Jan '03 [Home] Short Prose Red Powder Maria Kazalia 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 non-stop 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 understand 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 that 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 streets, 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 have been inside that 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 the red sandalwood powder onto a devotee's forehead while holding forth the tray to receive a coin to be dropped amidst small heaps of bright red powder and flames. (Marie Kazalia was born in Toledo, but has lived primarily in the Bay Area with the exception of four years in Japan, India, and Hong Kong. She has a BFA degree from California College of Arts and Crafts. Her books are:  Erratic Sleep in a Cold Hotel (www.phonylid.com), All-Purpose Tragedy (CC Marimbo Publ.) Publications, Berkeley, CA. 94701-0933, and Minden Row, a novel (Phony Lid). Journal publications include American Poetry Review, Anthology, Chrysanthemum, Epoch, Horse Thiefs Journal, Louisiana Review, Lummox, Main Street Rag, Midwest Poetry Review, Nerve Cowboy, Niederngasse, and a hundred ezines. This is her first appearance in Big City Lit.) [See Juhi Bakshi on the significance of the bindi or vermilion dot on the forehead.—Eds.]