CHILDREN OF MANU
When I came to India
I never looked at it
hated it so much
despised it
shut it out
and let India shut me in
Never looked up and saw
two kites battling
in the sky above Delhi
before they tumbled
through the air
a black orb dying
as though the sun
turned black
were really falling
from the sky
I never saw the crippled man
who had one leg imprisoned
in a ballet dancer’s
warmer
like
Nureyev in profile
He strode the town prostrated
on a screaming bus
Never saw the
night-time
corpses
who found rest upon
the human pavements in the
dormitory streets
while they slept
through murder
I never saw the
policemen
one
Delhi winter morning
as they clubbed a
crouching beggar
in the mist
Never saw the
sweeper
pleading
for his job
the
chance to go on sweeping
dust on dust
to feed his family
as he wept in public
I never felt
the soft black
shadows
of the stripped tree
as they draped themselves
across the pitiless
unstaunched
earth
Never heard the
baying of the
raucous
dog as I watched it
from behind my bolted
window
None of this
I knew. I stayed
locked
inside my room
thinking
of you...
When at last I ventured out
you were with me
When I sat on the steps
of
the
mosque
among
the goats and
crippled
men
the
beautiful lunatic protesting
the wrongs done her
and speaking of Relativity
and Einstein
When the sadhus came
a trident borne by one
when the sun closed, replaced
by moon and neon
and the earnest child of five
set off down the steps
to begin her evening’s
labour
Then you wrapped yourself
around the madness
like a warm and precious
shawl
You made me see it
made me a part of it
and made rejected India
forever part of me
***
STILLED
LIFE
Tumbling off the walls
the jumbled echoes of
a dozen languages
bump
crash
entwine
collapse
unload
create confusion
spend themselves like Forster’s
boum
bou-oum...ou-boum
inside the hideous
Delhi dining hall
Within this ground floor havoc
dropped, it seems, by accident
delivered to the wrong
address
eleven
tubby Sirdars sit
becalmed
awaiting food
It’s like a Sikh Last Supper
the Apostles darkened over time
and wreathed in turbans
Time, though, has created muddle
because the scene suggests that
Judas must have left before
Christ
arrived
Suddenly, for no apparent reason
life bursts from the eleven and
as though a bulb has flashed
they escape their
photographic pose
Sustenance appears, they devour
their supper swiftly and
quit
the
table
leaving
a lull which gradually
is filled by other diners’
Babel
***
AFRICA AND GOLDEN JOYS
As I jump down from the truck
I’m greeted by a boy of
fantastic ugliness who collapses
with laughter at the sight of me
He actually cries with laughter
and settles on his haunches
to support himself
When I attempt to hit him
he
runs away and laughs more
weeping uncontrollably at my anger The more furious I become
the
more he laughs
creating
fresher waves of laughter
producing
what seems to me
a traveller
like all the laughs of Africa
I
think the reason I’m so funny is that I’m a stranger
hot
and troubled
sweat pouring down my dusty face
exhausted from
my journey
through the heart
of Africa
and
ridiculously cross though I hadn’t realised
just how
tired I really was till I reached this Rwandan village
on a hilltop
The ugly laughing boy knew it though
An
African from a land of massacres
he understood the mask that
travellers wear
Looking at the tears pouring down his
laughing cheeks I become aware that I’m rooted
to the dusty spot
helpless
incapable of influence
when suddenly
wooed by Africa and
this hideous laughing boy
I recall what Shakespeare said
and let my whiteness fit her black
and
vow to put away
the mask
forever
***
THE BRITISH COUNCIL LIBRARY, DELHI
Poring over back copies of
the Sunday Times
undaunted by the closing
tick-tock chimes
a hush of Indian
Anglophiles
assemble knowledge of
the British Isles
To aid them on their quiet
determined course
are books on Shakespeare, fishing
and the horse
And nestling by the bulletin
Diseases of the Mouth
lie telephone directories
for
Britain
north and south
As this literary pot-pourri
is
keenly scoured
the
leaves clean-picked
the scent devoured
a visitor might extract a
modicum of fun
from this little touch of
Blighty in the sun
***
THE TRAVELLER AND THE MAJOR
‘What’s bad about India?’
