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.
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