[*** graphic omitted ***]
Hindu Maidens Floating Lamps, drawn by William Daniell, engraved by J. Stephinson, reprinted from Linney Gilbert, India Illustrated; an Historical and Descriptive Account of That Important and Interesting Country (London: Privately printed, c. 1833), facing p. 20.

[*** graphic omitted ***]
Mountain Scene in the North of Italy, drawn by William Daniel, engraved by J. C. Armytage, reprinted from Gilbert, India Illustrated, facing p. 60.

The Slow Way Home

She leaves the women in her husband’s house
and makes a slow way home
to her own mother, to friends singing
as they bring sweet butter
for the first month, molasses
for the second, radish, the third.
Nine kinds of gift giving
fill full the life cycle,
and then singing sisters
bracelet her bare arms,
     first a circle of healing nim,
     then elephant hair to match her task
     and bangles of green glass
     because she is fragile and glad.

Taking to themselves a paste
of rice and clarified butter,
the hands of women rub
in slow circles the tight flesh
rising with what will yet be.
At the midwife’s nod, water
is heated, oil warmed,
and she is settled into a bed
rounded out from white sand.

But like Parvati, Devi, like all women
come home
she spreads her legs when the waters
will not be stayed, shapes sand new
each time the pains take hold.
Sinking to places she must go alone,
she rises, revived finally
by the high brine smell of blood,
by the infant held high, its cry
the cry of the mother birthing herself
again
and again.

[*** graphic omitted ***]
Ruins at Ettaiah, drawn by C. Stanfield from a sketch by Thomas Bacon, engraved by E. Finden, reprinted from Thomas Bacon, The Oriental Annual, or Scenes in India (London: Charles Tilt, 1839), facing p. 106.

For Phulrenu Guha and All the Old Ones

It must have mattered once,
or seemed to,
the dream that fleshed itself
as family, servants enough, bougainvillea.

But time or maybe Gandhiji
unwrapped it
in layers, rice-paper thin
and dry as locust wings.
Incise. Excise. Until the center seed,
barleywhite but with a sheen
of wedding silk. One thing only then:
the need to teach young women,
to group, work within.

And if such midwifery mean
riding second class from Calcutta
to Delhi each week, then one
nods off the miles in a sleep feeding flame
brighter than those waiting
to dismiss bonebrittle dryness
in the last passage, the one that matters least.

[*** graphic omitted ***]
Baoli and Remains of Jehanghir’s Palace, Delhi, drawn by T. C. Dibdin from a sketch by Thomas Bacon, engraved by Capone, reprinted from Thomas Bacon, The Original Annual; Containing a Series of Tales, Legends, and Historical Romances (London: Charles Tilt, 1840), facing p. 49.

The Dance

And she is always there,
more Indian than the Ganges even,
the woman bent low at the waist and thin,
sweeping sweeping.
She keeps her back to you, eyes down,
not seeing the white-haired, betel-smiled man
tying garlands of jasmine, not smelling
the anise, cumin, or clove, not smiling
at seven pigtailed schoolgirls,
blue skirts, white blouses, a donkey cart.

And she does not shy from the goat ambling loose
or try to move the gray cat, each inhalation
drawing its thin skin bone-tight.
Dust covers her knot of hair,
veils her sun-faded sari, but the easy
move left right left and right
is what she knows, the woman bent low
at the waist and thin, sweeping
her own slow dance.

[*** graphic omitted ***]
Baolee at Allahabad, drawn by William Daniell, engraved by J. Redaway, reprinted from Hobart Caunter, The Oriental Annual, or Scenes in India (London: Charles Tilt, 1838), facing p. 119.

The Ghat

First light at Benares brings the brush
of feet down the stone steps,
a dozen, four times,
and then the easing in
as women yield themselves
to Ganga, the mother who wraps herself
around and around them,
each sari a veil, a scrim,
thin as the illusion
of the bloated belly
floating grey and dim to all
but the eyes of a kite that settles
and lifts out where river meets sky.
And then the slap of bare feet,
a dozen, four times,
and the waiting day, dusty and hot
and heavy again.

[*** graphic omitted ***]
Shrine of Raiman Shah Doola Elichpoor, drawn by William Warren from a sketch by Meadows Taylor, engraved by S. Fisher, reprinted from Bacon, Oriental Annual [1840], facing p. 64.

Billboard Women

Above fortunetellers,
temples, and the sellers
of crushed sugarcane,
rise billboard women,
women who join film clubs,
play country western tapes,
and extol Campa Cola,
computers, and condos.

No dowry, no dust
touches these women.
Not hunger
nor sundried dung patties.
Their mothers-in-law die young;
their husbands (who neither use
hookahs nor evetease) live forever.

And should billboard women
make puja or draw
rice powder rangoli,
should they consider
the Muslim Women’s Bill
or lepers or mutilants,
they will find themselves
repainted,
almond-eyed and smiling
above fortunetellers, temples,
and the sellers of crushed sugarcane.

