A Bazaar Scene | Copihue Poetry

The first tuk tuk un-tucks the village women,
arranging the cane baskets of

fresh vegetables along the pavement, the
farm-fresh colours smile,

like the prisoners being released but,
only draw the cow,

the same trespasser again they whisk
off she humbly moves to the

just-arrived Huassain’s pushcart of bananas
for consolation and gets one,

the squint-eyed Gopal watches
from his grocery, opposite,

while he makes pious gestures
at the wooden money box

for an auspicious start, when the newspaper
the paper boy suddenly flings hits,

the headlines being “High Onion Prices”
which news the television

in Rajastan tea stall too blares.
It swarms with

the morning walkers and hawkers who
abuse each other in a lighter vein

over sips and cigarette puffs. As some are
too inhibited to complain, grumble and

quit for the nearby Hanuman temple,
being drawn towards the

broken bits of chalisa, emanating from
those long-defective speakers

the endowments department
never bothers about

nor about those beggars who
diligently form

a cross-legged line at the temple gates
for the day’s certain alms

from the more diligent devotees
with their firm faith

in salvation through good deeds
unlike the ogling nature

of the priest at the sanctum sanctorum.
Inside the fly-swarming,

shabby beanery beside,
his son hand-mixes

the rice batter while his beautiful daughter in law
sits at the cash counter,

and watches the butcher on the other side
calling the customers,

displaying the fresh, blood-dripping meat torsos,
pointing at their plump scrotum,

as most folk believe the male ones are tasty,
and a stray dog diligently stares

at his hand for his regular fling of bones
in the stagnate drainage canal beside

that adjoins the town’s police station
where a raped youth waits

another day for the justice that lies in the
inspector’s greasy palms

while the municipal worker collects the
garbage the town heaped

at the dilapidated Gandhi statue stained
by the bird droppings.