the horse is a centaur

"Horse", says Muhammad Deshmukh
my driver, a veteran of the NH4 run.
I do not see it, he does not need to.
His sense of smell classifies roadkill like Aristotle.
Three-fourths of a century of olfactory competence
can distinguish genus and pedigree, bitches
in and out of season, those with the mange
from those without.
The highway proffers a rich repast,
Mhamdu is a gourmand.

Swerving smoothly to an inch of torn flesh
and brain-speckled mane, he stays within his lane.
A galling sweetness is stapled
to the end of my tongue, I start to cough
in a persistent rhythm. Mhamdu offers water
from a Pepsi bottle, I accept, my stomach does not,
and I have to lean out from the Ambassador
to add my contribution to the feast of smells.

"It's getting to me", I tell the old man
still composed at the wheel.
Suddenly he stiffens, pulls over.
Stepping out he takes in the air once,
and again, and then, he sees.

I follow his gaze: the horse is a centaur.
Limp, beside the swept mane is a windcheater,
smiley-yellow for visibility, and a hooded face,
shielded against the early morning
monsoon whip lashing the highway.

Mhamdu touches the scar on his forehead
and incants: "Innalillahi wa inna ilayhi raaji’oon,
we are from Allah and unto Him will we return.
Maybe it's time I stopped driving. I did not smell the man."

Mustansir Dalvi