cell.
Swimming in a sea of temples and shrines honoring all deities,
Clothed in the ancient robe of religion are these towers of antiquity.
A retreat from the pressures of business and family life,
Havens of hope and protection for pilgrims and devotees.
A bath of bliss for the soul, a shower of beauty for the senses,
The oldest continuous religion on earth within these towers of antiquity.
Like open books of architecture, sacred art and history,
Proclaiming India’s unique contribution to the storehouse of spirituality.
Temple bells and incense, vibuti and fragrant flowers,
Mixed together with the scent of milk, honey, camphor and ghee,
Offered to the gods and goddesses, to all the deities.
Priests recite the correct prayers and mantras, 108 names of God,
Extolling what can never fully be conveyed in rites and rituals,
But only a reflection of what can be known in solitary silence.
Through discipline and devotion, realized by direct experience.
Trucks names TATA, always saying, “goodbye goodbye.”
Altars on dashboards – traveling temples with garlands, colored beads,
Drivers proclaiming devotion to their chosen deities,
Asking blessings and protection from the gods that they adore,
As they navigate the traffic on the streets of Bangalore.
Uniformed schoolgirls giggling as they walk,
Carbon copies of each other in their shirts, skirts and ties.
Clothes pressed to pleated crispness by servants or ammas,
Walking in black-strapped shoes – practical and plain,
Their glossy hair coiled in circled braids, tied ‘round with matching bows,
Backpacks on their shoulders, black umbrellas opened out,
They know the streets and landmarks as they walk their daily route.
Crows and myna birds, hungry bats at sundown,
And hundreds of nameless street dogs, neither large nor small,
Medium-sized and short haired, they’re mostly tan and white.
Lean, hungry wanderers, looking for scraps of food.
Searching for a handout, hoping for a little more,
Wandering, ever-wandering on the streets of Bangalore.
Rural India, like a separate world apart from the pace of the city,
Where time seems slowed down somehow,
Patterns of family and religion are repeated with little change.
Seasons of planting and harvesting, cycles that never end,
A mixture of struggle and survival, changelessness and contentment,
Sameness and simplicity, repeated again and again.
Vistas of verdant rice paddies in geometric squares and shapes,
Proclaiming the continuing play of creation and renewal,
Fields of baby corn and ragi, lady fingers, carrots, peas,
Cucumbers and tomatoes, and rows and rows of banana trees!
The food of Southern India – such a blessing for the body!
A myriad of tastes and textures, of colors bold and subtle,
Idli, sambhar, chutney, chappati, wada, roti, and lots of rice and curries,
All filled with sparkling vibrant prana – unseen silver brilliance blessed by Shiva’s love,
Each molecule soaked in the nourishment of life,
With explosions of microscopic energy blessing every cell.
Swimming in a sea of temples and shrines honoring all deities,
Clothed in the ancient robe of religion are these towers of antiquity.
A retreat from the pressures of business and family life,
Havens of hope and protection for pilgrims and devotees.
A bath of bliss for the soul, a shower of beauty for the senses,
The oldest continuous religion on earth within these towers of antiquity.
Like open books of architecture, sacred art and history,
Proclaiming India’s unique contribution to the storehouse of spirituality.
Temple bells and incense, vibuti and fragrant flowers,
Mixed together with the scent of milk, honey, camphor and ghee,
Offered to the gods and goddesses, to all the deities.
Priests recite the correct prayers and mantras, 108 names of God,
Extolling what can never fully be conveyed in rites and rituals,
But only a reflection of what can be known in solitary silence.
Through discipline and devotion, realized by direct experience.