[*** graphic omitted ***]
Ruins between Futtehpore Sikri and Biana, drawn by T. Greswick from a sketch by Thomas Bacon, engraved by E. Finden, reprinted from Bacon, Oriental Annual [1839], facing p. 168.

19 November 1917–31 October 1984

Bathed in holy water, forehead readied
with sandalwood paste. Then a first draping
of silk the color of sun, of love, of blood,
a second of saffron, green, and white.
Japa beads, rose petals, marigolds.

And the gun carriage pulls through
Teen Murti Marg, making its slow way
to Dalhousie Road, while at Shantivana
a Buddhist priest chants, Christians
read from the Psalms. Someone recites
the Lord’s Prayer, the carriage at Zafar
Marg. Lok Sabha members offer verses
from the Guru Granth. A maulvi,
a Parsi priest, Mother Teresa, each
have a say before King Road.

Green leaves, festoonings of white
chrysanthemum wait at the platform
new-made from brick. And sandalwood logs,
heads of state, service chiefs, three
grandchildren, two daughters-in-law.

The wreaths are gathered, the flag retrieved.
Seven times a son circles the pyre, touching
his mother with a lighted torch. The bugles,
the salute, the shouts: Indira Gandhi Amar Hae!
Indira Gandhi Amar Hae!
The chants, Om Shanti, Shanti, Shanti,
the assemblage standing, hands folded,
flames leaping to ghee, honey, incense,
freeing the child who set fire to her British
doll, the dream of being Joan of Arc.

All that remains then is the Kapal Kriya,
that skull breaking that signifies taking
leave of the world. And the tinder waiting
to ignite a country mantra-seared with:
India is Indira.
Indira is India.

[*** graphic omitted ***]
Ruins at Futtehpore Sikri, drawn by D. Roberts from a sketch by Thomas Bacon, engraved by W. Finden, reprinted from Bacon, Oriental Annual [1839], facing p. 164.

The Petition

Her eyes lift
no higher than the knees
of the pajama-clad men
carrying temple votives.
Nor does she elevate
her tin bowl
to shake the morning paise.
Only the dark semaphore
of her right arm
bends slightly at the elbow
in a rise and fall
that offers
repeatedly
a fingerless stump
of fresh pink pleadings.

[*** graphic omitted ***]
The Sunkul Boorjh and Fort Gate, Penkonda, drawn by H. Warren from a sketch by Meadows Taylor, engraved by E. Finden, reprinted from Bacon, Oriental Annual [1840], facing p. v.

Paan

Morning sun stains
the walnut-planed cheekbones
of the girl squatting on a burlap mat.
She seems almost old enough
for the leafgreen patternings
and yellow folds that flow
into an easy oval from head
to haunches and gather up
over her knees, all cotton elipse
and soft circles.

And when a rickshaw puller comes,
rubbing a few paise
she strips out the stem and ribs
of a heartshaped leaf
and spreads a paste of lime and catechu gum.

Her hands know so well the making of paan,
they move themselves
without rearranging
the still life on burlap.
Only the bluebeat of her thin wrist
betrays the hum of feeding
the firstbud of breasts,
the womb lining itself,
a determined bloodrush
encased in skin drawn taut,
then cotton-draped.

A pinch of cinnamon and betel chips
and then a whole clove
to pin the leaf into a small cone
that will be slowly chewed and slowly spat
in random red splashes which almost mask
the accord that animates a subcontinent.

[*** graphic omitted ***]
Women at the Well, drawn by William Daniell, engraved by W. Wetherhead, reprinted from Gilbert, India Illustrated, facing p. 140.

Pounding Gingerroot

If she sits at the doorframe,
there is room in her house
to pound the day’s gingerroot.
At her back, four waterpots stack
a squat column against the sunbaked
clay wall. And a three-legged bamboo frame
bends under a box bundled with clothstuffs.
Her sari arcs a leisurely green
from head to lap as she leans
into the grindstone, smooth at the top
as an altar. Each bare foot curves round
its beveled edge, toes almost meeting.
Only her wrists move as she lifts
the round rock just enough to clear
the wrinkled root branching out
walnut brown. Fingers overlapping,
she brings down the round rock again and again
until the give of the leathery skin
and the crisp shards that pulp
a yellow smell, a wet wedding of woman
round rock
gingerroot.

[*** graphic omitted ***]
The Mausoleum of Nizad-ud-Deen Oulea, Delhi, drawn by William Daniell, engraved by T. Higham, reprinted from Caunter, Oriental Annual [1838], facing p. 206.

[*** graphic omitted ***]
Tombs of the Bereed Kings, Bidur, drawn by G. Howse from a sketch by Meadows Taylor, engraved by J. Redaway, reprinted from Bacon, Oriental Annual [1840], facing p. 198.

Selling Pictures

She is her own stall,
the white-haired woman
sitting flat on the ground
between a chick-pea seller
and a sweetmeat booth.
Her sari’s no longer
the empyrean blue
of a peacock fan,
but her forehead
is ornamented new red.
One hand is a brace
in the sun-baked dirt,
the other’s at the handle
of the open umbrella
extending her lap from ribs
to rigid instep.

