A Hindu Panegyrist Remembers Sultan Mahmud

                              Ghazna, 1030

 

The wasting disease was bad enough,

Then he started losing his mind.

Visiting the treasury the week he died,

His jewels on display, he broke down

And wept like a child. New comers

Won’t believe it, but Ghazna used to be

A miserable little place, known only for

The sweetness of its melons, before he

Changed its face, gave it a skyline

To rival Baghdad’s. He also changed our lives.

Each year before the onset of winter

He’d set off on his Indian campaign,

And four months later, when he returned

In the spring, the camel trains carrying

The spoils of war took a day and a night

To go past my door. We sang his praises,

He didn’t stint on the reward; gold mostly,

But sometimes a string of pearls

Or a silk robe, like the one I’m wearing.

 

 

They’ll Ride Out Any Storm

 

Five or so years ago,

He set up a roadside stall,

From where he sold towels,

Bedlinen, cheap ready-mades,

And Smiley wall hangings.

 

Business must’ve been good,

For he soon expanded it

To include a Xerox facility,

A phone booth,

And a dealership in inverters.

 

I got to like this man.

From a passing cart

Laden with disco papayas

He once helped me pick

A sweet one.

 

The last time I saw him

There was a summer

Dust storm blowing,

And while everyone else

Ran for cover

 

He was fast asleep

On a pile

Of machine-washable

Export quality

Scatter rugs.

 

 

Herodotus, My Mother, and Civets

 

There are no gold-digging ants here,

Or trees that bear wool instead of fruit,

Or men whose ears reach to their feet.

But I have seen my mother recently,

Her remembering head thrown back,

Having oil rubbed in her thinning white hair,

And at night heard the civets, come out to forage.

Woken up by a banging on the roof,

I saw their silhouettes, as they stood

On the storage tank, the moon behind them.