Duty/Free
Waiting for my flight/JFK. Only wandered in because I had time. The Swiss shampoo on special did too–thyme, rosemary, a dirndl of herbs and alpine flowers pristinely depicted in a sleek green bottle way too costly even on sale, even duty-free.
Still, a whiff of Switzerland might be handy, I thought, already pretty sure that India (where I was headed to do research) would not be a bushel of Edelweiss.
To be fair, not all smells were stench–a deeply stabilizing pungency emanated from burning cow patties; the waft of sweet milky tea always uplifted; the rose chutney (that I, at first, confused with betel nut) smelled like love in spring; but there were also quantities of mustard oil (that, when rancid, stinks like sardines), bunched sweat, and, on far too many walls and footpaths, the soak of urine.
I love India, but it is hard without regard to its scents, and, after a while, I became so exhausted by the chaotic jam of bodies and needs, by the frustration of trying to do my work that a few dabs of Swiss shampoo below the old schnoz would no longer make me feel as if order and efficient freshness were actual possibilities in the world. So (research going nowhere anyway), I escaped to the beach, Goa, the place where the 1960’s took refuge, a tie-dyed coast filled with backpacking Westerners.
All seemed like paradise until I realized that the powder a lot of the Westerners were non-stop rolling into their bidis was actually smack.
And that my relaxing beachside ashram, run by missionaries, housed only a few, like me, who could pay, but was mainly home to those who’d somehow gotten lost along their journeys–
Her name was Shanti–”which means peace,” she smiled–and, when I asked where she was from (I could tell U.S.), said, “the world.”
Shanti, a girl with kaleidoscope eyes, and sunburnt skin, long hair with swathes both stressed and coconut-oiled, body corded as a rope, showed me the showers–rough cubicles made of burlap and green vine–stamped her bare foot repeatedly because, she said, rats sometimes went for the nearby compost, cried “heeyah” to scare them off.
Shuddering, I stepped in, and slowly began pouring water over salty shoulders, trying to unwind as I heard her sing softly just outside, till she smelled my Swiss shampoo, and peeling off skirt and halter, stepped in beside me, kaleidoscope eyes spiraling wider, “what is that smell?”
I squeezed some into her palm and then another palm, and again, as kaleidoscopes closed in the bliss of dancing veda, she lathered repeatedly, even after the water bucket had run out; the moist tropical air, the scents of cumin and rot and mud too beneath our feet, overwhelmed with Alpine flora.
And I, who still had traveler’s checks in my backpack still had, in fact, a backpack and visa and passport and plane ticket, and a home to have plane ticket to, made myself say ‘ here, do you want to keep the whole bottle?”
What else was there to say?
Though I don’t think the words came from generosity exactly, or even a sense of duty to my fellow countrywoman, but from this sudden burning envy for that streaming sudsy bliss, the shine of satisfaction in Shanti’s shut eyes, a courageous trust in the random–this moment, and too, the next–the gift of my Swiss shampoo just a way to barter for a piece of that.
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I’m not sure the above can really be called a poem, but I wrote it for dVerse Poets Pub Poetics challenge “Duty Calls,” which I am hosting today. I urge you all to check out dVerse and the wonderful poets posting there, and try the challenge yourself!
Also, if you have time and inclination, check out my books! Very fun novel, NOSE DIVE, book of poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, or children’s counting book 1 MISSISSIPPI. )
ManicDDaily 
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