This poem found its way into my journal this morning while spending time in Bangalore, India. The photos are from the past week spent soulstrolling via walking and rickshaw movement – not specifically from the hotel buffet. Bangalore is a large city full of contrast: from street noise to quiet, wealth to poverty, ancient green trees to public waste, scents of jasmine to urine, humanity, animals and nature in multiple form.
Hard boiled eggs, slices of melon, pineapple, papaya
dried fruit and nuts.
Cereal, tea cakes, donuts, toast
paratha to order.
Dosa, potato wedge
dal payasam, upma, baked beans, bacon
chole, bhature, plain porridge.
Litchi French toast, bacon, idli
ginger and coconut chutney.
Travelers, business folk, families on holiday –
guests of the world.
Pocket of humanity.
unbeknownst to one another, sharing in the feast of the belly.
Satiated, curious, cell phones, conversation
hands and cutlery
The ‘pest doctor’ roams the room,
emblem embroidered on his uniform
bug zapper in hand.
“This being human is a guest house…” Rumi
aboard the hotel gym treadmill
above the outdoor crowds
she catches my birds eye view from the concrete street below.
And my heart is broken open –
over and over.
Amidst the plenty of my privilege
she weaves and limps between
halted rickshaws, cars, buses, motorcycles;
body draped with red and brown cloth.
hand extended in the gesture of food –
no spoken word required.