A daughter brought her mother
gifts from India:
silk scarves and saris,
a batch of bindhis,
a jangly ankle bracelet
and a bangle around which
a frieze of camels processed.
The mother put them on
and felt like a princess,
surrounded by incense,
the smell of spices,
exotic sweetmeats,
the click and the thrum
of the tabla,
the whine and the twang
of the sitar
and the taste of hot, sweet chai.
Later, back in her t-shirt and jeans,
she fell fast asleep on her sofa
and dreamed a Bollywood dream.
A mustachioed villain
had gathered her up
and galloped her off
to his fort in the hills.
And it took all the cunning and courage
of a dashing and handsome prince
to ride her away on his fine white horse
through friendly villages
where smiling peasants
waved and cheered their support.
Duly she woke
to a soft English rain
on a plain, grey day
where the rumble of a bus
drifted away
past the pub at the end of her road.
It was then that she noticed
the jangly bracelet
dangling still from her languid ankle,
hinting of India
and all the sounds and smells
of faraway places.