Date: Wed, 21 Aug 1996 16:07:11 -0700
From: inder-AT-oceans.mti.sgi.com (Inder Bhasin)
Subject: Poem: Crawford Market, Bombay



			Crawford Market, Bombay
			-----------------------

		In Crawford market, at a fruit vendor's stall
		Next to a pyramid of oranges
	 	I spot a woman,
	         holding an orange in her hand
		 gently rotating it,
		 feeling the firmness
		 with the pressure of her fingers.
		I watch her move
		 to a mound of plums
		 where she tests their texture
		 with caresses of her palms.
		At a small mountain of melons,
	 	 I watch her bend,
		 sniffing the air with closed eyes,
		 for signs of sweetness.
		

		I study the geometry of her face
		 her eyes, her nose, her lips,
		 the slope of her shoulder,
		 the almost invisible curve of her breasts,
		 the narrow outline of her body.

		I imagine her on the eleventh floor flat
		  of a highrise overlooking the Arabian Sea.
		I give her two small kids 
		  and a husband who works in an advertising firm.
		In the evening in the balcony,
		  with the ocean behind them,
		They sip tea and talk about
		  the rising prices of fruits.

		
		Then I follow this woman,
		I watch her stop at a store and buy sticks of incense.
		She turns her head to a side and I see
		 an empty gaze wandering
	         through the labyrinthine lanes of Crawford market.
		At this point, I revise her story.
		I give her a lonely life
		 in the same flat
		 with aged parents.
		I imagine her shifting
		 through rooms fragrant with the wafting aroma
		 of sandalwood, magnolia and rose.
		At night, she sits late in the balcony,
		 looking at the ocean
		  and feels
		 infinity permeate her soul.

		I follow her once again 
                 as she moves on with her shopping
		I study her hair
		 which ends just below her shoulder,
		 the arch of her back
		 the point at which her hips begin to diverge
		 the pleasing roundness of her buttocks
		At this moment, I rewrite her story all over again.
		I tie a large hammock across the balcony of her flat
		 where she now lives minus the aged parents.
		I give her a lover.
		Through the long and languid afternoons,
		 they lie in the hammock.
		Surrounded by large bowls
		 of sliced papayas, mangoes, water-melons,
		 grapes, tangerines and apples,
		 they make love in the salty ocean breeze.
		She says to him:
		 I have always longed for the ocean.
		 I want you to love me
		  the way the waves
		 crash against the shore all night.




  --Inder Bhasin