MAHARANI by Bohdan Sirant, 2012 Sunday dawns sunbeams light up an old creaky bed One made of mango burnished

a rusty orange-red Its chiseled frame shining as if cherry amber all aglow the boards ornately carved with prowling tigers elephants with trunks raised up monkeys with curved tails scrambling up tilting trees and coconut palms gathering mellow fruit and Natures other alms and various shapes of leaf with veiled village girls and all their patent charms jingling bangles on their arms and jungle trails bent serpents with twisting tails and other exotic scenes and rural events all blissful and content in classic bas-relief stretching far across the Indian subcontinent My maharani1 sleeps like the lofty Hindu Kush sprawling like Kashmir its fertile valley lush and ancient timber bush fed by cascading rivers clear they flow swiftly down in bubbling whips bringing pure and vital silts from the radiant mountain tips and diamond crown of Pir Panjal they churn, roil and fall down through the vast vale and every secluded dell
1

From the Sanskrit, meaning great queen.

deposit life-sustaining riches to every field and well for the common benefit of all to nurture every living thing whether on foot, hoof, fin, or wing The quilted teal blue duvet dips below her ample hips and tush forms a pristine alpine lake sparkling with spectral ray and hue a shimmering shake and source of clear cool flush that froth and rush to sustain the teaming life below the glacial crush Her occasional snores that slip from her lips recall distant elephant tromboning and trumpeting faintly echoing across decades through a vivid and verdant valley and terraced rice paddy where a buffalo wades past a breezy glade where peacocks slowly stir and further still past this mornings kill and scene of wild distress to a mound of boldly striped fur where a snoozing regal tigress and her snuggled kittens purr Long locks of glossy raven hair flow, curl and cascade down as if a wide and winding river its chilly melt flowing along the folds of silvery satin sheets to the headwaters of the sacred Ganges its richly laden waters flowing past the temples of ancient Benares and the burning pyres glowing and the wrapped dead floating down to the bright Bay of Bengal glittering at the foot of the bed

As she slumbers I sip and savor the roasted essences of a dark magical forest and in the long shadow of a Himalayan range of recently bought poetry books I read Billy Collins for a change The anthology rests high on the snowy foothills of my stomach and thighs shining like Mount Everest gleaming in the alpenglow of sunrise Im at my sporting best early to rise feeling for once healthy, wealthy, and wise like a winner of a rare and much sought prize like a self-indulgent raja sporting an ostentatious badge a parade star with the motto Heavens Light Our Guide surrounded by a white-gloved entourage at some colonial hunting lodge steeped in tradition and ceremony like afternoon tea up in a breezy tree house in a venerable banyan tree and doing whatever one does on safari like go on an elephant ride and if its too hot and steamy Ill sip on a passion fruit lassi or an icy martini listen to llayarajas first symphony and for supper start with soup say Mulligatawny followed by cold mutton biryani and chilled aloo tikki and for a desert finale creamy badam phirni then finish with pan supari and after all that when feeling dreamy make love to my sweet maharani