The reluctant transcendentalist

I get off my horse, but there is no place
to park it, so I hand the reins over to the
beardless boy playing marbles by himself
in a shallow, malodorous dust bowl. He is
happy with the handful of grimy currency
notes I thrust into his eager little hand

I have ridden across the vastated plains of
Hindutvastan and Puristan, through deserts
Rajasthani and Tharthari and am now
on the outskirts of the great unwashed city,
in the village of a great Persian warrior

His father, burly child of a man, Rustam
by name, greets me warmly like a long lost
brother. His bear hug raises clouds of
inter subcontinental dust off my weary back

This makes him sneeze a series of unexpectedly
polite little sneezes which make me laugh,
discreetly. We have only just met,
but we are old friends already

Yes, I remember. We were old friends.
I knew him in a past life, the one which
ended three minutes ago, when I got off
my horse and strode into township

Because we are old friends once again,
and because he is my host and I his guest,
I drink slurpingly from a saucer his sweet
sticky tea and wolf down stale pieces of
rock cake redolent with fresh diesel fumes
and mature goatskin. They make me strong,
stronger than I have felt since
I got on my horse and rode

Pity it won't last, this strength; tonight
I enter the town of my birth. My
horse is not very welcome there.
I do know how to drive.
I wish I didn't.
I wish I didn't have to.
I wish the view from my window
was coloured green and not
innumerable shades of snot-grey.
I wish I had nine lives concurrent, or just one
with you in it

(minos - late 2006 or early 2007)