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

rose yogurt

dried fruit and nuts.

Omelette madame?

Chai?

 

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.

Community gathered

unbeknownst to one another, sharing in the feast of the belly.

 

Satiated, curious, cell phones, conversation

hands and cutlery

laughter, languages.

The ‘pest doctor’ roams the room,

emblem embroidered on his uniform

bug zapper in hand.

 

“This being human is a guest house…” Rumi

 

After,

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.

Asking,

hand extended in the gesture of food –

no spoken word required.