Vande Mataram
When I say it is a bit odd, that's a gigantic understatement. The style is intentional and so are fragments etc etc. This was competely drug induced.
Vande Mataram
a sketch
"I bow to thee, Mother,
richly-watered, richly-fruited,
cool with the winds of the south,
dark with the crops of the harvests, the Mother!
Her nights rejoicing in the glory of the moonlight,
her lands clothed beautifully with her trees in flowering bloom, sweet of laughter, sweet of speech, the Mother, giver of boons, giver of bliss."
The English translation of the stanza
rendered by:-
Shri Aurobindo
(Translation of the Vande Mataram)
I, a nostalgic woman, keep a gramophone record and place it gently into the player and it whirls and buzzes. The static is refreshing and so is the smell of agharbati and burnt wood. It is like a chakara-pongal and sambhar-sadam mix of sweetness and spiciness that comes through my window. From the golden gramophone horn, the Swamiji begins in his sandpaper voice about the virtues of feminine beauty, and sexual chastity which is ridiculous because he fell out of grace when he did more than look up the sari fall of a washerwoman. The smoke comes in through the window quickly so I bring my chair by the window and wait very patiently as the Kali temple across the street is ablaze and the fire pours out of the large wooden Kali on the roof and her eyes are hollowing -
-- the choir sings, and a broken veena serenades “Vande Mataram.” The weather outside is glorious but ink gray and on the verge of shedding tears. The temple is crammed up against the apartment building and burns with a vengeance, agharbati and all.
Nobody is fighting the fire, save a little boy and his pot in the middle of traffic and he is throwing water from the parked Ashok water truck on the curb across the street. Shubhalam, Shubharam … richly watered, richly fruited …
The water beats against the front of the steps but the fire rages throughout and has a field day. I can hear the screams of those trapped inside the Devi’s wooden dungeon but no one else stops to hear or to watch.
on the cool winds of the south the heat hitchhikes and scorches indiscriminately, though a single soul runs out of the temple and into the front, bedecked in her gold that blazes into her deep auburn silk. She is a dancer and she bypasses Kali’s demonic eyes at the front of the temple and the boy drenches her in the sweet water of the Ashok truck, which has started, the engine revving up.
-- her nights rejoicing in the glory of the moonlight, her arms clothed with the trees in flowering bloom --
And her hair strings behind her in jasmine glory as the water truck chases after her in panic.
-giver of boons- And Kali watches as the dancer is not fast enough and the truck smashes into her and I can’t hear anything except the crush of anklets under the powerful water truck; it doesn’t stop soon and blood pours out freely from all over. She lies and watches the tank which now heaves and trails precious sweet water that drenches the road.
The boy takes up his pot and pours it over the girl who is still breathing but the lungs are beginning to close in and soon she lies flat, facing her new home and her eyes are growing white
giver of bliss
From the table near me I take the expensive flowers from America the mythical place known only as a country that my daughter studies in geography and by my cousins who were given this pass to a better life so that they could give me these flowers. I rip them up. Facing the street I drop these foreign blossoms slowly and one petal settles down from a bright tiger lily on the dancer’s luscious, dark cheek
and moves up and down with each and ever breath she makes, that she still is making. The old Bhabi sees me from her next window and shakes the blossoms from her hair too because she understands, too. Soon, the air is alive with plucked blossoms, some of them foreign and some of them organic and from our saffron soils, taken from where they are nestled in braids or in front of their Devi for prayers. Thalli! I call as the gramophone horn swells in song. Watch how we welcome you home! The boy rains water over the dancer but she does not revive, feel like reviving, but she welcomes the sky which cries fragrant tears of jubilation.
Vande Mataram, I whisper. Hail to thee, mother!
Vande Mataram
a sketch
"I bow to thee, Mother,
richly-watered, richly-fruited,
cool with the winds of the south,
dark with the crops of the harvests, the Mother!
Her nights rejoicing in the glory of the moonlight,
her lands clothed beautifully with her trees in flowering bloom, sweet of laughter, sweet of speech, the Mother, giver of boons, giver of bliss."
The English translation of the stanza
rendered by:-
Shri Aurobindo
(Translation of the Vande Mataram)
I, a nostalgic woman, keep a gramophone record and place it gently into the player and it whirls and buzzes. The static is refreshing and so is the smell of agharbati and burnt wood. It is like a chakara-pongal and sambhar-sadam mix of sweetness and spiciness that comes through my window. From the golden gramophone horn, the Swamiji begins in his sandpaper voice about the virtues of feminine beauty, and sexual chastity which is ridiculous because he fell out of grace when he did more than look up the sari fall of a washerwoman. The smoke comes in through the window quickly so I bring my chair by the window and wait very patiently as the Kali temple across the street is ablaze and the fire pours out of the large wooden Kali on the roof and her eyes are hollowing -
-- the choir sings, and a broken veena serenades “Vande Mataram.” The weather outside is glorious but ink gray and on the verge of shedding tears. The temple is crammed up against the apartment building and burns with a vengeance, agharbati and all.
Nobody is fighting the fire, save a little boy and his pot in the middle of traffic and he is throwing water from the parked Ashok water truck on the curb across the street. Shubhalam, Shubharam … richly watered, richly fruited …
The water beats against the front of the steps but the fire rages throughout and has a field day. I can hear the screams of those trapped inside the Devi’s wooden dungeon but no one else stops to hear or to watch.
on the cool winds of the south the heat hitchhikes and scorches indiscriminately, though a single soul runs out of the temple and into the front, bedecked in her gold that blazes into her deep auburn silk. She is a dancer and she bypasses Kali’s demonic eyes at the front of the temple and the boy drenches her in the sweet water of the Ashok truck, which has started, the engine revving up.
-- her nights rejoicing in the glory of the moonlight, her arms clothed with the trees in flowering bloom --
And her hair strings behind her in jasmine glory as the water truck chases after her in panic.
-giver of boons- And Kali watches as the dancer is not fast enough and the truck smashes into her and I can’t hear anything except the crush of anklets under the powerful water truck; it doesn’t stop soon and blood pours out freely from all over. She lies and watches the tank which now heaves and trails precious sweet water that drenches the road.
The boy takes up his pot and pours it over the girl who is still breathing but the lungs are beginning to close in and soon she lies flat, facing her new home and her eyes are growing white
giver of bliss
From the table near me I take the expensive flowers from America the mythical place known only as a country that my daughter studies in geography and by my cousins who were given this pass to a better life so that they could give me these flowers. I rip them up. Facing the street I drop these foreign blossoms slowly and one petal settles down from a bright tiger lily on the dancer’s luscious, dark cheek
and moves up and down with each and ever breath she makes, that she still is making. The old Bhabi sees me from her next window and shakes the blossoms from her hair too because she understands, too. Soon, the air is alive with plucked blossoms, some of them foreign and some of them organic and from our saffron soils, taken from where they are nestled in braids or in front of their Devi for prayers. Thalli! I call as the gramophone horn swells in song. Watch how we welcome you home! The boy rains water over the dancer but she does not revive, feel like reviving, but she welcomes the sky which cries fragrant tears of jubilation.
Vande Mataram, I whisper. Hail to thee, mother!