FOR DIWALI
its dark out, not now, but then; we get up before the sun, before the heat, and even before the sound of the day. the poorest of the poor are still sleeping on dungheaps (whose composting process creates warmth for the night). we walk down the clay-dirt street almost by habit now, even though weve only been here a few weeks. the first fire appears in the distance, as households bestir themselves and emerge to cleanse their forecourtswashing away the previous day, marking the new day with a rongoli, today in colors, and today illuminated with a fire. a fire most often fueled by a burning tirecreating an odd post apocalyptic presence to the scene an ancient ritual, the honoring of light, now celebrated with rotting tyres as they would be called here. the smell is awful, and overpowering, as is the dark cloud of smudging smoke billowing from all these tyres our eyes burn, our noses clog, and the walk becomes somewhere between a gauntlet and a gamut
and we turn the corners at last onto the thoroughfare which opens into the temples courtyard. we skirt around to the back side, to the alleyway, where a savvy attendant hastily, secretively, admits us. there are no lines at the front door yet, but we have been told, asked, to use the back door, which suits me fine, as it promises less attention will be paid to us. and for whatever reason there are very very few people here in the temple today, of all days. probably there are rituals to be done, being done, elsewhere and elsewhen, so this turns out to be a day off at the Mutt which also is a blessing.
In the gray, cold, uncomfortable and hungry predawn we make our way to our little niche where we will be meditating most of the day, hours on end, with little breaks for coffee, and a long midday break for the oppressive unforgiving heat. but now it is cold, and I am hungry and not looking forward to grinding my knees against the rough-surfaced concrete again today, even though I know that the chance to do so, in this special place, is an extraordinary one. my knees dont know that! they want a cushion, or better yet a chair, or best yet to still be abed, under less doubtful linens, in a room less open to the elements, ducks, and passers-by. but these things we do not have, what we do have is this morning, these precious days to be here, so we sit.
and a man comes in, which is unusual at this time of day, reserved mostly for us strangers, and for the cleaning ladies, the charwomen who have their time and their place of honor here, a time and place rarely threatened by a man. but he comes in, carrying a pot. he sits some distance from us, and after a while begins to play this pot. he taps out the lightest, subtlest, almost ghostly melody upon the varying surfaces and thicknesses of this pot. a raga, a tabla recital for one, less frenetic, more like a flute than a snare drum, but really like a pot, a pot made of water, that happens to look like clay, a magic pot that happens to look ordinary. he plays without hurry or show, sometimes subsiding into silence for long periods
and a woman comes in. a grandmotherly type, only shes not in white, so shes no widow, nor is she particularly dressed in flashy saris or western clothes. shes wearing an everyday sort of sari, one thats seen many washings, but is neither faded nor worse for wearjust a sari to wear when being at a temple before sunrise. and she starts to sing after a while, and she sings. the soul of the Goddess herself dissolving the building around us, transforming the gray dawn into the first perfect light of day, postponing the cacophony of downtown India, and echoing the most beautiful melodies of the past, or of the origin of the past, really. she sings in a way that makes silence itself turn to listen, that somehow moves between the air and the light, in a way that enters the mind with meaning, the heart with yearning love, and touches the body with a certain simple, antique peace.
she sings the dawn into the day, and he plays alongside her. around midmorning another man comes, with another sort of drum, and a violinist arrives, and they join with their stronger sounds as the light also strengthens, so the subtlety of dawn gives way to the vigor of day, and she shifts her melodies from the lilting, plaintive prayers of the early hours to chants, to more energetic songs, and the people know these songs differently than those sung at dawn; these new songs arenew, are on records and cds and sing of the new day, these new melodies of long-held beliefs and familiar deities.
and then the noontime comes, with its heat and the singing subsides, stops, and we are withdrawn into meditation for a little while, and then she departs as she came, barely noticed, unaccompanied, carrying the most pure beauty of her song with herand we walk back to our rooms, somehow not hearing the blare of temple and muzzein and political speaker-trucks, somehow not blinded or bothered by the sun, for we are, for a little while longer, walking in the magic world that alwaysalwayssurrounds us, and is always just a reverent thought away
...this has the 'feel' of the sound
...this is the place
and this is the woman...
