Pon-GALA

Today, by God’s divine plan, we were in Kerala for the annual Attukal Pongala Festival. This unique holiday occurs somewhere between February and March, when congregations of women gather from different parts of India and around the world to give thanks by offering boiled rice in an earthen pot. Each female gathers for her own personal reason, some to offer gratitude or to receive blessings, to appeal for material gains or request the health of family. As Sebastian and I strolled to our favorite local restaurant for breakfast, rows upon rows of sari-dressed women were setting up in preparation for the big event. Throughout the entire city, down every street and alley, in every nook and cranny, magnificently dressed women of varying ages withstood the sweltering, unrelenting sun to pay homage on this holy day.



The traffic and blaring horns that I have become so accustomed to had ceased. Instead, large speakers of blaring devotional music filled the streets with a spirit of celebration. Every spare space of sidewalk, curb and street was occupied. Each woman set a brand new clay pot on top several bricks. Dried bark from coconut trees laid in bushels ready to be burned for fire. There were banana leaves as pot covers and coconut shells as ladles. The smell of incense permeated the air. Crowds were gathered, children stood excitedly, and at ten o’clock, the chief priest lit the fire from which all others ignite.


Women began boiling water in order to make paisam, a sweet Indian dessert, to be offered at the temples. Plantains sliced with expertise, overflowing handfuls of cashews stirred in, coconut kernels carefully added to make this thickly sweet and dense rice pudding. The air became opaque, full of rising smoke from each cooking station. As I walked in meditative amazement, my eyes burned and teared as I struggled to observe as each woman tended to her bubbling pot, carefully churning, stirring, shimmering. Some prayed as they cooked, others methodically blended the fresh ingredients together while the occasional woman howled like a wolf lost in the wild.

The cooking ritual continued for several hours, completed when the chief priest, known as the melsanthi, sprinkled sacred water from the temple. It was only then that the food was dispersed and shared with others.



We were given a large banana leaf plate teeming with syrupy balls and bulges of mashed, sticky goodness. Eating with our hands, we sat curbside in disbelief and wonderment at the incredible festivities, so thankful that we were lucky enough to be a part of such a memorable holiday.


Within a couple hours, there was no trace of the celebration. Everything in the city was systematically cleaned up, despite the extraordinary expansiveness of it all. Though I aspire to convey the depth, richness, and magnitude of such an unimaginable moment, one must experience it firsthand to truly understand something so phenomenal.

Chameleon

I am a chameleon. I have many skins.
In a boxing ring, I am a fighter.
In a bed, I am a lover.
I have no boundaries.
My roots are Indian.
My heart, a New Yorker.
With a book, I am an intellect.
With a beer, I am one of the guys.
I have no form.
I’m an artist with a paintbrush.
I am a cook with a pot.
I cannot be confined.
I’m a boy in baggy shorts and a baseball cap.
In stiletto heels and miniskirt, I am a woman.
I am the rhythm of my breath.
I am feisty and free and ever grateful.
I am rigid and stiff and contemplative.
I am an old soul
In love with urban dwelling.
I carry the spirit of a child.
I am a hip-hop lover, rock and roll groupie, a break dancing beat.
Club girl, grunge girl, girly girl.
I’m a hippie with a heartbeat.
Worldly and small town.
I stand on my head.
I sleep under covers.
I am flexible. I adapt.
Giver and receiver, healer and dreamer.
Intense and aggressive.
Sensitive and sweet.
I am a teacher and a student.
I am divine mystery.
Darkness and light.
Body and spirit.
Heaven and hell.
Sexual, creative, sacred.
Mine is a dancing path.
My body is my Bible.
My master is rhythm.
No dogma, no traditions, no rules.
I am ever-changing.
Free to express.
I live by the wilderness of my heart.

An Array at Chalai

Today we perused through the broken alleyways of the Chalai Market. Entering through a decrepit, crumbling archway, I am surprised by the abundant buying, selling and bustling interactions. At first, the stench of dead fish combined with the scorching heat nauseates the senses almost to the point of collapse. Swarms of buzzing flies hover and circle, making me feel itchy as their tiny legs crawl over my skin. I am careful where I step, trying to avoid puddles of smutty waters and the remnants of rotted vegetables. Vendors set up shop on the dusty ground, laying their produce to display on old ripped sheets. The variety of vegetables is confounding. All the usual suspects are present…verdant green bunches of lettuce, peppers of different colors and potencies, plump ripe tomatoes, piles of thick orange carrots, flowering balls of cauliflower, yams covered in dirt, gleaming green cucumbers and heaps of crisp string beans. There are also fruits, copious amounts of bananas hung on stalks, beefy ripen mangoes, bunches of swollen grapes. I notice pieces of produce never before seen. Neon green cylinder shape fruits covered in bumps that resemble warts. Huge dark brown prickly skinned ovals, much larger than a watermelon, that tastes like a combination of pineapple and peach. Small firm, lime green balls of tart bitterness. All of the produce lures me with their color, their juiciness, seducing me to take a bite. I feel like Eve in the Garden, trying to resist the temptation of the enchanting deliciousness.




I saunter through the potato sacks full of spices, from coriander to turmeric to mustard seeds. Fresh rows of eggs and milk sold in plastic bags wait patiently to be bought.




We walk through the seafood department, where the morning catches are cleaned, scaled, bloody and headless. Some of it lies drying in the sun. Mounds of prawns sit next to silver radiant sheens of fish. A little further into the market and I stumble upon the meat section, witnessing a chicken preparing to get killed, skinned, and hung for potential buyers. The stagnant smell changes as I pass the mutton, hanging fleshy white meat with blood blue veins, the four legs visible but lacking a head.



I continue moving, mesmerized at the surroundings, realizing that this market has functioned in the same manner for ages. There is nothing sanitary about this place, no hygienic procedures or precautions. Raw meat and fish are handled with bare hands. Rusted knifes cut and chop and slice, looking as though they belong in some museum rather than utilized to prepare food. People are shouting, bargaining, vending and transacting. It was such a stark difference from the supermarket back in New York where I frequent to buy groceries. I am transported back in time, before shopping carts and cash registers, before scanning items and checking receipts. This is primitive living at its finest. Archaic and repugnant by our standards but nevertheless, fascinating.