Robert Hirschfield finds a moment of grace in a street performance in India.
THE FAMILY comes and stretches a rope between two trees on Sudder Street. The father bangs a drum to summon us from our run down hotels, and his young daughter, twelve maybe, stands poised on the rope, arms spread wide, as if she is about to fly away.
I am standing outside the Hotel Diplomat with nothing to do. A dangerous moment. The Indian poet I am supposed to meet is a half hour late. I am getting tired of waiting. I don’t really like her poetry anyhow. Maybe she doesn’t like mine.