"Pilgrimage"
Follow me, walk these paths, step where I step.
The rocks under your feet are ancient,
Worn by the bare feet of pilgrims before you.
The city's noise is worn away by your steps; today
You are the pilgrim. And I, the spirit guiding you
Up the mountain and then down the other side.
Pay your respects--press rupees into the palms of
Beggars who ask for chocolate, "namaste" the sadhus,
Touch your forehead and then heart as you pass
Smaller mandirs, feed peanuts to the monkeys.
Good karma, madame, good karma.
The holy water from the Ganges
Pools up where the steps meet, where monkeys swim,
Where pilgrims bathe all filth away,
Redefining baptism for the pale-faced visitors
Who snap inauspicious pictures of monkeys
And jokingly call it the "bandir mandir."
Assume this: every Indian is a Hindu.
Assume this: every American is a Christian.
Sadhu, darshan, prasad, puja, pandit--
Wonder at the context of your textbook Hinduism
Here in the corners of these mountains. The cave
Wall is painted orange and silver--Hanuman, the
Monkey god, found in the cave and brought to life.
You too are brought to life, but not by the exchange
Of gaze, of sight (darshan),
But by the journey (yatra),
And by the people who approach you (pandits, sadhus, bakhari, tirthyatri).
"You believe in God?"
Certainly, but which one?
We are moving from angry tears
Cried on second floor balconies with our hands
Pushing into our eyes to mountain top temples
Made of painted cave walls and millions
Of muttered prayers. I am trying
To imagine myself as a mountaintop temple
Wearing marigold garlands and perching
Barefoot on the crags, toes curled protectively.
I catch sight of everyone else perched on their
Mountains and wave, stretch arms out
Like a crucifix and take flight.
Follow me, walk these paths, step where I step.
The rocks under your feet are ancient,
Worn by the bare feet of pilgrims before you.
The city's noise is worn away by your steps; today
You are the pilgrim. And I, the spirit guiding you
Up the mountain and then down the other side.
Pay your respects--press rupees into the palms of
Beggars who ask for chocolate, "namaste" the sadhus,
Touch your forehead and then heart as you pass
Smaller mandirs, feed peanuts to the monkeys.
Good karma, madame, good karma.
The holy water from the Ganges
Pools up where the steps meet, where monkeys swim,
Where pilgrims bathe all filth away,
Redefining baptism for the pale-faced visitors
Who snap inauspicious pictures of monkeys
And jokingly call it the "bandir mandir."
Assume this: every Indian is a Hindu.
Assume this: every American is a Christian.
Sadhu, darshan, prasad, puja, pandit--
Wonder at the context of your textbook Hinduism
Here in the corners of these mountains. The cave
Wall is painted orange and silver--Hanuman, the
Monkey god, found in the cave and brought to life.
You too are brought to life, but not by the exchange
Of gaze, of sight (darshan),
But by the journey (yatra),
And by the people who approach you (pandits, sadhus, bakhari, tirthyatri).
"You believe in God?"
Certainly, but which one?
We are moving from angry tears
Cried on second floor balconies with our hands
Pushing into our eyes to mountain top temples
Made of painted cave walls and millions
Of muttered prayers. I am trying
To imagine myself as a mountaintop temple
Wearing marigold garlands and perching
Barefoot on the crags, toes curled protectively.
I catch sight of everyone else perched on their
Mountains and wave, stretch arms out
Like a crucifix and take flight.
