07-01-2013, 12:13 AM
"Kerala"
On the narrow road to Trivandrum, the temple
elephants take their daily strolls, blending into
the masses like citizens. Men in lungis with
dark, toned legs walk with the purpose of a
senator, the poise of a sage, and the rigidness
of thousands of years of embedded culture.
Men speak only to men. The women walk together,
trained not to speak to nor look at the other sex.
Courting is family-controlled. They learn to love
one another. There's news of rape in the north.
It's not rare. Hollywood, Bollywood. It slithers
into the culture like a cobra into an ancient garden.
The drive to the beach reminds me of being in a
Manhattan cab, only worse. Waves rush in hard
against the red Kovalam sand. Women in saris
dance together in hip high water.They have the
innocence of children in their laughter. They seem
to ignore the western model, ten feet away,posing
for a photographer, making love to the wet sand,
touting a wry smile as innocent as her thong full
of ass.
Midnight. Hundreds of small lights huddled together,
as if the stars had fallen into the sea. The fishing
boats dancing to the rhythmic beat of the evening tide.
Beads of tropical sweat drip off the moon.
There are no worries here. My ego still sits at Gate
23, LaGuardia.
On the narrow road to Trivandrum, the temple
elephants take their daily strolls, blending into
the masses like citizens. Men in lungis with
dark, toned legs walk with the purpose of a
senator, the poise of a sage, and the rigidness
of thousands of years of embedded culture.
Men speak only to men. The women walk together,
trained not to speak to nor look at the other sex.
Courting is family-controlled. They learn to love
one another. There's news of rape in the north.
It's not rare. Hollywood, Bollywood. It slithers
into the culture like a cobra into an ancient garden.
The drive to the beach reminds me of being in a
Manhattan cab, only worse. Waves rush in hard
against the red Kovalam sand. Women in saris
dance together in hip high water.They have the
innocence of children in their laughter. They seem
to ignore the western model, ten feet away,posing
for a photographer, making love to the wet sand,
touting a wry smile as innocent as her thong full
of ass.
Midnight. Hundreds of small lights huddled together,
as if the stars had fallen into the sea. The fishing
boats dancing to the rhythmic beat of the evening tide.
Beads of tropical sweat drip off the moon.
There are no worries here. My ego still sits at Gate
23, LaGuardia.