Sujata Bhatt

The sings are mostly in Tamil
as this tiny railway station.
It is the time between sunset
and a completely black monsoon sky.
And then vendors come, walking
back and forth along the platform
beside this train.
Coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee…
an old man cries out-even as I buy
a cup and then another-
Coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee…
trough the bars of the window.
He doesn’t bargain, doesn’t raise his price-
Trust the amount I give is correct.
Wait, wait! I’m about to say, don’t trust me, don’t
trust anyone-But there he goes-
Coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee… he continues
calling as if he lived beyond this world already-
He stares ahead, looking somewhere
into the distance, beyond the train-
And I look at his dazed eyes: red, feverishyet
strangely focusedand
his eyelids: red, swollenbut still, his face is quiet-yes,
it is a amall, quiet face.
Coffe
Why is that?
Has he seen God?
Has he found another meaning
for coffee? Does he know how to
converse with Death?
Has he discovered that starlight
is not indifferent?
That stars are truly emotional
up there-struggling ti live
within their consellations-
Has he spoken of his secrets
to the Universe?
And has the Universe listened
to him?

To get here
you have to climb trough
hills where the fiercest monkeys live.
You will see flashes of sunlight,
the wind rippling across
their honey brown furand
you might watch, entrancedbut
they will descend screaming, enraged,
they will chase you away
rushing you on to the snakes-
And if you wory
about where to step
you will never find your way.
Over here
only the blackest stones
can become snakescobras-
little kingssome
lie almost asleep beneath treestheir
heads moulded into sleekness,
such genleness curled into the grass-
Others rise up, hoods flared
as if to say, welcome, welcome
as if to say, welcome, welcome
but bewarethey
rise up
and yet, they are frozen
forever in that poise.

Nearby, an old man sits
waiting for coins, for an offering of fruitwaiting
for someone who needs
to be blessed-
Only the Blackest Stones
What will you say to him?
What will you do?
Cloth dolls hang
from these trees above the snakes:
finger sized flowershere
and there
tiny cradles danglegreen
and pink peayersdusty,
dusty-even this faded
yellow cloth, a faceless thing
tied to a branch, begs for children
to be born-many childrenmanyfurther
up-there’s another path
where steps lead to a terrace-
And if you enter
you are filled
with the solitude of snakesyou
are surronded-
Their black stone skins breathe in the heat-turmeric stained
they stare at you
and their souls pulse gold-
Despite the density of stone
their souls are almost liquid,
their souls are egg yolksround,
firm, slippery gold
deep inside-somewhere
there is movement
insects breathing across leavesa
throbbing-as their blackness
absorbs the heat-
Only the Blackest Stones
Sometimes
if you look away
at the sky-you can find
the words you mind needs
against the silence-
Tumeric stained
stone snakesthey
stare at you
as if ready to listen-
A small girl breaks the silenceshe
calls out to her father and stars running-
She zig zags between the snakes,
running across the terracecircling
one way
and then another-
Her thin arms moving fast,
bones jutting out of her elbows-
She doesn’t stop.