Under the shallow stream
On that vacant riverbed
I remember red seeds in the clay
Who spilled these rubies
Like the light on a starry night
Among the snails on the pebbles
Where snakes take to water
But fish do not swim
Upon that empty bank
My heart is trapped
Oh Village of my ancestors
Whose fables are still sung
When I am with my people
I am alone in elephant grass
Dusty breezes folding them
My family a rainstorm
But in the shaky soil
My heart is strung
In the shallow mirror of water
My reflection looks back
Though I live far away
In the rituals of this land
Ancestors are called
Around a bonfire in the night
I, a tree alone, in grassland
Over the mountains tall
Have heard a siren call
Tag: Mangalore
Running away
Snakeskin on the mossy rocks
Left behind after a long winter rain
Her tears allowing, beetles in fight
Followed by cat ears, seated on the ledge
By the old kitchen fireplace
Tracing the smoke stone walls
Light of an old bulb hanging by a wire
The old magazines stiff, wooden cupboards and rafters
Kerosene lamps made of bottles
Red Mangalore tiles and red oxide floors
Just a day visiting, escaping
To old village life
Old pets
A white kitten rolls
In dust, My Grandfather
Remembers how a tiger snatched
His pomeranian in a world, he lost.
I think of revelations,
Barefoot, in the sun.
Spotted in shop windows
Lost in bamboo
Almost hidden in deep grass
My home village
Deep in moonlight
Where a river flows
Solitude in raindrops
And monsoon
It continues
Ripples
Follow river tides
When hills collapse.
National Calamity
This season
Lost in water
Paper boats,
Lives
Children.
Treasure trove
It was meant to be a lunchbox but only held sea shells. Every holiday, every cousin, every friend and family outing- you go to the beach of course.
A natural tendency; geography ruling people. We never left till sunset, poor lighting makes for bad pickings but makes your haul look great. Maybe you need exhaustion to appreciate sea shells, possibly reaching unconscious poetry collecting the remnants of the dead while the sun sets before an endless ocean. A treasure chest was an inevitable requirement.
Somehow the shells kept piling on, I kept them meticulously, neatly while my cousins threw them away. Where? They could not remember. The box grew heavy, the shells broke under their own weight, faded and rotted away. I would hesitate to open the box anyway, I don’t know why.
Now and then I had to open it, sand always got out, where did it all come from? I lost the box and memory of where it went long ago, and I live far away. Still the smell of the sea always remained in my memory and the box while the shells decayed.
Moss lands
A woman laughes without any hesitation cutting right through the neighborhood, reaching me on the 7th floor.
Small towns have large areas of quiet, parking and shaded greenery that lull you into a sort of luxurious laze. No wonder life seems more pleasant here. Looking down you’ll see just green cover, the coconuts trees give away the boundiers between homes, every house has them.
Maybe apartments makes voyures of us all. Natural vantage points and a view right into your neighbors home. I can see my neighbors at their worst, their uninhibited habits and routines, glimpses of who they are when no one’s looking. It’s like trees across seasons, changing habits and routines slowly but in circles. The same arguments, the same hunched positions at their tables.
I see right into the apartment across the street where others also look for the laugh. There’s no one we can see, only a few dogs sleeping on roofs. They make the best of the steep incline that the neighborhood is on.
I can smell the sea in the air so I stay on the balcony while the rest retreat indoors. It’s a smell you grow fond of.
A lazy motorists makes his way into his yard behind the apartment. He’s got a stream behind him and space he’s done nothing with. The moss grows green on his walls. All old house, old neighborhoods and old memories are closed off by green, green moss. Everything goes back to sleep.
Yakshagana
Bootha Kola
A Bootha Kola is a sort of shamanistic ritual where you summon Bootha’s or Daivas- spirits neither malevolent or benevolent who reflect the relationship between the tangible and intangible world. Or the farmlands and the forests.
These pictures are from one where Kalurti was summoned. She’s mute and howls while she dances. I couldn’t take a video- it would have been blurry anyway- even though most people don’t care what you do at a Kola. People would text or greet relatives right when the Bootha was dancing away or proclaiming judgments in front of them. It’s not that they don’t care, they don’t think the spirits mind.
During intervals in the dance Kalurti would point to people and make hand gestures that indicated if she was happy with them or not. But while dancing her face was expressionless. She lept and howled, carrying a touch that she beat against her chest while she circled the people who’d gathered. My grandfather said in Tulu that she was just trying to throw away her legs and arms. The performer was who really interested me. Nobody spoke to him; he never said a word- before or after the performance. These pictures were my attempts to capture any emotions the silent shaman showed under all that makeup.
Rijul Ballal 