Assault on My Senses
My pillow
smells faintly like starched mothballs
It’s
comforting in a grandmotherly sort of way
On the
street, a cacophony of smells, sounds and sights intermingle with taste
like a
poorly-planned party where the guests feel awkward
and can’t
wait to leave
Old urine,
fresh urine, tomorrow’s urine
piled high
but invisible
Sautéing
spices,
air-conditioned
body odor
fields of
burning plastic
sulfuric
sewage
smoldering
incense wafts to meet my nostrils—
thick,
perfumey
and the
flowers—
oh,
intoxicating flowers
struggling
to mask the urine trails
of intoxicated
bums
lying
between the brightly contrasting homes of mixed hues
with a
colorful temple on every corner and bold, vivid scenes
depicting
the heroic acts of gods
and
goddesses venerated
for
thousands of years
Flowing
silk saris of every shade
folded
neatly, stacked ceiling-high
make it
impossible to choose
which one
to buy
Same dilemma
with the dazzling jewelry,
variety of
bags, rugs, blankets, sandals
whatever
you desire
To
illustrate the scene,
each
crayon in the box would feel like a VIP
Dogs
barking get lost in the
honking
beeping shrieking banshee horns
announcing
our arrival
or
impending doom with a lost game of Chicken
Incessant horns
on the road,
more
prevalent than seat belts, ironically
compete
with others for the biggest, baddest sound
Can I pay
more for a bus that doesn’t honk?
Train
whistles make it hard to sleep
As do the (loud)speakers
blaring music
all through
the night
of that
woman singing nasally high-pitched
What
harvest festival is this?
Did you
have to blast it to the moon?
Celebrating
new produce, weddings and young girls’ first periods
Food is vital
to a celebration
Vital to
life
Salty, sour,
sweet, pungent and bitter in every bite
Delicious,
exotic, spicy and hot
Can my
mouth handle this?
Sinus-cleaning:
a bandana is my necessary utensil
to wipe my
dripping forehead and nose and
chewing my
banana-leaf plate helps temper the flavor
while
eating in
air so
thick I could sit on it
The heat,
they say, is oppressive
But
nothing chokes me more
Than what
we do to each other
Strangers
to strangers,
Nations
against nations,
Friends and
families
No one is
immune, it seems,
From the daily
offenses given
And
received
(sometimes
when none was intended)
So many
are petty, yes,
but can
anyone deny
The
significance of so many horrors happening
In homes
that are no haven
I
sleep on this mothbally pillowcase
And
I try to sort out the scenes of the day
I know
that later, in another place,
any of
these senses can whisk me back to this moment—
Nay, to
this place
My
senses easily recover from the dissonance they’ve encountered
But
hearts—
They
are a different matter
4.21.12
