Twenty souls huddled together
In a small tent. Tired legs
Refuse to sleep.
My partner has taken to his flight of dreams
With a noisy engine,
Waking up every one but himself –
A journey of awakening.
In the morning
Blood streams rebel.
They need all the pushing, pulling and cajoling
And the sun rays.
While the stoic lake Seshnag gathers remnants
Of tents and humans.
This year we were a little short of
Lord Seshnag was too sleepy to oblige us
With his jewel of thousand suns.
But it happened every year –
They had heard it from others.
Legs surrender to the inertia of the road
Narrow, dusty up and down
With scattered snow,
And horse hoofs.
The young and the old
And the gun totting army men
All join the chorus
Har Har Mahadev
The smell from the langars
Rise above hills to carry the prayers
And the menu of the morning moksha.
Har Har Mahadev,
Come and take your seat.
The dilemma of life –
Sweet sour chilly or pungent.
In the cave the linga has vanished to a goal post.
The form has become formless.
Still the priest insists we bow
And shows us last year’s photo.
But I prefer the void.
I thought the journey would end here.
But we retrace our path by the Panjatarani
After just a glimpse of the void
To the tenth ox.