SAINT THOMAS
Mark Traill
11 March 2008, 07:32SAINT THOMAS (verses 1-14)
Flight number 464
Bangkok-Bangalore
[Quick-Stop-Chennai]
Temperature is high and the city is loud
But it’s nothing I’m not used to by now
Been losing count of pantheons speeding past
The auto, its driver speaks though I can’t hear him above
The splutter of the rickshaw engine
I just nod and smile and say “British” and “Thomas`”
And “I think so?”
I am closer to Rome
So why does it feel
That I’m further from home?
I settle in “Berrys”
Can’t stretch to AC
I pay with rupees
Independent smiles
On crumbling currency
Perished credits to see
The future and antiquity
I don’t stay to rest, should sleep should wash
Wired and curious; instead
I head straight to the nearest restaurant though
I have no hunger
Unlike those untouchables
Rummaging the gutters
To the ringing of tills –
Dravidian mall rats
In lipstick, in heals
The doorman is Punjabi
His face is in the clouds
Where crows
Or bats?
Nest around his scarlet turban
Only he can be noticed amidst
The cacophonic beggars
And evening traffic
Inside, my heritage assures
Sycophantic reverence
My restaurants staff;
Toil beneath
Clichéd motifs
Of Hindu daughters
And Mogul men
Upon scenic paintings
Agra, Kashmir, Rajasthan
First meal on the subcontinent;
Unfinished appetisers from the north and south
Sink three beers and the roof of my mouth
Peels when I shake hands with the warrior doorman
Halted by a walla with the bluest eyes
Selling tender of empire
1943 to 1835
There are many such antiquities
In Mysore streets
Which I exchange for a note that
Not even a dailit could eat
In room 33 I plot my trip:
An anti-clockwise ring
On the spike of south Asia
This is the wrong way round
‘tis plan enough, no matter
I have English pounds
Can’t rest, take a shower
And find the nearest bar, which happens to be
“The Underground”, rather tacky, not me
Serves beverages in quasi-western style
To orderly kids who try to be wild
And we’re
talking
talking
talking
talking
“British” and “Thomas”
“Like the Saint?” they reply
Politely, archaic, even quaint
Old money
Brahmin urbane
Download a new nation
And doth her shrinking sari
Which smothers them in glory
To fading invocations
Of Rama and Hari
There was a man;
Drinking the bar
A long head concealed
In a silken scarf
We were similar of complexion
Though he was less pretty
But he made up for this
In cockney charm
And being witty
“Namasde!” he cried happily
“Welcome to me country!
Me name is Baba!”
“Like the saint?” I replied
“You must go see!”
“Sorry mate
But it aint my cuppa tea
Besides, I am tired”
“Yes, that you reveal
In the lines and your eyes
Man, you need to chill
Wake up, relax
Embrace this old India”
To which I replied
“Then what are we doing
In the “Underground Bar?”
“It is by the will of Sathya
That we should meet
Deep breaths say “Aum” and
Lend me the palms
Of your hands”
“No thanks mate
I’m travelling in distant lands
I’ve got tired legs
Nice meeting you but I’m sorry
I don’t believe in golden eggs”
Figments of my mind?
Are these shadows for real?
Am I being pursued
To the top of the MG
And near my hotel
Still?
I do not fear them
Happens in cities
When you standout like this
I sneak round a corner
Revolving door
Musty whiff
There’s a face in the window of Room 33
That watches his pursuers
Shrugging and craning their necks
Standing on tiptoes as if their
Looking for someone, something
But they won’t find him
No one can find him
Not even him
Good show Mark
Welcome back!
— Vinod Joseph · Mar 11, 20:43 · #