The Big House at Mambalam
Posted: 26 Oct 2019, 05:40
Edit 2
The Big House At Mambalam
I
The cattle left Pondicherry in four wheelers
and came to T-Nagar in Mambalam,
straight to their sheds behind the house
where partitions were made for cows and buffaloes.
They settled down, they wagged off flies.
The dung used to make gobar gas
reached the kitchen through PVC pipes.
The clay pot soon filled up with kitchen waste—
the uncooked, the peels, and rice-washed water,
all for the fodder trough.
Daughter-in-law number one did puja;
she took Aarti with camphor and incense
and worshipped the behind, where the tail started,
the dung place—goddess Lakshmi resides there—
she loved to circumambulate,
feed it hummingbird-tree leaves.
The harvest Pongal was celebrated
for the worshipping of cows, buffaloes and goats.
Before the celebration, the courtyard was prepared
for the festivities, topography marked
with pointers in strategic places,
cow dung was lumped as Pillayars
every dawn at the front doorsteps
and crowned with yellow flowers.
The hierarchy of daughters-in-law vied with the daughter
of the house to draw the kolam, a rice flour artwork
with dots and loops, depicting the Sun Lord’s chariot.
Cattle with newly-painted horns in vibrant colours,
wearing huge Hare Krishna beads and mock-silver anklets,
were made to circumambulate the wood-fired brick stove.
Freshly-harvested rice boiled in jaggery, garnished
with cashew nuts and ghee brimmed over as prasad.
Respected and pampered, the cows
received the first offering.
II
Grandma and little uncle had four chicken coops
for raising broiler chickens. When floods came,
the chickens drowned,
but the cattle were led to higher plains.
Servants and vendors only dared use the side gate.
The long queue was for buying thick buttermilk.
Drumstick trees, mangoes, giant limes, guavas,
sapota, were grown at the back of the compound.
Night jasmines, ixora, wax flower, oleander,
were planted for the gods.
We did not have to purchase flowers.
A few furlongs away, Grandma had a farm
where the well was always full. Beans and gourds
intertwined and every two or three days,
we plucked greens and vegetables.
I tagged along with her to the family farm.
Inside the house’s inner courtyard, uncles sat
with hand-woven towels wrapped around their waists,
while their wives rubbed gingelly oil on their bodies
for the ritual oil bath. I vowed never to get married
if this was one of a wife’s duties,
little realizing they enjoyed it.
Now the big house is demolished, the family farm levelled,
concrete flats tower, and the well is full no more.
Edit 1
The Big House At Mambalam
I
The cattle left Pondicherry in four wheelers
and came to T-Nagar in Mambalam,
straight to their sheds behind the house
where partitions were made for cows and buffaloes.
They settled down, they wagged off flies.
The dung used to make gobar gas
reached the kitchen through PVC pipes.
The clay pot soon filled up with kitchen waste—
the uncooked, the peels, and rice-washed water,
all for the fodder trough.
Daughter-in-law number one did puja;
she took Aarti with camphor and incense
and worshipped the behind, where the tail started,
the dung place—goddess Lakshmi resides there—
she loved to circumambulate,
feed it hummingbird-tree leaves.
The harvest Pongal was celebrated
for the worshipping of cows, buffaloes and goats.
Before the celebration, the courtyard was prepared
for the festivities, topography marked
with pointers in strategic places,
cow dung was lumped as Pillayars
every dawn at the front doorsteps
and crowned with yellow flowers.
The hierarchy of daughters-in-law vied with the daughter
of the house to draw the kolam, a rice flour artwork
with dots and loops, depicting the Sun Lord’s chariot.
Cattle with newly-painted horns in vibrant colours
wearing huge Hare Krishna beads and mock-silver anklets
were made to circumambulate the wood-fired brick stove.
Freshly-harvested rice boiled in jaggery, garnished
with cashew nuts and ghee brimmed over as prasad.
Respected and pampered, the cows
received the first offering.
II
Grandma and little uncle had four chicken coops
for raising broiler chickens. When floods came,
the chickens drowned,
but the cattle were led to higher plains.
Servants and vendors only dared use the side gate.
The long queue was for buying thick buttermilk.
Drumstick trees, mangoes, giant limes, guavas,
sapota, were grown at the back of the compound.
Night jasmines, ixora, wax flower, oleander,
were planted for the gods.
We did not have to purchase flowers.
A few furlongs away, Grandma had a farm
where the well was always full. Beans and gourds
intertwined and every two or three days,
we plucked greens and vegetables.
I tagged along with her to the family farm.
Inside the house’s inner courtyard, uncles sat
with hand-woven towels wrapped around their waists
while their wives rubbed gingelly oil on their bodies
for the ritual oil bath. I vowed never to get married
if this was one of a wife’s duties,
little realizing they enjoyed it.
Now the big house is demolished, the family farm levelled,
concrete flats tower, and the well is full no more.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bob, you are very good with punctuation, so can you please give it more than a glance and make it fit to enter the IBPC ? Please.
