The Himalayas.....

THE HIMALAYAS....

The roof of the earth, the emperor of all mountains,

you stand there, a benevolent force,

your arms spread wide encompassing one tall fortress after another, 

standing protectively over the lands north and south,

you are not as foreboding as I had thought. 

It’s you, every year thousands of people go to meet,  

million others live on the foothills at your feet.

So many others want to conquer you, 

they take you for granted, scramble all over, 

sometimes even have the temerity to trash you. 

What do they know?

These pesky trespassers,

for you are the original warrior, 

who in the Mesozoic era,

rose triumphantly from the ancient deep bed of the Tethys sea.

Do the mountaineers know they are on a pilgrimage?

After all, you are the abode of Gods,

where the divinity resides,

and watches us mere mortals  

go on with our lives.

But you don’t like to blow your own trumpet, 

instead, just stand there serenely. 

It’s rarely do we hear when you lost your calm, 

and a mountaineer was lost in your snow white arm.  

Time, spiritual and cultural voyagers

Once I went on a journey on the upper reaches of ,

me and my fellow travelers were no mountaineers, 

just a group of tourists on a packaged tour.

It was the month of June. 

flora and fauna was abloom,

yet we were pounded by a snow storm 

leaving us stranded in an old monastery.

Solitude, fortitude, 16000 feet above the sea altitude.

All of us sat in an old chamber, 

a fireplace and coal filled Bukhari heated up the place.

All around sat the enigmatic and austere lamas,

the many modern Buddhas,

shaved heads and gaunt visages,

dressed in maroon robes and one luxury --- Nike sneakers. 

The chanting, resonating, matching 

with the rhythm of our heart beats.

The old Tankha paintings in faded vegetable paints

radiantly shone almost anew,

in candle flames with muted glow.

There we sat, a group of jaded, mostly westerners, in this magical Eastern land.

Was there a collective sigh? 

I do not know. 

Were we time and cultural voyagers?

I guess so.

Kanchanjunga

n east ,

on a clear day, you can come across

a magnificent and mystical panorama,

detailed in ancient scriptures by great lamas,

an enchanting sight, 

in the glow of dawn’s ruby light,

the strawberry snowy peaks,

the mighty cliffs,

a lofty castle in the sky.

It’s the Kanchanjunga.

Even if I were a hotshot scribe,

the emotion I felt 

when I first saw this view would be hard to describe.

Looking at the mountainous shrine,

I felt a good kind of shiver

run up my spine.

For even now just its memory, 

the warmth and hospitality,

the starkness and beauty,

of the landscape and humanity

of that pristine land,

brings a whistle on my lips and a certain bounce in my stride.