A Hot Noon in Malabar by Kamala Das
A Hot Noon in Malabar by Kamala Das This is a noon for beggars with whining Voices, a noon for men who come from hills With parrots in a cage and fortune-cards, All stained with time, for brown Kurava girls With old eyes, who read palms in light singsong Voices, for bangle-sellers who spread On the cool black floor those red and green and blue Bangles, all covered with the dust of roads, For all of them, whose feet, devouring rough Miles, grow cracks on the heels, so that when they Clambered up our porch, the noise was grating, Strange . . . This is a noon for strangers who part The window-drapes and peer in, their hot eyes Brimming with the sun, not seeing a thing in Shadowy rooms and turn away and look So yearningly at the brick-ledged well. This Is a noon for strangers with mistrust in Their eyes, dark, silent ones who rarely speak At all, so that when they speak, their voices Run wild, like jungle-voices. Yes, this is A noon for wild men, wild thoughts, wild love. To Be here,