No Mercy
Each elephant labored under the weight of two humans clinging to the rails on the outside of the cushion strapped to its back. We climbed the steep, stone road to the Amber Fort in Jaipur, India, up the mountain in the shriveling, dry heat. A young Indian man walked along side, waving paintings, scenes of the fort and former armies and emperors, shouting lower prices as the elephant climbed higher and higher. He passed the rolled, linen paintings to the mahout perched on the elephant’s neck like a collar. He tried to pass them to us. We said, “No,” waving our hands dismissively, yet more hawkers appeared below, waving souvenirs up at us, shouting prices. The stones of the mountain and fort rose, dry and crumbling, all around us. All we could hear were the hawkers, like crows circling carrion and pecking at the ground. We clung to the elephants, trying to enjoy the view of the fort and mountains as we approached the sprawling, stone complex.
In the courtyard of the stone walls, palace and barracks, the elephants rolled to a stop. We climbed down, surrounded by men and women trying to sell us jewelry, magnets, t-shirts, statuettes, and other such things, touristy and cheap. They touched our arms, begged an inch from our faces.
“Only 500 rupees!”
“Look, good elephant carvings, made of finest wood.”
“ Look, very fine necklace. I give you good price.”
“Okay, 300 rupees.”
“Look, very fine incense. Good smell.”
“You buy paintings of elephants?”
“Okay, 200 rupees.”
“No,” we yelled, walking away while they followed. Occasionally someone gave up, stopped, bought something. Encouraged, hawkers gathered around more insistently, making it difficult to hear our guide explain the history of the fort while showing us through it.
It was summer and off-season. Our group was their only hope for a sale that afternoon. Twenty westerners wandered the palace and barracks, pushing away touts and hawkers; then we lumbered down the mountain path to our bus, sharing photos in our cameras’ view finders of the elephants’ painful passage up, the air filled with the stench of sweat and burdens.
An Indian woman followed. It was hard to tell her age. Her hair was black and thick in one long braid down her back, her light-brown face lined with wrinkles. Short and thin, she stooped as she walked, carrying a small bundle. She sat on the last step, then leaned forward, hands clasped together in prayer. Her sari was almost translucent, as though it had been washed too many times. She placed her bag of wooden figurines and paintings of the fort beside her. She watched as we queued up by the bus door, climbing into it one by one, ignoring several men trying to sell us postcards. Our driver handed each of us a bottle of water. Across the parking lot, she sat, slowly fanning herself with a painting.
In the courtyard of the stone walls, palace and barracks, the elephants rolled to a stop. We climbed down, surrounded by men and women trying to sell us jewelry, magnets, t-shirts, statuettes, and other such things, touristy and cheap. They touched our arms, begged an inch from our faces.
“Only 500 rupees!”
“Look, good elephant carvings, made of finest wood.”
“ Look, very fine necklace. I give you good price.”
“Okay, 300 rupees.”
“Look, very fine incense. Good smell.”
“You buy paintings of elephants?”
“Okay, 200 rupees.”
“No,” we yelled, walking away while they followed. Occasionally someone gave up, stopped, bought something. Encouraged, hawkers gathered around more insistently, making it difficult to hear our guide explain the history of the fort while showing us through it.
It was summer and off-season. Our group was their only hope for a sale that afternoon. Twenty westerners wandered the palace and barracks, pushing away touts and hawkers; then we lumbered down the mountain path to our bus, sharing photos in our cameras’ view finders of the elephants’ painful passage up, the air filled with the stench of sweat and burdens.
An Indian woman followed. It was hard to tell her age. Her hair was black and thick in one long braid down her back, her light-brown face lined with wrinkles. Short and thin, she stooped as she walked, carrying a small bundle. She sat on the last step, then leaned forward, hands clasped together in prayer. Her sari was almost translucent, as though it had been washed too many times. She placed her bag of wooden figurines and paintings of the fort beside her. She watched as we queued up by the bus door, climbing into it one by one, ignoring several men trying to sell us postcards. Our driver handed each of us a bottle of water. Across the parking lot, she sat, slowly fanning herself with a painting.
The Cadence of Passage by Pat Hanahoe-Dosch
1.
My backpack weighs down
my back, my knees, as I push through
crowded passages in train cars.
There are no empty seats.
At the back of a car, next to a door,
I shrug the pack off my shoulders,
lean against it while I sit on the iron
floor despite sticky grime,
cigarette smoke, smells of
stale urine, sweat, incense, cardamom.
