matthew and i sit eating curry and rice
in the a.m, before the breakfast sun, which seeps through the
harmonics of crows and banana leaves. we talk monsoon season and
ayurvedic treatments. monsoon is the peak time of ayurveda, matthew
says, the teachers here say, the kalari guru and his longtime
disciple, who i met with yesterday, say.
after breakfast, matthew slices a mango and hands
it to me, hands me a card and an invitation to visit him anytime i
want, in bangalore, where he dreams of continuing the legacy of his
grandfather, a kalari master. the tradition was lost with urbanized
pushes to get real work, jobs that made sense for the modern
frequency of rent and mortgage.
i dreamt too. last night. saw my little
homie drugged and laughing, his yankee cap low, his dry and cracked
hands out for handouts. went back, with my dude, to the alley
hallway, where him and his friends used to play dice at; now they
scratch themselves and wonder what today's treatment in the hospital
will be. they are being treated for addiction. they are permanently
there, stuck like a needle on the sacrum of a crackhead.
i wonder what happened to him, when it
happened. did it happen when i was away, in india? was it just
waiting to happen like a birthday? but i know. i knew it was coming
like 2012, was sure of it, more sure than muslims and christians on
the return of the mahdi – jesus.
i said nothing, watched the lines of
vata scarring his twenty-something face, the deposits of kapha on the
necks and throats of his friends, who questioned me being there, in
that hall that stank of institution. they questioned my down-ness,
wanted me to participate in the next hit to help them deal with the
left lane of living – of becoming mid-twenties and moving so fast
that they never moved an inch – a cyclone standing in place. but it
was true, i wasn't down and i'd given up on being a star before drugs
could swallow me.
left my little brother-homie, left that
smile on his face. the once pitta shine in his eyes had become a vata
dull, like the clouds sagging over the dry and brittle, high-on-speed-vata city. pigeons hovered
like death. walked the quick strides of a vata imbalance, like i was
going somewhere, knew i was running away from what he was, what i
could be.
strange, but our meeting was medicine
for both of us. i love him, i thought, on my walk into my ex, who
was doped out and wearing staten island like a shawl of empty pepsi
cans. she was truth, that's what i used to call her back then, after
exhaling yellow scud in the park swings.
truth was almost as i remembered her:
sattvic giggling like spirits were tickling her high, like only a
gorgeous crazy woman could. we chilled under the verazano bridge, leaning on
the rail looking onto the green river with bubbles from the landfill
below. she was just laughing, saying spells. l hardly listened, which
was odd. i usually hung on her words like she was a jyotish with the
gospel of hassan n ali. not now. i was too busy wondering if being
cracked out was destiny, if all of us in the city that breathes
chemical breaths are fried and destined for collapse. i kept it
pushing.
a little bit broken, i woke up, away
from the suicidal carousal that my loved ones were riding on into an
asphalt earth, stiff and cracking like a severe vata aggravation.
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