The 10:45 from Lahore by Marc Vincenz Our car’s stuck fast at the railway crossing, second in pecking order— after FreshWellWaterSuppliers, a long line of pumice, purple & canary-yellow trucks, 3-wheeled gismos bursting in chilies, & Sanjiv’s QuickDryCement, back-bumpered: Horn Please! I Know You’re Right Behind Me. A hundred truckers’ gods nod on dashboards, twinkle in rearview, rosaries & golden bells, bodhis, gurus, swamis glowing pale blue, biding precious dharma; & those still to arrive, five thousand dreaming of Mumbai slurping spiced chai from plastic cups on the 10:45 from Lahore— when the nub of a cane—wood’s all-seeing eye—raps the window: Knock-Knock. This is no joke. Pearl-oyster eyes. Mercury-leaking eyes. Bloodshot eyes. Eyes that have balled an eternally potholed road. An old man gums Please Mister. His single silver tooth trembles— a loons’ egg ensnared in a spider’s web— lifts his magic turban & out pops a langur monkey chained at the waist—his alter ego trimmed in tassels, a red fez, medals & brass buttons; & behind, young disciples, moon-searching luminaries, fifteen little hands flickering moths to an everlasting fire. Nomad urchins. Camel driver urchins. Sand-comber urchins working traces of gold on door handles. The monkey paces the man’s shoulders nibbles a knob of salt rock. A prod from his swami & he’s whirling, dancing dervish on the end of the stick, circus flea on the head of a pin; meanwhile in the car, you’re diving for lollipops, gobstoppers, sifting your pack for gold dust to put a glimmer on pallid cheeks— to ease a lump lodged in your throat. You crack the window to a narrow slit & feed your alms wrapped in silver & gold & metallic blue— & fifteen urchins billow, dust devils tear rag from skin, from hair & tooth & nail & eye & claw— scuffling for sparkly things, but old Raja swings at his flock, cracks his lightning staff, shudders, mutters deep into the asphalt & they drag gravel, hands in exaltations, biding precious dharma as monkey cleans up every silver morsel, clutching them like brittle eggs, jewels tossed from heavens. & once again monkey chitters, takes two twirls on his stick, bows from the hip, slips into his magic turban, & as the dust finally settles the old wizard sets out on his way, alone.
Posted on: Tue, 16 Jul 2013 12:43:50 +0000
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