Letting Go

Letting Go

The train pulled into Madurai station early

in the morning. She stepped onto the platform

rubbed her eyes dazzled by the sunlight turning

the world white like a clean cotton sheet

she breathed deeply the morning’s incense

and thought it’s true you can smell India all the time.

The morning grew hotter and the light whiter

and the railway platform led to a street

made of dust compacted by a thousand years’

wheels, hooves and feet, the pavement

exploded with ramshackle stalls selling snacks

and bits and pieces, the lime painted buildings,

every now and then a garlanded Shiva or Ganesha.

(Brahmin cows strolled where they damn well pleased).

Thousands of people flowed out of houses

to join the crowd in the street all laughter

and gossip; children ran up hawking

gaudy drinks in plastic bags and paper cones

filled with nuts while old men sold boiled eggs

shouting that their eggs were the best eggs

and some beautiful women in beautiful saris

made tea and offered a cup for fifty rupee.

And in the corner of an eye: the urchins.

Lady Beggar stretched out her hand

breathed slowly a mute scream

performed the first asana from the book

of starvation yoga. Her eyes implored

yet mocked, her lips begged and sneered

her curving right arm pointed

to her mouth then her baby’s mouth,

pointed at her belly then her baby’s belly

she unleashed hunger’s slow ballet,

muttered soft pleas that hypnotised

and tugged the strings a good heart

holds in abundance (there are

many roads to heavenly realms,

not all pleasant). ‘Madam,’ she sang,

‘please madam, just a few pennies

and I can live a while—and my baby’

then the suburban woman’s eyes widened

as she emptied her purse of annas and cents

the beggar yelled delight

suddenly in the air there was a fragrance

like palm wine spilled on a balmy night.

A wild haired man with birds and insects

nesting in his elephantine legs

pointed at the mynah chicks chirping there

shouted ‘Benares! Benares!’

He received her fresh Indian banknotes

with laughing gratitude—

the next fifteen poor souls she gave

all her American dollars & pounds sterling.

The crowd of beggars grew.

Because they were hungry they laughed like crows—

she opened her suitcase and gave away her clothes

signed off the travellers cheques one by one, each

with a teardrop, threw away her camera like a bouquet

and bought every ragged child an ice cream.

The dusty streets are hot with the story.

A young girl asks ‘Can I have your earrings, madam?’

and is given them. A boy runs off with her laptop.

Then it is all white light then out of the light steps

a ragged King Neptune trident in hand

steps lightly through the crowd, waves the beggars on.

‘You are very kind madam those wretches

will live on your money like gods for a day or two

Your hand please — she stared at him and saw

his eyes not only held special intelligence

they reached into her. She came to

and grappled for her master card — lucky.

Her wide eyes narrowed and saw

no matter what she gave away she wouldn’t save

the world, it was weird what she had just done.

The sadhu’s eyes burned like suttee pyres, his muscles

tightened like ropes beneath the dusty rags—in another life

he’d have been a star or a psychopath—

here, he was a strange man in a strange land

He bowed nobly and hailed a taxi.

S. K. KELEN