I The Spanish fool
Sitting in the empty space
On the left side of the bench
In the autumn cathedral garden
Is the Spanish fool.
He touches her nose-ring,
Hair and hand,
Praises her beauty hoping
She has no other man.
Too fast, too cool,
He’s trying to get there too soon.
A photograph and a number
He thinks that’ll get her.
“An old trick,” she says.
And walks away.
“The park’s got many more!”
Smiles the Spanish fool.
II The Baget man
“I love baget!”
A Tunisian way
Of stringing together strands
Of broken conversations.
“I make 500, 600 every day.”
“I speak good English, no?”
He says, smiling, and the dimples
Stretch into the burnt lines on his palms
–a tiny price for extra hours
And fruits of freshly burnt cents.
I try, but only half understand
As the sound from his lips
Drowns into the music
Of the harmonious piano.
Playing for those
That are lost in translation.
French, German and Arabic
He tries them all, only to learn
That there’s just one language,
The one that’s no more necessary.
So we dance in the empty bar
Moving to bring
Two distant worlds in line
With words that no longer are
An obligation to building castles in the air.
Then stealing a rare moment
From his laborious days, he tries again.
I love Bagets!”
“I love making Bagets!”
He looks into my eyes.
“But those Bagets very cheap.
You very expensive Baget.
I love Bagets!”
A Tunisian way of saying
‘I love you’.
III The French souvenir
Billy Jean on the piano
And the man from a French
Souvenir shop.
The rose from a Bangladeshi
Flower vendor—
The cold of the rainy night.
The ‘I love Paris’ lighter,
The Indian clove cigarette,
The smoke that smells of us.
The things you said
The words I didn’t.
And the moments that were lost
In a picture you,
A picture me,
A picture of us.
From Bonjour to Bisou
And Good night to see you.
Just words of the French souvenir,
Of Billy Jean still beating my heart
And the petals still dancing inside
A notebook from a long time ago.
IV The Israeli night
There’s difference between a Berliner,
Four vodka and berry shots.
It’s the distance between the lips
Of an Indian dance and an Israeli song.
He speaks of Tel Aviv
Of Palestine and Israel
And his small town somewhere
Far beyond my dream.
I, of Indian summers
In the cold of this night,
Of Mumbai rains and the little
Joys of my life.
The night’s no longer cold.
Melted in the heat of clasped hands
And the warmth of the dance,
It turns bold.
When the music’s over
Our lips will sing to the tune
Of passion where our divorced
Worlds will meet in peace.
