I remember a mid monsoon trek
In the smoky black and green hue
Sharing one multicolored umbrella
Down the rain-pines falling abjectly on
Plastic covers…The only memory I share
With myself
Of teen-hood self identifying among
The mountain monks and cobra flower andBrown orchids…
The strong flavour of raisin pickle
Punching momos in a Darjeeling cottage
Living on the edge
Of death that mirrors
Among multitudinous torch-insects on the back
Of dark still horses and yaks
Above us our
Monasteries that buoy in the
Nothingness, like a suspended pendulum
Striking religiously
I wanted to write this poem to the black masters
Bringing rain to appease the weary road
Carrying men and women like labour indeed
You never know, when on the observatory road
Observation reduces to self-introspection
And aspirations inhaled from coffee-beans in kettle
boiling
With anger…
Darjeeling is a poetry by the woods
Erratic, unpredictable, like a locust lost its way
Under the tall standing punctuations…
A heaven beneath heaven
A paradise in all
Where the fountain make ceaseless love in the river-bed.
Pathways winding unto vespers
Digging into monumental fancies
At the toe of the green ranges
With wild red blisters
That taste like dwarfed strawberries.
Walking on the map of wet dreams and trousers
Stinking humidity…
More thirty-two miles to Gairibaans-
A land on the lap of the hills…
I made a sponge ball of myself
Sopping every nectar in the honey cluster
I sipped the wine poured by his tongue
He who was our guide
A bewildered adolescent sherpa…
I scaled the cleavage of the sunrise point
Larger than normal… the peaks of Kanchenzunga
Were youthful and provoking…
I built a clip of hissing rivers
The land of coffee-cult and
The myth of rejuvenation in every cup of green tea…
Darjeeling is pregnant
Of our teen-hood memories
No comments:
Post a Comment