| | At Shalimar, we made the gardener cry.
We ran through mazes trimmed in marigold,
Past dahlias, cut lily, climbing rose.
The narrow paths contained our games at first,
But soon we cut across the royal beds,
Smashing the courtly gold and purple blooms.
He didn't chase us off. Instead, he ran
To wake our grandfather, evidence in hand:
Crushed petals which he pressed against his face
And then let fall, imploring, please, Sahib, please. . . .
My grandfather rose and scolded us, but softly.
And so we learned, like palace princesses,
That he who seemed the master was not our master.
We slowed our steps, minding the paths he tended.
-- Lynn Aarti Chandhok, from TMR 28.3
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| | Posted 5/23/2006 1:03 AM - 1 view - 0 comments
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