by Shreya Ramachandran
[box]Shreya Ramachandran describes her various Indias through a poem.[/box]I
A hundred bare feet stand by the pump,
Brown against the heated grey.
From rusted creaky blue metal,
Water slowly drips.
The plastic buckets are lined up – closer – closer.
Ready for their fill.
II
The air smells of disinfectant and something lemon – maybe air freshener.
He has been waiting by the conveyor belt for fifteen minutes.
His cell-phone is new, black, bustling.
Pronnita has set up a meeting with their interior decorator.
“Pick a colour for the marble fountain.”
His shirt is wrinkled from his turbulent sleep.
(Seat belt securely fastened.)
III
Next to the roaring sea,
where dreams die faster than sprayed insects,
she waits for him.
Ten thirty, there is still time.
Eleven fifty-two, time passes.
High tide
always subsides.
Twelve o’clock, she hides her face
and collects the salty tears with her trembling finger.
IV
Just one more sip, he whispers.
Just another sip.
The rum bottle is brown, with sunlight trapped
from God knows how many years ago.
Playing cards lie scattered on the cot,
Crumpled money notes hidden beneath the floppy pillow.
The game is over – none of them lost,
none of them won – They forgot,
or they didn’t particularly care.
V
Three boys with their hands behind their backs
watch from a corner
as sparklers, flowerpots and rockets are slowly ignited.
For each new yellow beam of soaring dust of fire,
they clap and nudge and yell.
Soon the field is filled with plastic covers, dead stubs,
gold foil and lurid wrappers.
But the boys are still seeing the shapes made by the magical fire
in the endless black air.
Shreya Ramachandran is a 19-year-old writer, student and world traveller from Madras.
Pics: http://www.flickr.com/photos/mckaysavage/ and http://www.flickr.com/photos/paramveerz/
