In the arati
waving of the lights
they blow the conch
at the beginning.
Yom Kippur they blow it at the end.
In India, no one knew if
Sai Baba (not the one who conjured Rolexes)
the one whose face
you see in every truck and taxi–
no one knew if he
was Hindu or Muslim,
so when he died
they argued about whether
they should burn or bury him.
The dispute was settled
when the body disappeared
I don’t know if I believe this
but something vanishes
when you fight over the dead body
of someone who loved you.
To blow the conch
you purse your lips
to get a seal
and force air through.
Too much and your ears pop,
too little you don’t get the sound.
Like flutes from sticks and reeds
and drums from skins
our first instruments
the conch is calling you to worship
or sealing the prayers you’ve made.
I don’t know if I believe in prayers–
don’t they just reinforce duality,
and isn’t duality the whole problem?
But the sound of the conch calls me anyway.
The temple had two entrances
Westerners who’d come
to lose and find themselves
would enter from the inside court
from the opposite door
opening to the unpaved village road
Adivasis would stream in
Next to me a tiny woman
in a torn sari
wearing her mangalsutra
barefoot ageless
rings on her toes
would take her place
me with my traveler’s checks
and portable water filter
and then the conch would sound
and its cry
would call
and you forgot which
door you entered from.
A professional editor for over thirty years, Ed works in a variety of genres. His projects have received publishing and professional awards.