Resting in a hill station guest-house,
over the worst of dysentery.

The bazaar dealer's tab,
“Sir, good stuff... straight up...
San Francisco. Yellow Sunshine."
Is starting to hit and
I'm smoking a chillum of charas.

Through the fog of writhing smoke
and dancing rainbow mountain mists,
I watch a woman,
a Mahavidya - maybe
pad the jasmine track
to a distant wayside shrine.

Pennants and wind chimes
line the pathway.
Incense drapes the trees.

She sings a hymn;
echoing against granite crags
rebounding in the songs of birds
it entrances me even
as it mystifies me

‘her gods are not known to me,
all gods are unknown to me’

She made the journey yesterday,
shoeless,
and the day before.

I feel the pulse of
foot... foot... foot
bruising the grass.

And with each weighted step
the sighing of rooted blades
that would walk beside her
if they could.

I am rooted too.