the traveller enquired
‘I’ll list
you some items,’
said the major (retired)
And he started
to itemize
the
things he despised
from the cruelty to horses
to the cruelty to wives
‘But speak of religion’
the traveller protested
and the major began on
the things he detested
‘The fakirs are fuckers
and make no mistake
And the yogis, the bastards
grab all they can take
‘It’s a land short on magic
in fact there’s a dearth
where spirituality
gives way to dull earth
‘You mustn’t expect much
enlightenment here
just harshness and lying
corruption and fear’
said the major (retired) to
the traveller who found
the major’s opinions
a trifle unsound
But the major’s objections
to Indianisation were
formed by the psyche
of his last incarnation
For the major remembered
but never knew how
the Indians invented
the sanctified cow
He recalled it so clearly
like the heat of malaria
that the last time he served
was as bovine bacteria
***
THE LION-TAILED MACAQUE
A monkey in black
is
the lion-lailed
macaque
he lives near
the
chacma baboon
He’s splendidly ruffed
with a visage so gruff
that he never
obliges too soon
A leopard or yak wouldn’t
shake the macaque
from his branch by
the lotus lagoon
Not a tuba-voiced lion nor
the forces of Zion
or the glow of the
watery moon
could shiver the back of
the lion-tailed macaque
or topple him
into a swoon
He’s
wonderfully maned with
a
countenance trained
to
handle the
sunniest
noon
Not a growl nor a quack will
disturb the macaque
or the dive of the
maddening loon
A monkey in black is
the lion-lailed macaque
he lives near the
chacma baboon
He’s
a cousin so plump from
her
nose to her rump
she
resembles an
angry
balloon
He’ll never attack his
cousin macaque
he wouldn’t be
such a buffoon
His relative’s plaque
says
the stump-tailed
macaque
and her
rump-stump is
coloured
maroon
***
FIRST IMPRESSIONS
Outside my dreary
hotel room
waits India,
while I ignore it
locked
in here with whisky
a
bottle of mogadon
an
enormous spliff
and
a photograph of
you
What has India to offer me?
India
lies on the other side of
that
unpainted door, crouching
like
a wild animal waiting to
attack
me, rob me, fool me
into
dark submission
with
its nagging
want
I’ll stay here...
Let
India lie outside, crouched
and
waiting for me
The
beggars have to wait
and
in the hideous dining hall
downstairs the waiters have to
beg and
lie
I’ll
lie here...
I shall not visit India today
Perhaps tomorrow
Inside this room I’ll stay for now
Lying, drinking, sleeping, smoking
thinking all the time
of you
and not of
India
No,
not of India...
***
THE SUN GOD
The sun god lies naked
on the sand
surrounded by admirers
who remind me of Susannah’s
dirty-minded
priests
His skin is olive
silk and
from
his teenage
peacock
neck
a white scarf
flows to
his provocative
loins
and drapes itself
with care around
them
All
day long he strokes himself
with
oils
while checking
that the
world is
watching
as his slender
fingers slide their
envied
way
below
From time to time he lazes round
the beach and as we meet
he blocks me with his eyes
till I am left far nakeder
than he
Much later, in the town
we meet again
Unresplendent, he is dressed
in rags, so now his oils must bow
to my soap
his silk to
my cloth
his peacock
to my
hawk
***
THANKS FOR BEING UGLY TODAY
Thanks for being
ugly today
for having
your hair badly cut
for
refusing to smile
for
wearing the clothes
I
dislike
Thanks for being ugly today
for the sulk in your eyes
for the rasp in your voice
for holding yourself with
a slouch
Thanks for being ugly today
for making my task so much simpler
for easing the chore of goodbyes
which I’ll offer in silence
leaving you none the wiser
Thanks for being ugly today
I always liked your hair
you dressed so finely
your smile was my delight
your look my inspiration
your voice was my music
you held yourself with such
style...
Thanks for being ugly today
on this, the saddest day
now it’s time for me to go
time to turn away
to let you go...
But wait. You fucker! Not now...
Don’t do that now
not now...
not that old familiar look
the one you learnt from me
the one that turns me upside down
Don’t use it now
don’t look at me
like that
now
please...
Oh, well, it’s getting late and
I suppose tomorrow will do
though by then your hair will
have started to grow
and you’ll have changed
your clothes
and I may have caused you
to smile in the night
and hold yourself with
pride
For today, thanks for being
ugly...
***
A MODERN RAJPUT
A modern Rajput starts a ride
on a screaming Delhi bus
She takes the chaos in her stride
with the minimum of fuss
A lesser mortal might have cried
affected by the heat
The Rajput’s sari seems to glide
towards the ragged, lucky seat
A lesser mortal might have died
especially a girl
There’s quite a few who’d never
have tried
The Rajput feels her pearl
She wears it with a diamond
held aloft with pride
she wears it in her ear
The passengers around her
all have vied, though
compromised by fear
for positions on the deck beside
this magnificent princess
and all of them will be denied
their endeavours to impress
She’s not a one to be defied
all lesser mortals know
There’s many who have looked
and sighed
Many have been told to go
There’s quite a few have
locked inside their hearts
her fierce death-blow
It’s quite a price we
have
to hide
for a modern Rajput’s
glow
***
A
LOT OF LEARNING
When panicked by
the thought
of all
the knowledge
I do
not possess
I think
about you
and all
I know about you
How
it outweighs even
Homer,
Marx and Indo-China
in
the variations of its themes
Then I am contented and
no longer feel dishonest
when I hear the world
describe me as a man
possessed of knowledge
***
