India #4 of 5

India feels like
being squished onto the knees of a stranger
in a tiny state "bus"
neck right-angled under the
luggage compartment, the
juddering pot holes
of neglected roads

it's a spice-licked stomach,
a flush of water around my thighs
the infected rash of a toilet-paper-less world

a stranger pressing himself in to me
and the adrenaline exerted
in whacking away his hand, my
other hand
in my boyfriend's lap

a scarf enveloping my shoulders
and constantly rearranging it

it's the light step of coconut feni
the heavy pace of too many chappati
the aching backs of poor women
who have no choice but hard labour

the tension of a furrowed brow
that's argued too long about the price
the stiffness of a neck shaking "No, thank you" -
over and over -
and eventually, just "No."

the feeling of India
is suffocation by smog
a billion consumers burning
plastic day into
dusky warmth

a drafty train window
jammed open, forever un-fixed

dust between your toes
dirt in your eyelashes
heat-itched scalp
salvaged by Mysore oils

the rising of chilli
from gut
               to throat

this place locks firm your shoulders
between strong, callused hands
and shoves you sideways -
a hundred humans
desperate
for a single seat

the cold concrete floor
beneath your sitbones
as you find a place on the floor
to eat.

India #3 of 5

the taste of India

is vague, accidental goat

a potent aftershave that chokes your throat
mouthfuls of years of jaggery but never a toothbrush
milk tea politely declined -
or taken, in shame - it
swells the throat with
confusion and
guilt

India tastes of
practised love kneaded into chappati,
soap lingering on fingers
while shovelling rice with your right hand,
the dirt stuck under your fingernails

papaya after pineapple after pomegranate
fennel seeds stuck between your teeth
deep-fried, plastic-wrapped everything

a whole potato-stuffed chilli
stuffed into your salivating mouth,
despite the heat on your forehead,
despite the heat in your stomach;
un-named and unpronounceable
treats, oddities, commodities

the putrid after-taste
of a deeply wounded culture
asphyxiated by its own identity
the hard-to-swallow-truth
of disappointment, bewilderment
and disdain

India #2 of 5

the sound of India
is a restless quiet,
so piercing it has the weight
of a billion
horns blaring
down the labyrinth channels of my Western ear-wells

It stops you in your tracks.

the sound of India
is a kettle that never stops boiling
a thousand children's high-pitched Namaste
a pseudo-bomb going off in a rickety cobbled street
and no-one blinking
a heavy golden eyelid

it's monkeys screeching blood at each other
the sparking of exposed telephone wires
against a puddle of urine
a disastrous tragedy-in-waiting
that no-one will ever fix

it's waking up at 5am
to a chanting Muslim prayer
it's a garland-adorned tractor howling
Bollywood at you, the driver
stoic and sober

it's an apocalyptic shut-up
the sound of blackest midnight
no possible life behind the grey roller doors
cows, hogs,
limping dogs
the only survivors
staring you down
their heavy heads following your rigor mortis walk home,
the rustle of a lone plastic
bag caught in an abandoned kite string

the heavy thwack of a mallet collapsing a sad fish's head
flattened on to the blood-stained cobbled road
echoing through the
four-storey flats

the disjointed "how YOU?!" "GOOD morning!"
the wrong emphasis, the wrong
time...

it's a symphony of toxic snot hoiks
hurled aggressively up through the trachea
expelled from the nasal channels
out a moving bus window
-- it sticks to the side and
adds to the palimpsest...

the sound of India
is the drunken patriarchy, booming,
"YOU ! FREE ! MY ! HOUSE !"
and the soft gradual exiting of women's chappels

it's the host's Uncle's brother's wussshhh
as he plonks himself on your couch
asking you kindly if you're
married and Christian.