LIFE IN INDIA

When I married an Indian he spoke about one day moving to India, but that seemed a long way off at the time.  About 13 years ago we did move here–bringing far too much stuff with us–and I’m making the best of it.  Before moving here, I’d been to India only once in my life, when our children were small.  It seemed very exotic then and some things are still foreign to me.  Just when you start thinking of it as home, something happens that makes you realize that it’s actually a different way of thinking than in the West in many ways.

I’ve starting writing recently at the urging of my daughter who acts and writes.  I’m working on a book about my childhood so that at least my children will understand me and my family better and, if I can get it published one day all the better.  I’ve also considered writing a book about my experiences in India.  I don’t need to depend on writing for a living so I’m just enjoying the process.  I’ve written some poems about India I hope someone out there will enjoy even if it’s just family and friends.  I’m including one of these in this first blog.

    A RIDE IN A MOTOR RICKSHAW

                   The rickshaws are so plentiful

                    And you really need a ride,

                    To try and drive these city streets

                     Can be like suicide.

                      You need to get from place to place,

                       To get from here to there,

                        You need to spend those rupees

                         If you want to pay the fare.

                         You give the rickshaw driver

                          Directions where to go.

                           You climb right in and he takes off.

                           The way he seems to know.

                           And then he speeds right by the street

                            Where he should have made a turn.

                             You have to shout and point the way.

                              You start to feel concern.

                              Car drivers honk their noisy horns,

                                And force their way ahead.

                                 Two-wheelers dive now in, now out.

                                 There is no fear or dread.

                                 Sometimes the driver hits a bump,

                                   And you bounce up, then land.

                                    He takes no notice of your plight,

                                    As he didn’t have it planned.

                                    For richshaws seatbelts don’t exist,

                                     And headrests, there are none,

                                     So you just have to take the risks,

                                      When all is said and done.

                                       Then finally your trip’s complete.

                                        You’ve arrived with time to spare.

                                         You pay the driver rupees owed,

                                          Then he looks for his next fare.