The Blood Red Earth

In threads of saffron,

bright aromatic veins

of my childhood,

the Khond comes to me.

Dirty knees up to my chin

in the battered tin bath

on the verandah,

I pour water – pumped from the well in our garden –

over my head,

plastering curls flat against my cheeks.

I giggle as the square bar of yellow soap

slips from my slimy grip

and lands on the concrete floor,

skidding,

to rest under the overhanging branch

festooned with ripe bobbing lychees.

I follow the bare leathered soles

pounding the rust-red earth,

in the dance of the rising dust

settling on the silvery edges of the

swish swishing saris.

Brown arms turn and sway

like music-drugged cobras,

bangles clinking.

I run my fingers over

my own glass bangles,

green and gold and red

and spin them round my bony wrist.

I inhale the fruity steam

of the freshly ejected

water buffalo turds

mingling with the scent

of the shaved sandalwood curls

falling between Parvat’s twisted feet.

He gives me some,

smiles and nods his head

as I raise the curls to my nostrils,

then place them carefully

in the pocket of my grimy cotton dress.

I stroke the buffalo calf quickly on its nose

while its mother looks away

and my heart is beating like the rising drums

of a village bear-hunt,

an escalating metronome.

The reverberating clang

of the curry gong

releases Ping and Pong,

with their quack and waddle,

from our inventive clutches

to an hour of respite

under the giant mango tree,

frothy with mustard-coloured flowers.

Salivating in anticipation of Isro’s goat stew,

I run.

Soon every smear is mopped up

and popped into my mouth

with a ripped-off bit of chapatti.

My sister’s eyes meet mine

as we lunge for the last ghee-coated pappadom

and it shatters,

projecting brittle shards like tiny rockets.

The cry of the hungry jackal

roaming the edge of the jungle

startles me

for a moment.

As its suppered belly rests

on the wrong side of the fence

I wonder if it spits the feathers out.

But if I wander too far

back in time,

the trembling shadows

of the Meriah

stretch their arms out

and reel me in.

A young girl’s lip quivers

As her anguished kohl-smudged eyes

Meet mine.

She is my sister too.

The first scream

slices the air

and in the frenzy of knives

and broken veins

and flesh,

the sacrificial harvest-blood

runs through the ground

like threads

of rich red saffron.

The canvas is heavier now,

with layers of textured oils

of darker hues

beneath the brightness

of my childhood brush strokes.

I see the Khond Hills

as they slink

into darkness

on a  frangipani breeze.