Crossing into Tamil Nadu is based on a journey Mara Bergman made with her daughter in India, with the loose narrative taking a dramatic turn in the title poem
FLYING TO INDIA
for Caroline Price It was Caroline who said that flying doesn’t scare her anymore now that her life was full and she no longer felt greedy, that flying was joyful, a way to leave your life for a while and aim for something new, a chance to be spontaneous and incredibly carefree so that by the time she turned fifty she actually loved it – dared to look forward to it – and instead of the pills and the vodka could sit back among the endless blue and immerse herself in that lighthearted feeling you get when nothing much matters or matters so much there’s nothing left to worry about, or lose. As we clear the land, the end of the wing is tipped with light so far above thick drifts of cloud, a child’s vision of heaven, neither here nor there, past or future, but this continual present that stretches on and on, following the light as we enter evening, now and earlier all in one, and like an echo our voices chiming, This might not be a bad way to go.
CROSSING INTO TAMIL NADU
If only I hadn’t seen deer by the lake and our guide hadn’t stopped, and we hadn’t started walking to the edge. If we hadn’t driven extra miles to glimpse crocodiles, lumpy in their prehistoric sunning, mouths open and tongueless; if the day hadn’t dragged on and on winding through plantations of tea, sandalwood, cardamom, our mouths dry as dirt roads; if we hadn’t stopped for drinks of coconut. If only a vanload of children were not feeding monkeys, or one monkey hadn’t lingered to grab all it could, or if you weren’t so intrigued, especially by the babies clinging to their mothers, pointy eared, hungry eyed; if you had resisted taking that photo, wanting so badly to capture that baby, not knowing adults can be jealous, vicious – that they will attack. That a monkey bite can leave a hole the size of a bullet’s. The hospital was far; elephants cause roadblocks. That to stitch an animal wound is against the law in India.
As we drove through the streets of Kochi my last day, a speck of soot, a drift of smoke, a mote of dust flew off the road, caught in my throat. I tried to clear it as we spoke and yet it stuck. I coughed, and then again, to dislodge something insignificant. I took a swig of water but it dared to hold on stronger. I had a meal down by the beach – a plate of rice, a hill of prawns and one tall glass of fresh squeezed lemonade. I watched the sun go down behind the Chinese fishing nets; the air grew cool, the night was calm and nothing moved. I flew eight thousand miles, resumed my life; returned to work, slept in my bed. Still it burns with every word. It’s never left.