Ешь, молись, люби

Chapter 40

           Thencomestheharmonium,thentheslowdrums,thenthevoices…

           I’msittinginthebackofthecourtyardwithallthemothers,theIndianwomenwhoaresocomfortablycross-legged,theirchildrensleepingacrossthemlikelittlehumanlaprugs.Thechanttonightisalullaby,alament,anattemptatgratitude,writteninaraga(atune)thatismeanttosuggestcompassionanddevotion.WearesinginginSanskrit,asalways(anancientlanguagethatisextinctinIndia,exceptforprayerandreligiousstudy),andI’mtryingtobecomeavocalmirrorforthevoicesoftheleadsingers,pickinguptheirinflectionslikelittlestringsofbluelight.Theypassthesacredwordstome,Icarrythewordsforawhile,thenpassthewordsback,andthisishowweareabletosingformilesandmilesoftimewithouttiring.Allofusareswayinglikekelpinthedarkseacurrentofnight.Thechildrenaroundmearewrappedinsilks,likegifts.

           I’msotired,butIdon’tdropmylittlebluestringofsong,andIdriftintosuchastatethatIthinkImightbecallingGod’snameinmysleep,ormaybeIamonlyfallingdownthewellshaftofthisuniverse.By11:30,though,theorchestrahaspickedupthetempoofthechantandkickeditupintosheerjoy.Beautifullydressedwomeninjinglybraceletsareclappinganddancingandattemptingtotambourinewiththeirwholebodies.Thedrumsareslamming,rhythmic,exciting.Astheminutespass,itfeelstomelikewearecollectivelypullingtheyear2004towardus

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