Bruised and battered
Bearing the name of their owners
Carved into their skin
Young women and children
Waggle their heads
As they sell wares
Up and down the beach
Trinkets and baubles
Henna and beads
“Hey, Bargee! You want fruit?
Later then, Acha.”
Sand soft as flour
Still scorches skin
So I buy things they have
They rest on their saris
In the shade of my chair
Alert eyes keep watch
For the men with sticks
Look busy and sell something
This is the daily routine
I know them by name
Sekula and Seetha seek me out
I help them look busy
I give them rest
The stray dogs have names too
Chucko and Scooby
Basket Boy and Beastie
They come out near sundown
When the young women are called away
For less dignified work
And the fishing boats are pulled ashore
By teams of young men
Unloading their catch before dark
Two young brothers sit next to me
And play music
The elder with a hand drum
The younger taps two flat stones together
They never sing or speak
But they flash big white grins
Knowing I will pay them a penny
The edge of the red sun flattens
As it begins to slip into the sea
The fishermen put up their nets
A cannon blasts away
The murder of thieving crows
The sun sets and I rise
Eleven paces to the Lucky Star
A rooster pecks at the stones in the courtyard
Where the food is prepared
Gupta looks up from the fire and smiles
Curry Baby, the child of other tourists, cries
His skin half-stained yellow
A stray is curled-up in a basket
Outside room number 3
I will do this all again tomorrow
And so will everyone else
Only, this is their life journey
I am just a Bargee, a Ganero, a mark, a sucker
In other words, a tourist
And my stay here in southern India has moved my mood
From mental to mellow comatose
