The mountain people

18000 feet above sea-level.

A long way from the comfort of home,
a long way from the deafening silence of her departure,
existing on another mute plane,
and dragging my frame & my screaming lungs
towards another level of numbness.
Cold winds
slap against my bearded face,
and pierce through the seemingly hollow bones.
They howl the secrets of the starry skies
and the timeless philosophies of man & beast.
 
Near a precipice of shining black rock,
my legs give up
and I collapse on the snow.
The shadow of a Himalayan vulture
looms over my exhausted spirit.
The old man
carrying my luggage and gear
beams a smile
and extends his hand.
The wrinkles and the charm
become more prominent.
'This too shall pass.
The mountains take care of you', he affirms.
I hold his callused hand firmly
and get back on my feet.
I follow the man
as he leads the way
towards another evening
in the white wilderness.
 
The setting sun
splashes its vibrant colors
on the turquoise lakes in the valley below.
It's the season of rhododendrons.
 
I take a deep breath
and open my eyes again.
The splendour of the summit
comes in full view.
The old man disappears,
the vulture disappears,
the mountains disappear.
The pain hibernates in the refuge.

(to my dearest friend and fellow space-time traveler, Sushanth Kodela)