When I request Bob, I do not mean to leave out all my fellow poets.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
First draft
The cattle left in four wheelers from Pondicherry,
and came to T-Nagar in Mambalam
straight to their sheds behind the house
where partitions were made for cows and buffaloes
They settled down, their tails wagged off flies.
The clay pot soon filled up with kitchen waste;
the uncooked, the peels and rice-washed water,
all for the fodder trough.
Daughter-in-law number one did puja;
she took Arthi with camphor and incense
and worshipped the behind where the tail started
the dung place—goddess Lakshmi resides there
she loved to circumambulate, feed it humming bird-tree leaves.
The dung used to make gobar gas
reached the kitchen through PVC pipes.
The harvest festival Pongal
celebrated for worshipping cows, buffaloes and goats;
cattle with newly-painted horns in vibrant colours
wearing huge Hare Krishna beads and mock-silver anklets
were made to circumambulate the wood-fired brick stove
freshly-harvested rice boiled in jaggery garnished
with cashew nuts and ghee brimmed-over as prasad. (Italics)
Respected and pampered, the first offering
was for the cows.
Before the festival, cow dung was lumped as Pillayars
every dawn at the front doorsteps
and crowned with yellow flowers.
The courtyard was prepared for the festival,
topography marked with pointers in strategic places,
the hierarchy of daughters-in-law vied with the daughter
of the house to draw the kolam, a rice flour artwork
with dots and loops, depicting the Sun Lord’s chariot.
Grandma and little uncle had four chicken coops
for raising broiler chickens. When floods came,
the chickens drowned
but the cattle were led to a higher plain.
Servants and vendors dared walk in only through the side gate.
The long queue was for buying thick buttermilk.
Drumstick trees, mangoes, giant limes, guavas,
sapota, were grown at the back of the compound.
Night jasmines, Ixora, wax flower, oleander, were planted
for the gods. We did not have to purchase flowers.
A few furlongs away, Grandma had a farm
where the well was always full. Beans and gourds
intertwined and every two or three days, we plucked greens
and vegetables. I tagged along with her to the family farm.
Inside the house was an inner courtyard where uncles sat
with hand-woven thread towels wrapped around their waists
while their wives rubbed gingelly oil on their bodies
for the ritual oil bath. I vowed never to get married
if this was one of a wife’s duties, little realizing they enjoyed it.
Now the big house is demolished, the family farm levelled.
Concrete flats tower, and the well is full no more.
The Big House At Mambalam
I
The cattle left Pondicherry in four wheelers
and came to T-Nagar in Mambalam,
straight to their sheds behind the house
where partitions were made for cows and buffaloes.
They settled down, they wagged off flies.
The dung used to make gobar gas
reached the kitchen through PVC pipes.
The clay pot soon filled up with kitchen waste—
the uncooked, the peels, and rice-washed water,
all for the fodder trough.
Daughter-in-law number one did puja;
she took Aarti with camphor and incense
and worshipped the behind, where the tail started,
the dung place—goddess Lakshmi resides there—
she loved to circumambulate,
feed it hummingbird-tree leaves.
The harvest Pongal was celebrated
for the worshipping of cows, buffaloes and goats.
Before the celebration, the courtyard was prepared
for the festivities, topography marked
with pointers in strategic places,
cow dung was lumped as Pillayars
every dawn at the front doorsteps
and crowned with yellow flowers.
The hierarchy of daughters-in-law vied with the daughter
of the house to draw the kolam, a rice flour artwork
with dots and loops, depicting the Sun Lord’s chariot.
Cattle with newly-painted horns in vibrant colours,
wearing huge Hare Krishna beads and mock-silver anklets,
were made to circumambulate the wood-fired brick stove.
Freshly-harvested rice boiled in jaggery, garnished
with cashew nuts and ghee brimmed over as prasad.
Respected and pampered, the cows
received the first offering.
II
Grandma and little uncle had four chicken coops
for raising broiler chickens. When floods came,
the chickens drowned,
but the cattle were led to higher plains.
Servants and vendors only dared use the side gate.
The long queue was for buying thick buttermilk.
Drumstick trees, mangoes, giant limes, guavas,
sapota, were grown at the back of the compound.
Night jasmines, ixora, wax flower, oleander,
were planted for the gods.
We did not have to purchase flowers.
A few furlongs away, Grandma had a farm
where the well was always full. Beans and gourds
intertwined and every two or three days,
we plucked greens and vegetables.
I tagged along with her to the family farm.
Inside the house’s inner courtyard, uncles sat
with hand-woven towels wrapped around their waists,
while their wives rubbed gingelly oil on their bodies
for the ritual oil bath. I vowed never to get married
if this was one of a wife’s duties,
little realizing they enjoyed it.
Now the big house is demolished, the family farm levelled,
concrete flats tower, and the well is full no more.
