First Night

This isn't a new poem. I haven't been writing poetry lately. But I have been thinking about India a lot lately, after seeing Slumdog Millionaire, and now that I'm reading a book about India. So I thought I'd share this. I wrote this last semester. During my trip to India, and even soon after, I tried to write poetry about it, but all of it was terrible. It was too cliche and trite. I think I had to be removed from the experience for a while before I could write about it.

First Night
“See Mumbai the beautiful with this map being helpful!”
- from a tourist map

The Hotel Grant is crumbling
on your first night in Mumbai.
The taxi wallah kept your change,
but you don’t know that yet.
It will be weeks before you understand
the exchange rate, the way things work
here, where the chai does not come iced
or sweet, and the rickshaws crowd
even your sleep.

On your first night in Mumbai,
you weep in the shower, beat
your fists against the geyser, and repeat:
“It’s not bad, just different.
Not bad, just different.”
Not bad like the curry that scorches your tongue,
or the deadly stench of fish
and leprous beggars, or the Delhi Belly
that ravages your body nightly.
Not bad like the mattresses,
as flat as the nasal voices of Bollywood
actresses, or the assaulting scent
of Ganapati flowers, and the popping
of skulls on funeral pyres
on your first night in Mumbai.

You don’t know this yet,
but on your last night in Mumbai,
you will cry because you know
how you will miss
fairytale elephants in the street,
naan dripping with ghee,
the barefoot children who greeted
you with happy Namastes,
brilliant saris and sparkling bhindis,
tablas and finger cymbals, all of it
dancing with you on the trains
on your first night in Mumbai.