SRI VIJAY SIVA, VOCAL
February 8, 2010

How I must look to the wiry Tamilians
milling about on the sides of roads or
predictable on scooters as a single electron's
choice of a pinhole; crowds for the most part


all under 30 years old: women in salwar kameez
or saris, almost none (except my wife) in pants;
men in pants lungis mundus with short-sleeved shirts
never tucked inside their trousers and


everyone thin as a lizard's tail--How do I look,
an old white man in kurta and pyjamas
trying his best to cross a road in Besant Nagar
and get back home--Who knows?


Unlike tortoises and Keralites, Tamilians don't stare.
Trying to survive after a concert of
carnatic music at the local Siva temple, during which
I sat on the floor for three hours


still as the neon-lit statue of Ganesh, while
(what would make a rapid Rossini passage sound
declamatory Wagner,) notes notes notes rose all controlled
by the om of the drone. The tablist good,


the violinist better. But best of all, the voice--
What can I say? Mozart first, carnatic music
second? I don't say. I listen. I sing, I swing,
dodge a bus and return to the world.