Ode to the Indian heat

pookiehantas — Fri, 4 May 2012 20:33:00 GMT

The river Ganges floweth
from underneath my arms,
It’s tributaries form canals
upon my sweaty palms....
As steady as the beating drum,
the holy sweat it flows,
Look closely as it glistens,
upon my Arab nose...
The sun she bears upon us,
her fruit’s juices are sweet...
I pitter patter through this land,
with cautious, sticky feet.
This is a place of poetry,
one feels it in one’s core
But the theme of sweat, did he neglect...
the selective Mr Tagore.
This mist has moved my spirit –
I’m darker, fatter, bolder...
I hope one day I shall return
but by Jove, when it’s colder!

Photos: Himalayan Highground

pookiehantas — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 12:52:00 GMT

A few snapshots attempting to capture the wonders of the Himalayas

My Scholarship entry - A local encounter that changed my life

pookiehantas — Thu, 19 Apr 2012 19:17:00 GMT

“Chalo Boy!” My landlord’s boom echoed up the rusted spiraled stairway of the guest house. Doors banged, keys fumbled and with the patter of hasty feet, a bewildered ‘Boy’ emerged. His coconut oiled locks gleamed in the early Himalayan light as, head cocked slightly, I was awarded the first of the day’s chip toothed grins. ‘Boy,’ also known as Khan, had been cajoled into being my guide for the day, down the treacherous mountain paths of Dharamsala and into the valley below. Our obstacle course journey involved crossing a river on what appeared to be a piece of stray lead piping, clambering over giant piles of construction rubble and sludging through murky rock pools.

Khan spoke no English with the exception of two words which he used in abundance: 'dangerous' and 'goat.' When a downpour of Himalayan rain cast dark clouds upon us, my new friend pointed at the heavens and uttered, in what I suspect he considered a helpful tone, 'rain.' Several soaked, leg numbing hours later we reached a clearing, where dusty paths found a resting place among brilliant hues of green, the smell of wet earth bringing promise to the eager first buds of the apple trees. The tin roofs of four houses kept each other company amid a family of stray goats and a solitary mother cow. Walking me towards a newly painted blue door, Khan gazed proudly upon the single room in which his mother had raised four bustling boys and exceeding my expectations of his English, cracked the finest chip toothed grin yet. 'This is my home.'

Inside the blue doorway, his family and I passed around a cup of chai and rolled rotis over a smoking flame. They had brought fresh vegetables from the village in my honour and firmly insisted that I ate in plentitude, despite discreetly nibbling themselves. A meal had never tasted so fine. Nobody spoke the same language and nobody needed to. That day, basking in the glow of Himalayan hospitality, I made a beautiful realization. Everyone smiles in the same language.

'This is home'

Ode to the Indian heat

Photos: Himalayan Highground

My Scholarship entry - A local encounter that changed my life