Thirtha 11
The bus
conductor thunders, “Haaji Ali,”
above the
muezzin’s pitch, above cymbals clashing
around the
corner by the jasmine vendors.
I wait among
garish women on a ribbon of road at the head of the bay,
where
double-decker buses hurtle into town, the dome
rising
behind me, white and gleaming at low tide.
Crows and
gulls wing about, searching.
On the floor
of the bay, a path moves steadily to Allah’s heart.
I think of
Muhammad describing to Meccans
the light he
had seen above the seventh tier of the mountain—
it was
bright, you know, like…
but couldn’t
find metaphors to paint the image that stunned him.
The singing
on the cliff mingles with the muezzin’s prayer.
Both loud,
their long syllables wind down the water’s edge,
rise among
the birds, dip low, lift, and circle mosque and temple.
Nudged from
one random thought to another, I wait for the right bus.
“Do you know
if 47 comes here? It’s new,” asks a woman in green.
I shrug,
‘I’m new.”
One stops; a
call pierces the heat, “Mahalakshmi”:
Different
names for the same stop,
different
names for God.