Gifts From India

I think you get me.

Because your gifts to me

From your trip

To India

Are at once

Sacred and profane.

Intoxicating oils

Fragrant of the flora and market spices

Of the country

To which you visited.

A reference book about the 264 species

Of different snakes to be found

In India...

A good 82 of them poisonous

Inflicting severe damage

And 5 of them killing you

Within two hours of a bite.

You gave me a ‘Black Stone’ which is sold there

To attach to a snake bite

Or a stingray

Or scorpion bite

And others.

It is actually bone.

You have to make the spot bleed

By puncturing the wound

And apply the ‘Black Stone’.

The directions are very detailed

And elaborate

But it doesn’t work against

Rabies.

No dogs.

You brought me

Books of divine poetry as well

That speak of inward heavens

Peace, sex, love

And wellbeing.

A brick of

Bidi’s.

Small hand rolled cigarettes of tobacco

And temburini

Tied with a red string

At one end

Then

Wrapped in

Newspaper

In little conical bundles.

A magnicent heavy

Crushed silver bracelet

That you put on

Amongst the others

On my wrist.

A book of the Kama Sutra

Written in French

Pages folded and printed

In Third World disarray.

I like the overlooked chaos

Mixed in with the beauty and care

Taken to produce such a guide.

A tablet of handmade parchment

From Auroville.

A pretty document

That you handed me

Of a forgotten photographer

That I was interested in at one time.

I had no idea

That he had moved to India

And has lived there

Near a decade now.

Your wide smile

And white skin.

Your dirty, haughty laugh

Mixed with a carefree spirit.

There is a gift of inner peace

As great as your stamina

That matches my own

And keeps us up for eight hours

Upon the night of your return.