Slow rolling speed bumpsripple across thegently evaporating faceof Mumbai harbor.
Chugging along, in alicensed ferry, his mindwanders on the wingsof a gull.
Perspective’s a fishy thing.The boat – remarkablysmaller than he remembers.
Garland of timid rubbertires strapped to its sides– not at all comforting.
He made the pilgrimagemany times, as a kid.
Left behindbits of himself,each time, so he’d havereason to return.
Stray monkeys greet himat the pier, with listless,hungry eyes.
They’re not looking forconversation. And hecan’t talk anyway. Notlike he did.
Now it’s a struggleto hold their gaze.Without a handfull of ground nuts.
Waving them off,he rides the rustedtoy train to the endof the line,
rushes up stepspast shops hawkingall sorts of who knowswhat,
doesn’t slow down untilhe’s inside the main hallof the hollowed out hill.
Absence of light issoothing on his skin.When his eyes yieldto it,
elaborate beingsemerge, hewn fromthe cold, hard vomitof volcanoes.
Wall after wall,cave after cave, manyarmed, many legged,many headed desire
dances its heart out.Liberated by the im-measurable devotionof anonymous hands.
He wishes he couldspend a few nightson the islandunder salty skies.
Surrounded by foreststhick with mango andtamarind trees.
Stay up all nighttalking to monkeysabout how n’ whenwe lost the plot,
we hairless hunter-gatherers of lifelessthings.
Photo by Trudi Maree Waters on Unsplash