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Where the Holy Dwells
The holy dwells in the fabrics of India, in a woman’s bright sari, rich in colors with gold around the edges. It dwells in her scarlet bindi. In the dark eyes of the mothers and their children. In the moped upon which a family of five can travel. In the chai wallah who pours hot liquid from his ladle, causing a cascade of golden tea to land in the cup. In cows’ horns decorated for Pongal, the harvest holiday. In the mountains of crimson saffron and golden turmeric at the spice market in Pondicherry. In the vendor who sells me coconut water for ten cents and how he uses a machete to open it so I may eat the tender flesh. The holy dwells in old Indian men bent over in puffy shorts fishing for shrimp, as they have done for a thousand years.
The holy dwells in the poor provinces of China and the simple people who live there. In the fireworks they set off to welcome the distinguished foreigners. In the little jacket she wears sewn of cat or rabbit skins. In the red Chinese New Year décor in their mud and stick homes. In the altar of their house, pictures of their ancestors, and in the powdery remains of the incense. In the woks outside where they light a fire beneath to cook, and in the single lightbulb which illuminates their home. In the two fattened sows outside in a pen and in the dirty kittens looking for handouts. In the cavernous wrinkles of some seniors seated in front of a basket of red chiles. In…
