RAJASTHANI/MAHARANI

You, beggar girl,

you who stand before me

as I am here sitting in a rickshaw...

and the sessions have ended at the University

of Rajasthan, in this desert province, in Jaipur.

Now out of the museum with ancient Rajput faces

still with me, I note your arresting stare--

you’re not more than seven or eight, smallish,

determined with your shape and style,

personality being all from long ago...

your hands now outstretched.

My denial (in a fashion), studying your

centuries' fold of skin, dark-hued, pale,

eyes large, or truly hollow.

I now address you as a Maharani,

wishing you to reclaim what's lost

because of ancestry I must also reclaim,

despite a failing tradition.

"I am not a maharani," you say, still eloquent

because of elusive destiny, or with an inkling

of a maharajah's pretence long ago, as you yet ask

for alms in your style.

A crowd comes around us, other children moving about.

How I wish to give you a few rupees,

or a mere paisa, despite shouts:

“Don't give her anything. You will only spoil them.

They will just keep asking for more!"

My own wanting, Indian-style.