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A warm wind washes the forecourt,
condapana palms sway in Old Bombay;
lithe dresses on a line. Droplets splatter the
dwarapalaka, he dances round the puddles,
jet faced shaker fakir; Raj ribbons rattle,
medals from an unmentionable age.

Palace Hotel guards, dressed in Empire Khaki,
wave me through; heads wagging side to side
as Hindus do. The lift groans to a stop,
braying recalcitrant.

I climb the stairs to the third. Saturdays
the hall would be packed with accolades
and Chivas Regal tipplers and the
exquisiteness of Shamshad Begum.

My trunk call to 's-Hertogenbosch rings.
My neighbour waves from across the hall,
he beckons me. Music and aroma flood from
his suite redolent of Arab culture and cuisine.
I sense his young bride nearby - timing.

I take the call, her voice sweetens
my day from a million miles away.
The lights flicker then fail. I move
around by the beam of a lone street lamp.

From across the buildings, the light
of his room framed by the darkness, a young
man sits; seemingly so close I can touch,
fussed over, caressed by his mother.

I become voyeur and watch his sisters
weave around them in silk colour-splashed
saris arousing a desire in me to join them;
the monsoon tail slashes the window,

'Are you there?'
'Yes, I'm here.'

The Iranian Embassy in London has
been besieged by extremists. The SAS
have shot dead five terrorists.
She's worried.

Soft voices percolate down the line
from the TV, thousands sing the
harmonies of my youth; competing
with her tender voice.

I experience an overpowering
longing for home.

End.

Note, this poem has undergone a massive number of edits
I tried to force the word Hiraeth but it doesn't work, so for me a more
mundane phrase, longing for home.

I like the details, and how you immerse us in a different setting, as in

A warm wind washes the forecourt,
condapana palms sway in Old Bombay,
lithe dresses on a line.

and this is a very sweet stanza:

From across the buildings, the light
of his room framed by the darkness, a young
man sits, seemingly so close I can touch,
fussed over, caressed by his mother.

I would end the poem on the line 'The monsoon tail slashes the window.' Monsoon tail is a lovely description. And the stanza preceding it is warm and emotional...you want to end on an emotional touch.

The 'Are you there?' etc. lines feel staged. You don't need to go any farther than the monsoon line. Consider it....as always, an enjoyable read, Frank. Best, Bob

Thanks Bob
This is my favourite poem of all time, my own I mean.

Thanks for explaining your goals, Frank. I actually adore the last stanza, although you may need to note 'hiraeth' somewhere outside the poem. Maybe you could remove these 3 lines:

Are you there?

Yes, I'm here.

The cameo fades out like a John Ford film,

and go with something like this:

The monsoon tail slashes the window,
as soft harmonies rise and fall from
seventy thousand voices--Wales are playing
New Zealand at the Arms Park; television
competing with her tender call.

The washing of the rain reminds me
of a summer's day at home, and evokes in me
the deep longing and sadness of hiraeth.

Thanks Bob.

I miss Bernie! What a talent!

Yes, indeed. I think he misses us too,

The Indian scenario extends a familiarity.
The condapana palms found only in India sets the tone. It adds to thedesi feel.
Monsoon winds are usually warm. I feel warm is unnecessary here.
The tree bends and sways like lithe dresses in a line.
A good imagery there. The old Bombay flats do have a cloth line in which clothes are hung to dry
I visualise those too along with the condapana palms.

The dwarapalaka being drenched in the rain as he dances around the puddles, a jet faced shaker fakir. It is off the mark-implausible.Dwarapalaks are doorkeepers, usually huge and massive, They stand on either side of the garbagraha.
Droplets splatter the
dwaraplaka he dances round the puddles,
jet faced shaker fakir
seem to be far fetched. No chance of dwarapalaka to get wet.Fakir is a Hindu religious ascetic. Ascribing the dwarapalaka to a fakir is not relevant.

Palace Hotel guards dressed in Empire Khaki
wave me through, heads wagging side to side
as Hindus do.

The idiosyncrasy of the Indians, (not only the Hindus) is the head bobble.It shows refusal, denial,doubt, hesitation. In simple terms could mean "yes", "no", "don't know". This trait has been a subject of humour for long. A tease, perhaps.

The lift stops working. Could be due to electrical failure or due to the frequent electrical power failures common in the Indian subcontinent?
How to interpret "timing"?
Do you mean the coincidence- the trunk call from your land and the beckoning of the neighbour accompanied by his young bride happen at the same time?

I take the call, her voice sweetens
my day from a million miles away.
The lights flicker then fail. I move
around by the beam of the lone street lamp.

This stanza, evokes a feeling, a thought, reflecting the pang of separation.
"her voice sweetens my day....."
spill out the essence of love. A great line. I like it.
"The light flickers and fails". A sense of happiness lights up the face.Soon it fades away.
The movement under the light of the lone street lamp elicits the loneliness.

A young man feted by his mother surrounded by his sisters seem to be strange to a Welsh.
It is a familiar sight to us, Indians. The proximity is nothing peculiar. It is a normal one.

"The monsoon tail slashes the window"
A vivid description of the monsoon. Monsoons are heavy and at times result in inundating the land.

Then the scenario shifts.

An undercurrent of sadness, notwithstanding the longing to return, runs through the poem.

With a little trimming and tightening " Monsoon Moments" would become a classic.

Thanks Meena.