Miracle In Jaipur

Down a shady side-street,
In old Jaipur, sublime sunset city,
Of decaying pinks and reds,
Sits an art school, hidden,
At the top of a squalid building.
Towering above an open sewer,
Sending all the evil scents of the world,
Skywards, to perfume the air,
Crinkling a thousand nostrils,
Breeding a million germs.

Even here, hope is alive,
As is creation.
Amid poverty and decay,
The school twinkles,
As a diamond in the dust.
The colours of Jaipur fade,
Under a dying sun,
But are born again,
Within the confines,
Of this simple school.

Rebirth, life after death,
New life, springing from the tip,
Of a squirrel's tail brush.
Nature's pigments, picked,
Hand-ground from the earth's garden.
Rajasthani red chillies, green mangoes,
Turmeric, indigo, urine, soot, dirt.
All here, all used, re-used,
Recycled, returned, retained,
A shopping list of life.

Some art nauseates, but this,
Is rich, pungent, vibrant, ancient.
New Persian miniatures manufactured
In India. Gloriously, glowingly coloured.
Each clear and accurate,
Just as the old Maharajah would have liked.
His observatory still stands,
Gazing at the heavens,
On each clear night,
A silent sentinel.

Watching the moon rise,
And the stars fall.
The Great Creator at work,
In his heavenly studio.
But are we not miniatures?
Conversation pieces?
Perhaps to be forgotten,
Like the art school,
Down a side-street in old Jaipur,
Turning out little miracles every day.