# From the poem "The Indian Miracle"

Ольга Слободкина

* * *


I'm on board the plane

in comparative serenity

on my way to Bombay,

now called Mumbai

for the reasons

I can't understand...


Below - stretches of land,

unpopulated,

just mountains and lakes.


From above

these lakes look like lizards

or hard corals of whimsical forms

or some other strange creatures -

not like normal lakes, round or oval,

not at all.


And the rivers remind me of young sakuras

with flexible branches,

their trunks being almost like branches,

as thin as the branches...


How can I describe India?

So many words have been said

about its striking contrasts,

of its utmost poverty

and overwhelming riches,

about its temples,

some of which

are carved of marble

where each column,

each little thing

is meant to symbolize Infinity...


But...

has anyone said about the langoors monkeys

who sit on the stone bridge

hugging their babies

on the way from Udaipur to Jodpur?


About the banyan and neem trees,

their precious qualities,

or about the wild peacocks

who come in dozens with their gutteral cries

not long before the sunset

and make themselves at home

in rich estates,

the heritage property

turned into posh hotels?


Has anyone said about the soft air

and a mild flower fragrance

in the Udaipur Palace

where the bogan villia

flowers like blossoming oleanders?


About the glittering waters of the lake

when you sit on the Sun Set Terrace

looking at the Lake Palace,

which pretends to be a white ship

ready to put up its anchor,

but will never do so?


I'm sure

a lot has been said

about the politeness and cordiality

of the servants in the Palace.


But

has anyone said

about the joyful hospitable spirit

of its Shriji,

of his royal kindness and generousity

as well as

about his inexhaustible sense of humour?


March 16, 2007