SAINT THOMAS (VERSES 73-82)

Mark Traill

2 April 2008, 08:46

A cheap room is required
For a Saint who is tired
And all he can find is a lodge
Bursting with pilgrims
And all here are mired
With sadness in transit
And God

The room is a rattling box
And has two beds, a shock
A man sleeps
His back to me
A rat in the corner
That I may have for tea
I leave speedily
Head for the streets
Queue for some hours
In searing heat
Sweat patiently
In the men’s line
As women and children
Get their tickets just fine
I get it at last
Departs
In three moons
I have all this time
Without any food

I walk about the city, searching for cash
THE STATE BANK OF INDIA was empty and brash “I’m sorry sir, but we only accept
Cash that is dirty, soiled and ripped
Have you an AMEX?
Or travellers cheques?
Actually, you’re poor
Security!
Eject!”

And who should it be
That sleeps in my room
But Baba himself
A mess in a heap
He can’t even speak
And he’s lost all his teeth
All he can do
Is scream in his sleep
Saint Thomas once more
Notes to himself
That Rome is still far
And so is his health

For three long days
Baba lay still
I kneel here and pray
That Baba’s just ill
He shakes and he coughs
And he sweats and he groans
He laughs and he weeps
And he dreams he’s alone
Saint Thomas does pray
But only for him
To a god that will hear
His prayer on a whim

My fast is three days
Exhausted by prayer
The tablets will work?
But the waters unclear
The Saint did pray, dear god
Can you hear me?
I need your good work
A miracle to aid me

I believed the train would carry me
To the eternal waters of Varanasi
But at a quarter-past three
It dawned upon me
The train embarked
At ten thirty

I look at the ticket – Confusing the distance
With the duration
No begging allowed
In this bustling station
I play with my cards
And lose every time
No alms for this peasant
I wish I was blind

I bide my time by walking
Through a bazaar full of junk
I’m a mendicant with useless plastic
I’m a sub-continental punk
Please just let me loiter
I don’t want your fake gems
If you do so Karma’s promised
Dispensed by ATM

Return to the platform at Jabulpur station
The train is still late and my isolation
Is bringing about a dark desolation
That cuts me off and sees my castration
From people who laugh because I’m not Asian
If I had a mace of Skanda’s creation
I’d wage war on you all, I’d wreak devastation

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