Twice a year for six years, I’d visit my old friends;
Stepping out into the often-biting wind to wave hello.
Charming though they were from afar,
Ivory curtains resting on their shoulders,
Pointedly resolute to the azure,
I lived for the week I spent among them, every year.
The bus weaved through roads which promised
Steep on one side, an early release on the other,
Taking me where stars have banished the night
To the mornings where the pierced sun’s rays
Rained down from the summits
And the wind-whistled songs swept the trees.
Cumbersome tents, rocky trails walked with bags on our backs
Culminated through and to sights forever enamoured:
Clouds of all colours and sizes, even the strange ones—
The purple bones or the blue caterpillar, courtesy of a slanted light
That promised a rainbow of clouds.
But pièce de résistance, the cherry, always lay at the top.
Pity those who haven’t felt the beauty of the valley lie at their feet,
Those who haven’t seen the still calmness these behemoths afford,
Those who haven’t let their hearts beat in tune
And let the souls of mammoth mountains
Speak to theirs,
For they have seen and will what we may never.
Ponder a-while within their range
And they will your mind ignore and your heart amplify.
Hear their arias, feel their stony limbs under you
And marinate in their wisdom.
Glean what you can from their seemingly slumbering experience,
For perhaps the whiteness atop their heads isn’t just the snow.
The photo is taken from Arnaav Bhavanani’s album: m-k/1724 km, 11c, 5d