Kanchenjunga Walk
The clouds, they floated up
so amazingly slow.
They wrapped the pine trees
in their course.
The sun gleamed
through thickset groves,
or was it the orange glow
of sizzling charcoal?
Amidst steep avenues
as I leisurely strolled,
the Kanchenjunga’s tips
white in the sunlight shone.
And though I felt the chill
for long in my bones,
it was at a glimpse of her face
I decidedly froze.
Squatting on the pavement,
an iron brazier she fanned,
over which several cobs of corn baked.
Her fair face now a beet-red
glistened in its warm haze –
or was it the glaze of self-assuredness
she brazenly emanated?
There was as if a halo over her
of optimism, in acceptance of her fight.
As I walked towards her
drawn by her pretty warm smile,
I noticed over the wine-red lips
her sparkling brown eyes.
Then I viewed the thick red vermillion
on the parting of her head:
as in his school-uniform, her little boy
at me playfully grimaced.
Even as I waited
for my ear of corn to roast,
another bright face like the moon
rising over the hill, came along.
She smiled at the squatting corn-woman,
both their eyes crinkling ravine deep.
The latter’s silver hair shone,
brighter than the mountain peaks.
This approaching woman
was bent low to retain her balance,
as strapped from her head –
behind her, a band of coir rope tarried:
It held two black stroller suitcases
also a white tote baggage.
And behind her mountainous bulk
strode to a hill-hotel a young frisky couple.
In awed compassion I rambled along
munching kernels of corn cob.
Through thick fog, what do I see:
with jute basket’s hung behind them on coir ropes,
two women clambering up towards me.
Both tea-pluckers, chatted animatedly
about their tough day’s work:
of abusive, rigid supervisors they reckoned.
I came atop a third grill-canopied hangout
after crossing two similar ones,
on the L-shaped Kanchenjunga-view walk.
The youth congregate here on dates –
over tea, coffee, corn, peanuts, not much more.
But are dressed as if walking the ramp at a fashion show.
They liven up the often foggy Darjeeling landscape
with a fashion-sense par excellence.
As I walk on crunching roasted peanuts now,
the fog shrouds me, or is it clouds?
Shivering in the chill I dash for shelter,
under the tin stall of a woollen garments seller.
She smiles, bids me to sit, her face so bright –
it’s not only from makeup, also amber of her warm heart.
Thunder rumbles, as large drops of rain descend –
I’m sheathed in awe: of poise, resilience of hill people.
(PS: The pictures here, are merely illustrative, though I’ve clicked them myself.)
