Subcontinent Sequence (5)| Gerard Sarnat

i. Marco Polo

After an hour’s hopscotch, the airbus smells like chicken masala.

I pander, “Gerry, what could be finer
than this South Asian Express?”

Touching down, I put on now mushy socks while the indignant woman

in front demands I hand back
her curry dysenterying between us.

ii. Jewtown

On the Arabian Sea near the equator, King Solomon’s men

traded gold trumpets  
for mastadon tusks and sandalwood and peacocks.

When Islam gets kick-ass, the Maharajah protects their synagogue.

Today an old lady
sits at the door of Sarah’s Embroidery.

Davening into a prayer book, photos of the late Rebbe Schneerson,

her almost messiah
tacked to the wall, she’s a master marketeer

who draws my wife in. While I smile at covered Muslim school girls passing,

the last of a kind stage-whispers,
“I’ll show you many magical things,

cocoanut oil lamps that will shine through Cochin’s Festival of Lights…”

                     
                     
iii. Varanasi, The City of Light

Hunky-dory Dasaswamedh Ghat
chaos on the Ganges, even

holier after a bakehouse bhang lassi, an unmoved companion

clips a leash to my leper loincloth,
keeps me from traffic extinction.

iv. HOMELESS CHRONICLES: Abraham to Burning Man Redux

Negev, Black Rock deserts replaced by Hari Krishna psychedelia —

week-long wedding extravaganzas
near burning ghats on the Ganges

replete with passells of fem men
(in the day they used to use eunuchs)

— single malt Glenlivet never set on Brit empire does the trick

while famished untouchable castes
look in from beyond the decanter.
                           
Last exit from New Delhi’s
old clichés about cleaning up shitholes,

mayhem south to Kerala’s pristine backwaters, houseboat hammock sway,

viscera’s bloated envelope pukes out dinner
while holy men chant

from the moon’s panopticon
where they stare down on someone else’s life.

 A bare-chested diamond-studded stud’s wacketti hacks black zinnias  
 
while leaches and angels size of plums
come out from the canals at night.

Dawn, albino serpents jump up to nip me,
oozing latex gathered

from potties under frilly white skirts on sahib’s rubber plantation.

Come rainy season levies overflown,
trash squishes the hyacinth.
                             
Every morning I trudge up the hill
as a father and son come down.

Dad in lungi creased above his knees, teen dressed western, they talk softly.

I envy them.  
Each of us suspicious, we cobble silent rapport.

At dusk I walk back down as a shy sari
and red forehead dot climb.

Incisive eyes averted, furtive smiles can’t teach her not to be scared.

v. HH

Himalayan puddle-jumper
drops from the sky on Dharmasala.

I’ve come to meditate
longside His Holiness, the Dalai Lama

who it’s said is in LA
which is where my journey also began.

The V.I.P. next to me on the plane
explained the situation,

apologized for his state
with that distinct Indian head-bobble.

A week later at the dirt landing strip
to return to New Delhi,

the same gentleman whispers something
to a security bigwig.

I’m detained alone in a transit room,
where my belonging are searched

in detail including removing batteries
from all devices
 
as if I am a Kashmiri terrorist.
Through a grimy window

the guards on the tarmac bow low.
A hunched over old man in saffron

enters my holding cell, gathers
himself to bow lower, takes my hands,

smiles, embraces, soothes  
as if I’m the only being in the Cosmos.

Indian Review | Author | Gerard Sarnat is the author of two critically acclaimed poetry collections, 2010’s “HOMELESS CHRONICLES from Abraham to Burning Man” and 2012’s “Disputes.” | Visit Indian Review for more…

Gerard Sarnat is the author of two critically acclaimed poetry collections, 2010’s “HOMELESS CHRONICLES from Abraham to Burning Man” and 2012’s “Disputes.” His pieces have appeared or are forthcoming in eighty or so journals and anthologies. Harvard and Stanford educated, Gerry’s been a physician who’s set up and staffed clinics for the disenfranchised, a CEO of health care organizations, and a Stanford professor. For “The Huffington Post” review of his work and more; visit GerardSarnat.com.