leper couple South India
the strangest sensation
when that slender middle-aged couple
approaching walking at a rapid pace
deep in conversation
man and woman gesturing hands
with no fingers no noses talking faces
smooth scars where once were appendages
they stare at the white foreign woman
standing amid street stench
urine animals
crowded with people--
not yet 10 a.m.
already heat coming on hot--
sellers stalls
scrawny thin poor beggars
healthy white midriff showing
short blouse wrapped sari
how odd to see amid all these brown
and smoking a cigarette yet
lit from burning hemp
at a tea stall where she stops
the leper couple continues on energetic
bodies wrapped in clean white cotton
black water buffalo
plod in opposite direction
that moment
on the flat rooftop
in the hot dry tropical sky
me the only foreigner
white woman amid brown
as I try scrubbing my pink lace Dior demi-cup
underwire bra on the black granite washing stone
chiseled with texture creating a scrub board
surface slanted washing soap in a blue bar
bucket of cold water
the hot air--bright sun
looking down at my own hands
fumbling with my efforts trying
yet stop in amazement at the moment
stare into my mind
the ridiculous incongruities in my life
living ways that make no sense
to me or anyone else
yet that moment
of the most powerful significance
little Siva comes to my rescue
just eighteen laughing at me
giving a lesson in how to wash clothes
in a bucket on a washing stone
in the heat and poverty
of inconvenience
South India--
red powder
There’s a flow in this city. An undercurrent that can
only be felt not seen. Vibrations not coming from
waves on the shore, or the nonstop flow of traffic.
But from intense religious beliefs, fears, customs,
traditions and social pressures. They create the
never-ending flow in torrents that wash over me,
vibrate through me passing in waves of emotion,
swirling chest high through streets and buildings.
The vibrations swept me up the moment I arrived.
Accepted me as few cultures do strangers, to take
from me overwhelm me toss me out of control. Laugh.
I had to stop myself to gain control, step back from
it all and observe. Of course the people don’t under-
stand I need my freedom, need to protect my
individuality. It’s unheard of for a woman to be on
her own, even insulting to some, evil in the eyes of
others. But I must be. In spite of assumptions I will
marry an Indian man, I am not the least bit interested.
Indian women gasp in shock when I say those words
out loud.
Up ahead a cacophonous flower covered funeral
procession heading for the cremation grounds. Further
on a wedding procession with marching band in tattered
worn sequined uniforms heading for a marriage hall.
The car cruises through the center of the Mylapore
district, slows amid a religious procession parading
through the street noisy with drum beating, singing,
chanting, shouting, gong striking, rhythmic bell
jingling just outside the towering temple
ornamented with thousands of figures of gods
animals, and humans.
I’ve been inside the temple more than once
The inner area choked with burning camphor
and incense, carved stone gods worn back down
to a smooth amorphous rock shape by human touch,
everything aged black smoke darkness.
Squatting holy men foreheads and arms streaked
with ash passing their hands over camphor
flaming on a metal tray
Dip a finger into a small pile of red powder
then raising a hand in blessing placing a spot of red
sandalwood powder onto a devotees forehead
while holding forth the tray to receive a coin to be
dropped amidst small heaps of bright red powder
and flames.
Madras, India
prophet of Ganja
she met him in the Pearl A/C bar in Madras, India
a tall handsome well-built Anglo-Indian sat down
at the bar and ordered a beer aware of his own
attractiveness, her own foremost to her--she
noticed him noticing yet everyone does all the time
her different skin red highlight hair, blue eyes
waiting for her date Rocky--late as usual--she sat
watching the door, the handsome young man from
the bar appeared beer mug in hand saying, "excuse me
do you mind if I sit with you?" such an unspectacular
introduction, she dismissed him with a "I’m waiting
for someone" returned her attention to her drink,
obviously she did not know whose presence stood
before her, he concerned about a rejection before
the other men observing--she the only woman in the
Pearl A/C bar--Indian women don’t come into bars,
not in Madras, not in the afternoon, not alone--he
pulled up a chair, all eyes on him, saying "that’s OK
I’ll sit till he comes" his clothes casual European
styling, his features Indian--accent unidentifiable
his name Naryan--he spoke Indian-English with a
Welch accent--five years of University in Wales,
where he also became a prophet derived his powers
from the Ganja weed he smoked freely admitting
he came to give prophecy regarding her impending
journey to Singapore, Malaysia and Hong Kong--
first he warmed-up with a few magic tricks,
shades of hippyism not to be rushed--
a slow coin trick--the effects of the Ganja?
she easily saw him slip the coin between his fingers,
thinking What-the-hell, kill some time with
the prophet, then another deception in which he tried
to convince her he telepathically willed a spot of ash
to appear on her palm while he held her hand, tried
to place it there with cigarette ash on his fingertip
but she caught him in the act, it didn’t matter,
the prophet not embarrassed, after all every man in the bar
saw her hand in his--the prophet cleverly switched
over to some palm-reading--his secret revelations
trickled out--then he asked a series of questions
designed to enlighten him--penetrating eyes looking
into hers--"you’re walking naked in the wilderness,
you come to a ball on the ground, do you pick it up?"
Yes she says. "You continue walking and find 2 keys,
do you pick them up?" Again yes. "You come to a stream,
is it slow moving, fast or what?" She says fast
definitely fast, in fact there’s a waterfall pouring down
from a rocky cliff. This stuns the prophet a moment,
he stops to look at her from a different angle,
then asks "ahead is a dark forest, do you enter?"
She thought she’d prefer the sunshine since she was naked
and wanted to be warm, so this time said no.
Marie Kazalia was born in Toledo, Ohio but has lived her adult
life primarily on the West Coast and in San Francisco, with the exception
of 4 expatriate years in the Asian countries of Japan, India and China.
Marie has a BFA degree from California College of Arts and Crafts. Marie
Kazalia’s book of poems titled *Erratic Sleep in a Cold Hotel* published
by Phony Lid Books, in two editions--ISBN: 0-9676660-0-7 & ISBN:
1-930935-15-3 (www.phonylid.com). Marie Kazalia also has two
mini-chapbooks published by and available from CC Marimbo, PO Box 933,
Berkeley, CA 94701-0933. Price $6. each--titles are: *All-Purpose Tragedy*
ISBN: 1-930903-02-2, and, *Megalopolis* ISBN: 1-930903-18-9. Marie’s 3 new
Chapbook titles in 2004: Blue Language, Disgusting Similarities, Big City
Savvy available from the author.
Marie Kazalia’s poetry and creative prose writing have been widely
published in anthologies, such as *The Bukowski Hangover Project ISBN:
0-9701950-3-6. *Pull The Trigger* and the *Uno Anthology ISBN:
1-4010-4120-5 (UK) and in numerous print zines, and literary journals
nationally and internationally, as well as in many on-line e-zines.
