THROUGH A RAJASTHAN NIGHT

Ensconced in a coffin, I flew through the night.

Through cities so dead at an hour so early, it

Seemed they’d been cursed by plague. Then, in

One nameless town, a dozen figures gathered

Round open fires, obeying a Shamanic rite to

Cleanse the world; in another a brass band

Thundered whilst citizens threw their arms in

The air with raucous joy, raining petals on a

Bride, awaiting her beau, at that very moment

Careering towards her, his white steed cleaving

The darkness in two, shedding his sins to arrive

On time for the redemption of love. The cold wind

Blew through the coffin as wagons loaded with

Pearls, spices, elephants and toads klaxoned

Their extravagance, pausing for no man. I saw

Pale palaces adorned with prayers, minarets

Gloating, temples reclaiming their swastikas, in

The most ancient of rites, the passing of night,

The quest for a new day, the resurrection and

The dawn. In the morning I was released from

My coffin. I found myself cast away in the fairy

Land of Udaipur, where the water sings to the

White palaces that scatter its lakes like lilies,

Whilst the women wash their rainbows in the

Grey green water which will nightly turn to gold,

As they were instructed to do by the one who

First conjured a prince who could bring the flower

Of her dream to life; and put the night to sleep.

THE COFFIN

The luxury class method of travel from Jaipur

Was a box suspended in mid-air, the size of a

Coffin, made for two. Here the rich are embalmed

For the night, to supposedly wake refreshed.

Not being rich, I did not sleep, and the walls of

The coffin pressed down like the sum of all my vice.

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UDAIPUR

The Maharana of Udaipur claims to belong to the

Oldest ruling family in the world. His palace is called

The City Palace, and in fact contains five palaces,

With a new one added every hundred and fifty years,

Or so. In the middle of his man-made lake float two

More fairy tale islands. Made to order. Last night,

Around ten, the Lake Palace indulged in a firework

Display of such dazzling glamour it might have been

Announcing the arrival of a new messiah. Or Buddha.

Or Krishna. Phosphorescent trails spiralled into water,

Each one a dying swan. In the self same lake, the

Following morning, the poor arrive to wash, brush their

Teeth and beat their clothes clean. A polarised daily

Life unchanged for centuries, each new day a

Portrait of India’s restless carnival of genetic fate.

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