I had a brush with India once.
She came in a small package,
a pint size, really. Despite
our differences, we got along
quite well. Before I knew it,
I was mingling among the guests
at her wedding, breathing in
a festive air that was as
intoxicating as the tea and
sweet cakes, enormous alien tastes
to my tongue, yet so familiar
in a way; perhaps it was because
of the gaiety that seemed to
overtake the atmosphere, making
me imagine the origin of this
culture, the mysterious place
where one would want to visit
at least once in a life time.
The dark ribbon of river Ganges
where people bathe in to be rid
of sins. The snake charmers with
their flutes overpowering the cobras.
I wondered if I stole my friend's
sari and wrapped it around me,
painted my eyes with coal,
a ruby red dot on my forehead,
would I finally understand how
the reincarnation begins and ends?
Suddenly I heard a soft chuckle;
an ominous figure with four arms
standing a distance away, seemingly
looking at me with laughing eyes.
Thank God, my God that is, he had
his third eye on the forehead shut.
I should hate to see him collect
poems from my ashes (the god Siva
opens his third eye only when he wants
to destroy his enemies, thus Kama,
the god of passion and desire, was
put to death by the flame of his eye.)
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