Photocourtesy RKTKN via Unsplash

Bodhgaya,

—the holy village where the Buddha attained enlightenment. Her first trip to India, first pilgrimage, first order of the day: find the bodhi tree and bow down. Liberation on her lips, it had made her a beggar, hands clasped at her chest. She knelt dressed in white and pressed her forehead to the dirt.

The village men, born poor, stayed poor, some abandoned and left to the streets as orphans. Beaten savagely by their own people. Poor beating poor. As if to beat out the poverty, beat out the scarcity, beat out their own starvation and empty cupboards.

She beat her sandals together, releasing a cloud of dust.

The village men.

Uneducated to her educated. Immature fruit to her past-ripe freshness. They craved her love, they coveted her money. She cared only for liberation. Or so she thought. They fancied her and she fancied being fancied and she hated herself for becoming fascinated. She said Don’t fancy me, I am here to pray. But she was their prey. 

They smoked. The air smoked. The weather hazed. The night sultried. The plants sighed. Flowers wilted. Fish cooked dangerously in hot rivers. They would later be boiled in frying oil, along with puri and aloo.

Men and women restless with desire, the Heat taunting with sweat, with sheen. Are you all bravado, no bite? It whispers wickedly in their ears. Look, the Heat says, I’ve made the atmosphere so soft, I’ve weakened their defenses, I’ve stolen piety and prudishness, I’ve paved the way to wanton wanting. Are you all bravado, no bite? 

The Indian night still life. 

At night, the men slept in a bed with their wife or alone or on a mat on the ground. She slept in an air-conditioned hotel room. The moon and stars soared over them the same. The sky blackened further above them equally. In the morning the sun rose a blazing rose. The searing Indian summer boiled their blood, disturbing their sanity, putting wits on a short leash.

The village men craved her love. They coveted her money. Cornering her, their smiles vanished as they held out their hands. Were they begging or demanding. Demanding. She hated them. She hated that she hated them. The village men, having extracted her money, resumed trying to extract her love. They tried to touch her. She touched her lips, was liberation still there? I’m sorry, she whispered, I have to pray.

Her scarf spilled to the ground. Dust coated her throat. She fled for a cup of tea. Pity the men had liberated her cash. One man appeared. He poured her chai and spilled rupees onto the table. They had been her rupees, but now belonged to him. Him. He watched her drink the sweet brew with pride. For this moment, he wasn’t poor.

First light:

His eyes snap open, her eyes snap open. Birdsong enters his ears; the sound of sweeping fills her ears. He drinks a thimble of diluted chai. She drinks a cup of English tea in a tea cup. He steps out and makes his way along the village road. She steps out of the lobby and makes her way to the temple. He comes up from behind her and stops in the middle of the narrow dirt road. You, he says. She obeys as if in a trance. They stand too close while villagers observe them. While a polio-ridden man pushes his board-on-wheels begging for rupees. While tuk-tuks roar by kicking up dust. While the sun bears down and stares down on them, daring them to do something before their wits revive.

Give me a hug, he says. She gives a faint nod and steps forward into his outstretched arm. She leans in and wraps one arm around him, feeling the texture of his denim shirt. He presses his hand in the middle of her back and knows she is wearing a bra. Call me, he says. She nods. She never calls. He thinks he is too poor. She thinks she is too impure. 

At night he secretly cries over his pretend bravado. At night she secretly cries over her pretend bravado.