By Saranyan BV
It’s a misfortune that I went to Sonmarg
And could not step into the woods all by myself,
Could not walk on the snow-clad slopes
Without the guides holding out my hand,
Could not sit on the grass
And chew my apricots without fear;
Could not walk through the apple orchard
Without being cautioned,
Could not touch the sheep
That slept with eyes open,
Could not tread the path that led to pilgrim points
Without army men and AK 47;
Could not walk into the bazaar and buy trinkets
Without looking if it was late,
Could not walk into a village and ask for a glass of water.
The trip was only as good as watching movies
Shot right up there under the gondola cars,
Riding the short-legged horses carting men and women.
The zanisikari [1]horses knew their path,
Knew their snow and the impending storm
And were not expected to falter.
The bad taste about misfortune weakens
When you look out and observe the bar-headed geese
Fly over the white mountains
The wings seem to tell you are okay, you are okay.
[1] A breed of small horses
Saranyan BV is poet and short-story writer, now based out of Bangalore. He came into the realm of literature by mistake, but he loves being there. His works have been published in many Indian and Asian journals. He loves the works of Raymond Carver.
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