Pugdandi

Karwar, Karnataka. Southern India


At the moment I have a certain taste in my mouth of spicy curry snack mix and tea. My sinuses are particularly open after several days of allergies. The light falling across my desk is a cloudy grey-green-blue and when I sat down I felt, for a moment, like I was in Karnataka again. This is a photo of the writing desk I occupied day after day while I was there. I had a goal: 10 pages a day. I met that goal daily, yet I look back at old journals and realize that it was never enough. Never enough to capture even the smells, let alone the sights, the sounds, the people... so many subtle details. Too much of it I have forgotten, but this morning, I was there, for just a tiny moment; I was breathing the early morning air of a south Indian morning. For a moment there was an ocean; an old woman bent, sweeping her stoop; a mangy dog loping down the street, fishermen untangling nets, a store-owner pushing back the metal gates of his small, dark shop. For a moment I was sitting at my desk about to write everything.

Last night I finished Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri. I spent the morning taking notes in my journal on just how she managed to accomplish such eloquent writing. I drew out her stories, took notes on her technique, and got excited when I began to see the patterns. I wrote easily without fear of being right or wrong. Today I started reading Anees Jung's Seven Sisters: Among the Women of South Asia. This is all for an independent study. But what I'm really doing is starting to write. My journal, these last few days, has begun to fill quickly. I've been on a steady diet of samosas, malai kofta, and tikki marsala. The kitchen table is piled high with books, paper, pens, and sketchbooks. I've moved another small table and chair out onto the porch along with a potted pink dahlia. I feel, finally, dedicated to something.

The word pugdandi means a path.
It's not any path, but a path that is made by feet.
It is a path of need.
A road that is cut and hewn and flattened is not a pugdandi.
People walk over a road after it is made.
It is not made and affirmed as it is being walked upon.
A pugdandi disappears if people do not use it regularly.
And in a little while no one remembers where it used to be.

And on this path I return to writing. The ground feels good under my feet.