Poetry in Brick and Mud

Article Tools

Print

E-mail

Comments

RSS

Once it's finished, the poet's house will consume far less energy than many homes half its size. Thanks to jaliwalls, cool air flows in; and thanks to the bottle-rimmed roof vents, hot air flows out. Amazingly, there are no electric ceiling fans (even modest Indian homes often have one per room), and no air conditioning.

As we continue our tour through the house, Baker gives instructions to the workmen, who today are making windows--some of which will contain only rough vertical wooden slats that can be tilted to catch the breeze. After several dizzying loops, we have spiraled up to the roof.

Here too, Baker says, 'you can sit and write poems.' The nearby trees tower 15 or 20 feet overhead, their breadfruits and coconuts dangling almost within reach. The real poetry of this house is that it respects its surroundings and doesn't overpower them.

The same cannot be said, unfortunately, for what we see from here of the city skyline. A few older buildings, such as the palace of the maharajas, respect the ancient unwritten law that no building should be higher than one of Kerala's millions of coconut palms. But dotting the horizon are the palaces of the new maharajas--slab-like eight- and ten-story modern luxury apartment buildings for India's burgeoning business and professional class, all of them, Baker points out, requiring huge amounts of Kerala's scarce electricity to run elevators and air conditioning. Baker's poetry in brick and mud is, by contrast, in harmony with its surroundings, not only aesthetically but also in its acknowledgment that the earth will not permit us to be so profligate with its riches forever.

Adam Hochschild is the author of five books, including King Leopold's Ghost: A Story of Greed, Terror, and Heroism in Colonial Africa.

From Mother Jones (July/Aug. 2000). Subscriptions: $18/yr. (6 issues) from Box 334, Mt. Morris, IL 61054.

RSS | Comments | E-mail | Print