Edit 1
The Big House At Mambalam
I
The cattle left Pondicherry in four wheelers
and came to T-Nagar in Mambalam,
straight to their sheds behind the house
where partitions were made for cows and buffaloes.
They settled down, they wagged off flies.
The dung used to make gobar gas
reached the kitchen through PVC pipes.
The clay pot soon filled up with kitchen waste—
the uncooked, the peels, and rice-washed water,
all for the fodder trough.
Daughter-in-law number one did puja;
she took Aarti with camphor and incense
and worshipped the behind, where the tail started,
the dung place—goddess Lakshmi resides there—
she loved to circumambulate,
feed it hummingbird-tree leaves.
The harvest Pongal was celebrated
for the worshipping of cows, buffaloes and goats.
Before the celebration, the courtyard was prepared
for the festivities, topography marked
with pointers in strategic places,
cow dung was lumped as Pillayars
every dawn at the front doorsteps
and crowned with yellow flowers.
The hierarchy of daughters-in-law vied with the daughter
of the house to draw the kolam, a rice flour artwork
with dots and loops, depicting the Sun Lord’s chariot.
Cattle with newly-painted horns in vibrant colours
wearing huge Hare Krishna beads and mock-silver anklets
were made to circumambulate the wood-fired brick stove.
Freshly-harvested rice boiled in jaggery, garnished
with cashew nuts and ghee brimmed over as prasad.
Respected and pampered, the cows
received the first offering.
II
Grandma and little uncle had four chicken coops
for raising broiler chickens. When floods came,
the chickens drowned,
but the cattle were led to higher plains.
Servants and vendors only dared use the side gate.
The long queue was for buying thick buttermilk.
Drumstick trees, mangoes, giant limes, guavas,
sapota, were grown at the back of the compound.
Night jasmines, ixora, wax flower, oleander,
were planted for the gods.
We did not have to purchase flowers.
A few furlongs away, Grandma had a farm
where the well was always full. Beans and gourds
intertwined and every two or three days,
we plucked greens and vegetables.
I tagged along with her to the family farm.
Inside the house’s inner courtyard, uncles sat
with hand-woven towels wrapped around their waists
while their wives rubbed gingelly oil on their bodies
for the ritual oil bath. I vowed never to get married
if this was one of a wife’s duties,
little realizing they enjoyed it.
Now the big house is demolished, the family farm levelled,
concrete flats tower, and the well is full no more.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bob, you are very good with punctuation, so can you please give it more than a glance and make it fit to enter the IBPC ? Please.
When I request Bob, I do not mean to leave out all my fellow poets.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
First draft
The cattle left in four wheelers from Pondicherry,
and came to T-Nagar in Mambalam
straight to their sheds behind the house
where partitions were made for cows and buffaloes
They settled down, their tails wagged off flies.
The clay pot soon filled up with kitchen waste;
the uncooked, the peels and rice-washed water,
all for the fodder trough.
Daughter-in-law number one did puja;
she took Arthi with camphor and incense
and worshipped the behind where the tail started
the dung place—goddess Lakshmi resides there
she loved to circumambulate, feed it humming bird-tree leaves.
The dung used to make gobar gas
reached the kitchen through PVC pipes.
The harvest festival Pongal
celebrated for worshipping cows, buffaloes and goats;
cattle with newly-painted horns in vibrant colours
wearing huge Hare Krishna beads and mock-silver anklets
were made to circumambulate the wood-fired brick stove
freshly-harvested rice boiled in jaggery garnished
with cashew nuts and ghee brimmed-over as prasad. (Italics)
Respected and pampered, the first offering
was for the cows.
Before the festival, cow dung was lumped as Pillayars
every dawn at the front doorsteps
and crowned with yellow flowers.
The courtyard was prepared for the festival,
topography marked with pointers in strategic places,
the hierarchy of daughters-in-law vied with the daughter
of the house to draw the kolam, a rice flour artwork
with dots and loops, depicting the Sun Lord’s chariot.
Grandma and little uncle had four chicken coops
for raising broiler chickens. When floods came,
the chickens drowned
but the cattle were led to a higher plain.
Servants and vendors dared walk in only through the side gate.
The long queue was for buying thick buttermilk.
Drumstick trees, mangoes, giant limes, guavas,
sapota, were grown at the back of the compound.
Night jasmines, Ixora, wax flower, oleander, were planted
for the gods. We did not have to purchase flowers.
A few furlongs away, Grandma had a farm
where the well was always full. Beans and gourds
intertwined and every two or three days, we plucked greens
and vegetables. I tagged along with her to the family farm.
Inside the house was an inner courtyard where uncles sat
with hand-woven thread towels wrapped around their waists
while their wives rubbed gingelly oil on their bodies
for the ritual oil bath. I vowed never to get married
if this was one of a wife’s duties, little realizing they enjoyed it.
Now the big house is demolished, the family farm levelled.
Concrete flats tower, and the well is full no more.