... from India
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Delhi airport: smog, grim looks (though maybe 4 am), gendered security screening, emergent social organization — but can u not nudge me from behind? — everyone.. looking.
Udaipur
mistake a helping hand for a handshake and head to colonial enclave. the women, wrapped in vibrant nightshade, beat the goats down the road, past men in plastic chairs, seducing the dust, open-air vendors, tarp-walled shopping malls
CITY of Seven Lakes, like Rome, But inverse. Man-made marvels -- pleasure palaces and spaces held for centuries by wise men whose sons now scorn the family trade. Princes on polo ponies. Every woman a princess, a culture in colorful opposition to the land.
Jaipur
Got taken on a tour by Mr. Money, should’ve ended sooner or drawn some boundary. Vast ethical questions concerning the nature of tourism, empire, and love emerge. We are physically fixed beneath the onslaught of Mr. Money’s fantasies. Sort of generally hindu-nationalist (loves Modi, Trump), anti-muslim (they’re taking all the government subsidies and having more children), anti-woman (he is either really horny or has a condition; comments disparagingly on the looks of Indian women; won’t stop talking about Monica Lewinsky), anti-Chinese (joke-metaphors about the quality of goods made in China), and deeply entangled in Color (refers to the generous treatment one of these writers would receive for the pallor of his skin).
Taking us to places where Money gets kickbacks, jewelers and silk-singers. Money sits in the back and sips tea, always watching. Don’t get the stuff with cashew cream. You’d be faye webster as a girlie. We go and Eyes everywhere, unabashed observation, scrutiny, some ask 4 pics.
“Our relation with the UK is good. We’re now the world’s fifth biggest economy. UK is sixth. Soon we will pass the US! … The Brits when they visit they come with a big ego because… [gestures] … but they don’t spend anything!”
no one’s really physically romantic in public. gender is the primary organizational unit. in america - capital. less and less of a desire to police ourselves. let truthdom ring. cow urine, camel fat —> color.
Palmed whiskey from the priest: Amber Fort, canned jokes. Gods to nymphs, flowers to man to animal to demon: the descent of the temple. Praise Ganesh. People from the States want to connect, they see signs, what do they signal?
we calculate danger differently together. we draw towards each other from opposite sides of the mean. Monica Lewinsky comes from an elite SF family. She had a history of things with older men pre-Bill. Is that your real hair? [Omitted: No it’s from India.]
Kolkata
In this teeming City of Joy
Hotel is King,
Hotel is (Diplo)macy,
Hotel is Respite,
Hotel is where we find ourselves.
We don't leave.
We wear orange and yellow kilts down to our knees.
We see people we know we never knew.
Do they not know?
In the miss,
our only recourse is play.
And,
in post-mortem day splayed,
had our knife too sharp a blade?
Let's not forget the way your hair laid,
the tears of a groom,
our own private room.
In there: a fever-tripped ego.
Possible origins: yellow fever, malaria, malaise.
Treat me like a baby, baby --
then meet me in the lobby.
Golden headed Buddha set atop a mountain
welcomes the rain.Varanasi
We thought the priests on the ghats in the nightly ceremonies were going to self-immolate. the child priests in training. a 100-yr old woman, allegedly. could be 88. Paranoias intercede: water too full? raw fruit? who has our passports? Chai masala please. Take photographs where Buddha gave his first teaching. He gave it. The Muslims conquered Varanasi, destroyed it, renamed it, our guide says. Approaching Mr. Money but different—from 14% to 17% last few years. The Red Temple of Durga. Mystical dark arts kites fly crazy above.
Mussoorie
Chai masala, add ginger. In case of primate encounter, show deference.
Surrounded by kin
We see family everywhere
We see families in love
In strife,
in long periods of silence.
Aged despite its youth, the babe
knows only fear, eyes wide
through the pane.
A mother's oblong nipple
suggests nurture,
the father, framed behind;
an ordered nature.
Mirrors all around,
in the camera,
the reflection,
the mountain lift to the waterfall.
The child in sunglasses looks back,
stared down by women as we pass -
men too, but they smile back.
Breakfast downstairs.
A living room of visitors
who don't need e-visas, here in the
Branson, Missouri of the Himalayas.
Clay pots meant for breaking.
Two travelers, taking, taking, taking
What does it mean to feel so much and be so small?
It's the altitude sickness. I'm tired too. |
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