its dark out, not now, but then; we get up before the sun, before the heat, and even before the sound of the day. the poorest of the poor are still sleeping on dungheaps (whose composting process creates warmth for the night). we walk down the clay-dirt street almost by habit now, even though weve only been here a few weeks. the first fire appears in the distance, as households bestir themselves and emerge to cleanse their forecourtswashing away the previous day, marking the new day with a rongoli, today in colors, and today illuminated with a fire. a fire most often fueled by a burning tirecreating an odd post apocalyptic presence to the scene an ancient ritual, the honoring of light, now celebrated with rotting tyres as they would be called here. the smell is awful, and overpowering, as is the dark cloud of smudging smoke billowing from all these tyres our eyes burn, our noses clog, and the walk becomes somewhere between a gauntlet and a gamut
and we turn the corners at last onto the thoroughfare which opens into the temples courtyard. we skirt around to the back side, to the alleyway, where a savvy attendant hastily, secretively, admits us. there are no lines at the front door yet, but we have been told, asked, to use the back door, which suits me fine, as it promises less attention will be paid to us. and for whatever reason there are very very few people here in the temple today, of all days. probably there are rituals to be done, being done, elsewhere and elsewhen, so this turns out to be a day off at the Mutt which also is a blessing.
In the gray, cold, uncomfortable and hungry predawn we make our way to our little niche where we will be meditating most of the day, hours on end, with little breaks for coffee, and a long midday break for the oppressive unforgiving heat. but now it is cold, and I am hungry and not looking forward to grinding my knees against the rough-surfaced concrete again today, even though I know that the chance to do so, in this special place, is an extraordinary one. my knees dont know that! they want a cushion, or better yet a chair, or best yet to still be abed, under less doubtful linens, in a room less open to the elements, ducks, and passers-by. but these things we do not have, what we do have is this morning, these precious days to be here, so we sit.
and a man comes in, which is unusual at this time of day, reserved mostly for us strangers, and for the cleaning ladies, the charwomen who have their time and their place of honor here, a time and place rarely threatened by a man. but he comes in, carrying a pot. he sits some distance from us, and after a while begins to play this pot. he taps out the lightest, subtlest, almost ghostly melody upon the varying surfaces and thicknesses of this pot. a raga, a tabla recital for one, less frenetic, more like a flute than a snare drum, but really like a pot, a pot made of water, that happens to look like clay, a magic pot that happens to look ordinary. he plays without hurry or show, sometimes subsiding into silence for long periods
and a woman comes in. a grandmotherly type, only shes not in white, so shes no widow, nor is she particularly dressed in flashy saris or western clothes. shes wearing an everyday sort of sari, one thats seen many washings, but is neither faded nor worse for wearjust a sari to wear when being at a temple before sunrise. and she starts to sing after a while, and she sings. the soul of the Goddess herself dissolving the building around us, transforming the gray dawn into the first perfect light of day, postponing the cacophony of downtown India, and echoing the most beautiful melodies of the past, or of the origin of the past, really. she sings in a way that makes silence itself turn to listen, that somehow moves between the air and the light, in a way that enters the mind with meaning, the heart with yearning love, and touches the body with a certain simple, antique peace.
she sings the dawn into the day, and he plays alongside her. around midmorning another man comes, with another sort of drum, and a violinist arrives, and they join with their stronger sounds as the light also strengthens, so the subtlety of dawn gives way to the vigor of day, and she shifts her melodies from the lilting, plaintive prayers of the early hours to chants, to more energetic songs, and the people know these songs differently than those sung at dawn; these new songs arenew, are on records and cds and sing of the new day, these new melodies of long-held beliefs and familiar deities.
and then the noontime comes, with its heat and the singing subsides, stops, and we are withdrawn into meditation for a little while, and then she departs as she came, barely noticed, unaccompanied, carrying the most pure beauty of her song with herand we walk back to our rooms, somehow not hearing the blare of temple and muzzein and political speaker-trucks, somehow not blinded or bothered by the sun, for we are, for a little while longer, walking in the magic world that alwaysalwayssurrounds us, and is always just a reverent thought away
...this has the 'feel' of the sound
...this is the place
and this is the woman...
VIEW 11 of 11 COMMENTS
Its the same here, I am tired from work.
And thank you for your comment
It also happens...
but luckily I called the police in few minutes.
It was horrible...so sad...
Thank you once again.
Now I miss summer