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.