SAINT THOMAS (VERSES 32 - 41)
Mark Traill
16 March 2008, 16:38The doors of the YMCA
“Are now shut; for it’s Easter
It’s Sunday”
But a saint needs his bed, to sort out his head
And Jesus won’t open ‘til Monday
A heathen will take me
To Abids in town
And the streets are replete
With consumers and cows
HOTEL SUKAIL
And I rest
To smoke
The rest of my dope
Only halfway through
A knock on my door
“May we come in
Please
Sir?”
Eliminate the evidence
I am alone
But they only came
To change the phone
He eyes me with suspicion
“You like room number four?”
Not really, but “Yes
Where’s Quli’s fort?”
I am its views its splendour
I become the Mughal Saint
I think as deep as these corridors
Of which no other man can taint
I am populated with tourists
Only me with darker skin
And cameras sway about their necks
With photos of their king
380 steps at Golconda
And her cities look beautiful
Domes dominate her panorama
And my ears ring with the claps
Of Balahisar Baradari
I return the gesture, tell it wait
But the clap is returned
Implores me to hurry
I run from the forts entrance
And shudder to Ibrahim Bagh
Where the forts previous occupiers
Are vaulted
Inside the tombs of the Shah
With memories of the past
Forgotten in flesh, remembered in stone
And the Saint notes once more
That he seems further from Rome
There are men playing cards in the tombs
Smiling and laughing
The macabre and the mirth
And who is this playing with them?
What on earth?
It cannot be Baba
I left him
In Vijayangara
His eyes light up
“Hello, everybody this is my friend!”
“Your friend?”
“Yes, the one I told you about!”
“Oh, Thomas! Like the Saint!”
“Yeah, that’s the one! He’s my mate!”
“Hello again, Baba, you look well again Baba
Do you remember Baba, the temple of Hanuman Baba?”
“Oh, let us forget all that! I was befuddled
We are not monkeys, we are men!
Come play with me now, you’re always so shy
I’ll wager that journal and I’ll give you the sky!”
“I cannot play for Baba, something I cannot give you Baba
But please tell me Baba, are you following me Baba?”
“Oh, let us forget all that! You’re all muddled
From that drink I gave you in Hanumans temple!
Don’t believe you are pure, for you are vain
You are but a whisper
And you are certainly no Saint!”
I leave and head back to the hotel
Approached by a blind beggar woman
With no eyes in her sockets
Her hand rested on a boy’s shoulder
Please, put your hand in your pocket?
But I cannot give her anything
Hardly compassionate, Saint Thomas
Subcontinent hardens his soul
With these images
For they are so many
And little Tommy asks “Why?”
Before falling to sleep
With tears in his eyes
