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ARTS AND CULTURE

The joy of one step after the other

  • 14 April 2020
Selected poems The Summit of Choice

 

She is sitting on the edge of a mountain in the Annapurna,

her face, away from the camera,

her gaze, focused on the Lamjung peak,

experiencing a moment of peace

like many before and many after,

the seconds could be hours could be days,

the weather could be challenging or kind,

she could be alone or surrounded by trekkers,

it has taken careful hoarding of time and money

to be sitting there framed by sky and snow

hardly a foot away from death,

thinking of nothing and everything,

feeling No God and All God,

standing up, leaping forward,

standing up, going back,

she is sitting on the edge of a mountain in the Annapurna,

she has crossed a rhododendron forest,

held tightly to the rails of a rickety bridge

overlooking the Marsyangdi River,

she has passed through mud floor, village huts,

compared her mountain boots to Sherpa’s sandals,

guilt and shame has sunk into her breast bone,

her body with its frozen toe, altitude migraine, whimpering stomach

has acclimatised to gratitude

for the nourishment of daahl,

for the breath of pure air,

for the joy of one step after the other,

back home, she was told to strive for Everest,

the one with knife like peaks, aligned with Western quest

to scale the top at cost of health and ego,

she is sitting on the edge of a mountain in the Annapurna,

her cup of contentment continues to be filled and emptied

by her Nepalese mentor

who talks the view into experience of light and dark

of how the lower range brings the cradle of shade

to nurture you as the child you must become.

 

 

Shelter

 

We are the travelers of small steps

wearing pyjamas and slippers

to greet each room as if it were a country

encountered from a plane flight,

konichiwa to the space called Living

ola to the island called Kitchen

ni hao to the mattress of pent up dreams,

in the study there is the desk

holding geography’s memory,

salve, kalimera, take me with you.

 

My mother will be lighting her candles

on her bench top to create her church,

my father will shuffle with his frame

to the chair on the porch with the vista

of his twelve-year-old eyes diving

for sea sponges from an unsteady pier.

 

This space termed Home

is a document of journey

as we come to know the walls as trees

we long to climb,

the doors to close or open

depending on altitude and inclement,

the ceiling will seem higher than Everest,

from the carpet we see the grit

of hiking through jungle.

 

And there, in the lonely corner

is the blue rug to sit on and breathe in

the smell of the ocean calling its waves

to sweep our dust.

 

 

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