breath of the Himalayas
Pilgrimage to the Badrinath Cave
for Ashok Kashyap
The breath of the Himalayas
crisp and clear as on the last
day of your life accompanies
our own faltering breathing,
as we pass rods of frozen fire
hanging from caves, ice water
dropping—Shiva’s semen
birthing the mighty Ganges.
We could not look back nor
pause to take a breath—
coils of Shiva’s terrible hair
fanned on each side—long
cascades of ice. So many
generations taken this path—
grand-fathers and mothers,
great grandfathers and mothers...
footsteps imprinted upon
footsteps, threaded by time.
You were with us, dear father,
trudging the thirty-ninth year
of your life not much longer,
your deep brown eyes, soft
laughter bubbling in your throat,
body indistinguishable from
other pilgrims, ants colluding
the length of the trail, lost
in the immense landscape—
ocean floor raised to sky,
floating amidst clouds.
Our steps in steady rhythm
scale the years —vast plateau
of life holding up each end.
Somewhere you fell, leaving
us to plod on by ourselves.
Did you mean to fall?
Did our trip that summer
illuminate the quick means
to the end you could not resist?
Too many journeys to get there,
how to get out intact? Car to
train to bus, lurch of wheels
singing death. Debris of cars
point the way toward the last
part of the journey on foot
into the mountain-cave,
home of Shiva, lord of death.
The air in the cave is sweet—
sandalwood incense wafting
toward a tall pillar of ice,
tender romance. A pundit sits
still as ice, chants arising
from his mouth, sonorous
as the hum of black holes
at the center of the universe.
Droplets fall from the knife-
edge of ice, ticking time.
The pundit greets the pilgrims
by name, his assistant rattles
off their fathers, grandfathers,
great-grandfathers’ names,
occupation, time of arrival
in the cave from stacks
of age-old records tied
with moldy string. The list
goes on — names, dates,
mixed with chants, they too
were here, they had come
and gone, journey within
journey, womb of death,
tomb of life, breath, names,
lives dissolved into strings
of chants, march of life
keeping step with death.
We are whisked in and out
in the time the priest takes
to chant our genealogy.
Foreheads smeared with ash,
cold hands sprinkled with ice
waters of life, we are led out
of the darkness. You were
behind me, dear father,
I could not see if you turned
back with a too-fond eye,
and chose to be left behind.
You would never get back,
your body on the train home
heeding the call to the source,
parent of all homes—
the cave was calling.
The train was stopped,
our booth marked by death,
we were made to get off
(no need for dead to travel
with the living.) We carried
your corpse on our laps
in a taxi to the next stage
forward or backward in our lives.
Perhaps you were caught
by the breath of the Himalayas
—chants, pilgrims entering,
leaving the mouth of life,
you could not forget but
forgot instead your own
breath that stayed only
as long as the last leg
of our journey, before
we made it home.
hookah
He recalls nothing
of the Partition*,
or else so much
he cannot bear to speak—
of that terrible march
across the new border,
parallel lines inching
toward opposite ends,
each step—one body,
miles and miles of bodies,
the passage between lines,
a word, a wound.
He blows bubbles
into the water,
each bubble a planet
and he the progenitor
rebuilding life anew—
sucking in, blowing out
the plastic mouth of creation.
* The partition of India in 1947
Athena Kashyap has been writing creative non-fiction, fiction and poetry in the past ten years. Holder of an MFA in poetry from the San Francisco State University, Kashyap has published work in Spork, Squaw Valley Review, the Waits-Mast Poetry Collection 2009 chapbook, the 2009 International edition of The Fourth River, Noe Valley Voice in San Francisco, among other journals in the US. She has been awarded writing workshop fellowships from Squaw Valley and Mount Holyoke College. She currently resides in Bangalore. She blogs at http://athena-travelwriting.blogspot.com/
Pilgrimage to the Badrinath Cave
for Ashok Kashyap
The breath of the Himalayas
crisp and clear as on the last
day of your life accompanies
our own faltering breathing,
as we pass rods of frozen fire
hanging from caves, ice water
dropping—Shiva’s semen
birthing the mighty Ganges.
We could not look back nor
pause to take a breath—
coils of Shiva’s terrible hair
fanned on each side—long
cascades of ice. So many
generations taken this path—
grand-fathers and mothers,
great grandfathers and mothers...
footsteps imprinted upon
footsteps, threaded by time.
You were with us, dear father,
trudging the thirty-ninth year
of your life not much longer,
your deep brown eyes, soft
laughter bubbling in your throat,
body indistinguishable from
other pilgrims, ants colluding
the length of the trail, lost
in the immense landscape—
ocean floor raised to sky,
floating amidst clouds.
Our steps in steady rhythm
scale the years —vast plateau
of life holding up each end.
Somewhere you fell, leaving
us to plod on by ourselves.
Did you mean to fall?
Did our trip that summer
illuminate the quick means
to the end you could not resist?
Too many journeys to get there,
how to get out intact? Car to
train to bus, lurch of wheels
singing death. Debris of cars
point the way toward the last
part of the journey on foot
into the mountain-cave,
home of Shiva, lord of death.
The air in the cave is sweet—
sandalwood incense wafting
toward a tall pillar of ice,
tender romance. A pundit sits
still as ice, chants arising
from his mouth, sonorous
as the hum of black holes
at the center of the universe.
Droplets fall from the knife-
edge of ice, ticking time.
The pundit greets the pilgrims
by name, his assistant rattles
off their fathers, grandfathers,
great-grandfathers’ names,
occupation, time of arrival
in the cave from stacks
of age-old records tied
with moldy string. The list
goes on — names, dates,
mixed with chants, they too
were here, they had come
and gone, journey within
journey, womb of death,
tomb of life, breath, names,
lives dissolved into strings
of chants, march of life
keeping step with death.
We are whisked in and out
in the time the priest takes
to chant our genealogy.
Foreheads smeared with ash,
cold hands sprinkled with ice
waters of life, we are led out
of the darkness. You were
behind me, dear father,
I could not see if you turned
back with a too-fond eye,
and chose to be left behind.
You would never get back,
your body on the train home
heeding the call to the source,
parent of all homes—
the cave was calling.
The train was stopped,
our booth marked by death,
we were made to get off
(no need for dead to travel
with the living.) We carried
your corpse on our laps
in a taxi to the next stage
forward or backward in our lives.
Perhaps you were caught
by the breath of the Himalayas
—chants, pilgrims entering,
leaving the mouth of life,
you could not forget but
forgot instead your own
breath that stayed only
as long as the last leg
of our journey, before
we made it home.
hookah
He recalls nothing
of the Partition*,
or else so much
he cannot bear to speak—
of that terrible march
across the new border,
parallel lines inching
toward opposite ends,
each step—one body,
miles and miles of bodies,
the passage between lines,
a word, a wound.
He blows bubbles
into the water,
each bubble a planet
and he the progenitor
rebuilding life anew—
sucking in, blowing out
the plastic mouth of creation.
* The partition of India in 1947
Athena Kashyap has been writing creative non-fiction, fiction and poetry in the past ten years. Holder of an MFA in poetry from the San Francisco State University, Kashyap has published work in Spork, Squaw Valley Review, the Waits-Mast Poetry Collection 2009 chapbook, the 2009 International edition of The Fourth River, Noe Valley Voice in San Francisco, among other journals in the US. She has been awarded writing workshop fellowships from Squaw Valley and Mount Holyoke College. She currently resides in Bangalore. She blogs at http://athena-travelwriting.blogspot.com/
