Journal Entry
San Francisco Airport
21/5/04
Pocket Change
Sitting in the airport — American legs, Indian arranged.
I empty my pockets of India — to show for nothing but some change.
A Rupee or two, of our affair the only proof.
Having travelled across the world — now lost among the suits.
In the middle of stiff trees, as we all wait in line,
I drop into a squat, like I’m still on Delhi time.
And I scratch my head and nose,in a manner that appears absurd.
Sideways eyes are noting that — which those in India never would.
A deep Indian tan runs all the way from my ankle to my toe.
In a land where naked legs — judge such a line a beauty “no.”
Double strapped around my wrist, a ratty red rope still exists.
Only an Indian would see its meaning — as a tie to a puja still stringing.
And the mantra in my head, if chanted even once in voice aloud,
would warrant a call to the police — by the white man in the crowd.
And so I hide low in my corner — American legs, Indian arranged.
Having found something left of India — beside a little pocket change.
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