Lost

Walking up the dry sunny hill in the middle of
May amidst mules decorated with tingling bells
and a bobble on their head dipping sideways as
they jostle past each other carrying boxes of salt,
cigarette and beer for tourists who have earned
their way to this forlorn place with white
mountains where light breeze sings a song of
melancholy and lazy cows, hidden by the trees
and bushes, loll about in the hills, and stray
dogs mill around scavenging stuff thrown
away by the backpackers and their porters cooking
omelets and porridge in the early mornings besides
their colorful tents by the banks of Marsyangdi River,
I could have been living loneliness.

An old man who says “hala, hala” for every
request a child makes for playthings and foibles,
for someone who likes to play in the dusty fields
and get all dirty. When June comes, it is time to
swim in the mud in the paddy fields, ready to receive
rice saplings, which the old man dips in the mud,
nifty, and before the day is gone, the brown muddy
fields are spotted with green saplings, that wait
for more rain, and as the days become darker and
greyer, clouds linger in the sky, refusing to move
north, where there’s a wall of tall mountains that attract
climbers from all parts of the globe: an Italian, Messner,
tries Annapurna and his cheeks turn black with frostbite;
his goggles reflect small children when they come
to gaze at his beard that has not been shaved for weeks,
and carries the mysterious air of the mountain gods.