German Bakery, after the terrorist attack
13, February 2010

“A Mango Lassi, please”
the waiter smiled at me curious,
trying to guess my nationality from my accent.
He looked bold, but somehow shy.
He had a young brown face and big childish eyes.
He mumbled a few words in courtesy
and was beautiful of a simple beauty.

He looked at me while swinging his head,
They told me in India that gesture means “yes”,
or something like that.
I smiled back.

“Acha, here you are”
The Lassi came with a fly in it:
orange dotted in black.

Even now, I can clearly recall
the clots of dust on the floor;
a little girl, bare feet and dirty
asking for rupees with her tiny stretched hand;
some travelers, patiently carrying their miles on their back;
my aunt sitting next to me radiant
full of life, as she’s always been;
the sweet sound of chatter;

It was early June and in the air
you could feel the Monsoon approaching.
In India they love rain so much.

There was a summer storm enchanting the world with cool drops
when they told me about the bomb.
I imagined being there again, during the Monsoon season,
for a last goodbye before the place was blown apart.

I keep hold of the memories
and here, faraway,
I cannot help but wonder

Was that waiter working there still?

E.C.