India CallingA Poem by joliecouerIndia Calling Sitting here in a café that sings of pianos and whispers of violins playing to a quiet audience of jasmine tea leaves and Sumatran coffee beans, all I can see are warm, heady flashes of mango sari sliding down a sandalwood arm- heathen streets angry honks blinding blinding light spilling into this lonely darkness. So much laughter so much love pouring into a simmering pot of kohlapuri mutton: mirchi and turmeric. I see people who look like me, fussing grandmotherhens preening auntiedoves nameless uncles and faceless cousinbrothers. In this artistically cold and cultured little café all I can feel is the heavy monsoon summer. I want to go home.
© 2008 joliecouer |
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