People talk in Thai around me.
One man tries
to practice his English,
says, Where you from? He does not understand
New Jersey. He frowns,
New York? I do not know
how to answer. We pass
fragile huts on stilts,
frayed bamboo or cane walls
patched with planks, banana leaves, palm fronds.
At times there rises
a graceful horn, the gold tier
of a temple beside a sewered stream.
A woman tosses her baby’s diaper
out the window. The opened
compartment door shows piles
of trash along the tracks
that disappear
beneath the enfolding night.
The foul smell of a durian fruit
wafts through the compartment
as a woman slices the sweet delicacy
and its manure odor drifts back.
Outside, rice paddies fan into the border
of Mynmar, the horizon encircling us.
2.
This stop seems as good
as any other, the village’s name,
a strange cipher of graphics.
A woman approaches, seems kind,
wants to practice English,
could use a few baht
in exchange for a space on her floor.
We remove our shoes before entering
her home. I am surprised at how clean
the large space is. Beneath us
I can hear the river licking
the stilts that hold the house.
We sit on woven mats,
eat rice and curry,
smile and chat as children come and go,
running away to laugh
and tell everyone a farang
with blue eyes has come to stay awhile.
The woman waves me to a ladder, strips down
to her waist, climbs below
and washes in the river. Taking off my shirt,
I step down
to the water.
The smell of sewage is not as strong
as I expected. The brown, muddy
river seems thick, but not
unapproachable. I scoop a handful,
pour it over my breasts,
gasp from the oily cold.
An old woman floating by
in a wooden flat boat laughs,
smiling, tosses a poppy blossom.
A temple bell sounds in the distance,
the cadence of our climb
back to the house
moves with it,
naturally as our breath.
In the air, rain gathers,
but the heat won’t
break. A train clatters past.
Tomorrow I will continue
south, on a train, rattling
past houses and rivers and families
and somewhere along the way,
some night, I will dream of where I am,
not where I’m going or where I’ve been.
________________________________________________________________________________________
1.
My backpack weighs down
my back, my knees, as I push through
crowded passages in train cars.
There are no empty seats.
At the back of a car, next to a door,
I shrug the pack off my shoulders,
lean against it while I sit on the iron
floor despite sticky grime,
cigarette smoke, smells of
stale urine, sweat, incense, cardamom.
People talk in Thai around me.
One man tries
to practice his English,
says, Where you from? He does not understand
New Jersey. He frowns,
New York? I do not know
how to answer. We pass
fragile huts on stilts,
frayed bamboo or cane walls
patched with planks, banana leaves, palm fronds.
At times there rises
a graceful horn, the gold tier
of a temple beside a sewered stream.
A woman tosses her baby’s diaper
out the window. The opened
compartment door shows piles
of trash along the tracks
that disappear
beneath the enfolding night.
The foul smell of a durian fruit
wafts through the compartment
as a woman slices the sweet delicacy
and its manure odor drifts back.
Outside, rice paddies fan into the border
of Mynmar, the horizon encircling us.
2.
This stop seems as good
as any other, the village’s name,
a strange cipher of graphics.
A woman approaches, seems kind,
wants to practice English,
could use a few baht
in exchange for a space on her floor.
We remove our shoes before entering
her home. I am surprised at how clean
the large space is. Beneath us
I can hear the river licking
the stilts that hold the house.
We sit on woven mats,
eat rice and curry,
smile and chat as children come and go,
running away to laugh
and tell everyone a farang
with blue eyes has come to stay awhile.
The woman waves me to a ladder, strips down
to her waist, climbs below
and washes in the river. Taking off my shirt,
I step down
to the water.
The smell of sewage is not as strong
as I expected. The brown, muddy
river seems thick, but not
unapproachable. I scoop a handful,
pour it over my breasts,
gasp from the oily cold.
An old woman floating by
in a wooden flat boat laughs,
smiling, tosses a poppy blossom.
A temple bell sounds in the distance,
the cadence of our climb
back to the house
moves with it,
naturally as our breath.
In the air, rain gathers,
but the heat won’t
break. A train clatters past.
Tomorrow I will continue
south, on a train, rattling
past houses and rivers and families
and somewhere along the way,
some night, I will dream of where I am,
not where I’m going or where I’ve been.
________________________________________________________________________________________