I’ve had a couple glasses of wine, and you know what that means! My creative juices are flowing. Tonight, I’m writing about an unusual moment from today’s commute…
Prose first, then poetry? OK, then.
Driving home from physical therapy tonight, my taxi got trapped in Delhi’s usual snarl. I scooted across the back seat to avoid the scorching sun, but 110° F will bake you no matter where you sit. Waiting at a traffic light, I watched the regular beggars on the median. They were wilting in the heat, but desperation forced them off the curb. They circulated through stalled traffic, knocking on car windows and crying out, “Madaaaam! Madaaaam!” In an effort to affirm their humanity, I always make eye contact, smile and mouth, “No, thank you.” Today, there was a minor but interesting twist. A woman shuffled toward my taxi, carrying a drooping little girl. She approached with the usual appeal for money; her knocks on the taxi window inspired the baby, who gripped a coin. The youngster tentatively stretched out her skinny arm and tapped on the taxi window. Its “ting” jolted her out of heat-induced lethargy, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. As her mother obliviously continued with exhausted moaning, the child smiled at me, conspiratorially. I couldn’t help but wonder how much longer a coin’s musical tapping would amuse her. Her time on the hip was winding down, and soon the window rapping would turn ominously purposeful.
Same story, poet’s eyes.
Balanced precariously on her mother’s hip,
bobbling with every sudden noise, so many sounds,
eyes momentarily unfocused on the tangled traffic,
skin peeling – no, simply patchy with sweat and dust.
Her mother, hand turned backwards,
raps with knotty knuckles on the window,
dink dink dink.
Her sequined sari limply draped across her face to block the sun,
Her thumb and fingers meet, gesturing at a hungry mouth.
Her silver ring makes contact,
tink tink tink.
This metal-on-glass melody startles.
The baby’s eyes glisten, suddenly alert, curious.
A precious one-rupee coin clenched in a tiny wet fist stretches out.
tink tink tink.
An innocent smile. A bounce.
A giggle of accomplishment.
A grimace from her mother, whose practiced pleas lose power in the presence of a gleeful child.
tink tink tink.
How soon before the coin’s music loses its magic?
Wonderful story, Sharon! Love the poem, too!