She eyes each passerby,
waiting for a tourist
or schoolboy
to stop at the drawings
of gods and prophets
repeating themselves
in and out the metal stays.

Five images line up
from handle to edge,
then another five.
Foremost is Vishnu
churning the milky sea.
Krishna still dallies
with milkmaids while Gandhi walks
the salt march, Nehru broods,
and Buddha reclines.

Hoping to attract
a paisa or two,
the old woman with the umbrella lap
gives the handle a quarter-turn.
And Kali, hidden in the center
of the clothy stall, slips out
from her dark place and rearranges,
as is her wont,
the commerce of mortals and gods.

[*** graphic omitted ***]
A Mountain Village, drawn by William Daniell, engraved by T. James, reprinted from Gilbert, India Illustrated, facing p. 81.

Two Women

The mother
and her daughter-in-law
face each other at a granite mortar,
each with a hardwood pestle, thick
as their forearms and taller
than a woman is high.
The young one pounds five times,
waits, pestle lifted, eyes down.
She sees the mother pound three,
feels her nod,
and the daughter-in-law begins again.
It would be easier with oxen
and a flat threshing floor,
but two women at a mortar
can wrestle a day’s grain
if one is the mother,
the other a daughter-in-law.

[*** graphic omitted ***]
Jumnoutri and the Cone, Himala Mountains, painted by T. Greswick from a sketch by Thomas Bacon, engraved by J. Appleton, reprinted from Bacon, Oriental Annual [1839], facing p. 232.

Winnowing

Squatting in front of a mud hut,
the woman with the nose ring
and ochre scarf
lifts with a roll of her wrists
the tray woven from a palm leaf.
Only her wrists move and the tray of wheat.
And she lifts and lifts again,
scattering chaff at her bare feet
in a sun-baked winnowing.

[*** graphic omitted ***]
Jhain Temples, Moohktagherri, drawn by H. Warren from a sketch by Meadows Taylor, engraved by W. and E. Finden, reprinted from Bacon, Oriental Annual [1840], facing p. 106.

Woman in Silk

Upstairs, the woman in peacock-green
opens the shutters, watches
the old man finish the last sari.
He bends and nods as the houseboy pays him,
then sets his flatiron back on the charcoal stove
and rolls his cart to the next house,
his sandals slapping the walkway,
his own dhoti in need of laundering.

The woman in green thinks
of the dinner she must give that night.
Chicken and beef for the Americans,
rice, and curries for the others.
Her husband will wear blue jeans, ask
if the cook boiled the water
before freezing the ice cubes.

He will not smile until she bends
to each guest and nods, talking
of Ezekiel’s poems, Ray’s films,
her English begun with nuns
and finished at Bennington,
a modulation varied and rich
as the candlelight saying itself
again and again on the gold threads
in her sari of scarlet silk.

[*** graphic omitted ***]
Ghat and Temple at Gokul, drawn by D. Roberts from a sketch by Thomas Bacon, engraved by R. Wallis, reprinted from Bacon, Oriental Annual [1839], facing p. 187.

Supplication

The oldest, back from a year’s premed
at Duke, tells her friend at the wheel
about a student she met. Having read
Cormack, the American asked about barren
women. Face down in the road, hands
holding plantain, coconut, and betel
leaves above their heads? Drumming,
shouts, until a priest walked on the backs
on the backs of the supplicants? And on his head
was there really a linga covered
with marigolds? Joining her friend’s
merriment, the driver wonders what she’ll meet
at Barnard next year. Then brakes
into silence at the unexpected bend,
the banyan, bright with morning threads,
coins at its roots and guava, three apples,
ripe pleading on a bamboo mat.

[*** graphic omitted ***]
Mosque of Abdool Raheim Kahn, Boorhanpoor, drawn by W. Warren from a sketch by Meadows Taylor, engraved by W. and E. Finden, reprinted from Bacon, Oriental Annual [1840], facing p. 126.

Woman Fanning Two Babies

She does not know
she’s backdrop, never heard
of panoply. She could not tell
how it feels to be part of the design
winding to the Ganges as the city shakes off sleep
     in the man stacking green coconuts, hoping
          the leper will find another place
          to display his fingerless hands
     in the boy making floaters from wicks,
          paraffin, and lotus leaves
     in the toothless woman waiting
          her chapati, the girl pleading
          a one-rupee smile when her father sings
          the cobra from the wicker basket
     in the silksellers, sandalmakers, sunshaded
          Brahmins selling blessings.

The squatting woman, thigh muscles tight
against her faded sari knows only
that heat precedes the sun in Varanasi,
that if she quits fanning, black flies
will congregate on her two babies sleeping
naked, each on a page of the Hindustan Times.

[*** graphic omitted ***]
Peer Putteh Gate, Gawilghur, painted by T. Creswick from a sketch by Meadows Taylor, engraved by W. and E. Finden, reprinted from Bacon, Oriental Annual [1840], facing p. 97.

Loretta M. Sharp

BYU Studies Publications