Page 61 - NOMADS_NO1_2015

They spread the rice on the ground barefooted.
In squares it stays out to dry.
All their affection, sweat and dirt flows from their feet into the rice. They walk over it, sit and breastfeed their children on the rice.
Calm days in Bodhnath and walks through Newari villages.
New architectures and words: Stupa, Chapati, Budhi, Bhadur Thapa
I sit in the center of the largest Stupa in the world and watch masses of people walking round after round, clockwise and pushing the prayer wheels.
I sit still and the monks kneel, tourists adjust their lenses, volunteers distribute flyers ‘Help us help the dogs.’
I’m awed by this separated togetherness,
the sound of bells while we circle.
This country belongs to women.
I see them build houses with their hands, babies tied to their back. They smoke and slap clay onto clay in a mechanic.
Their bellies exposed and arms as strong as the sun.
Monkeys at Ghadar Temple are quicker than my camera. A sage lives here.
I walk past the doorless entrance of his house
and see him sitting in deep meditation.
To my satisfaction he has long gray hair and looks up as I pass.
On a bus to Kathmandu, if I remember correctly.
Nobody has to stand but the seats are shared with strangers.
A beautiful Nepali woman sits opposite me, a baby wrapped up in her purple sari. She is the first woman that I see here that shows a décolleté.
Men on her right and on her left, while the baby sleeps in her lap.
They both seem endlessly tired; she drops her head occasionally onto
the shoulder of the elderly bearded man next to her;
he does not seem to mind.
Folklore music is blasting from the speakers,
the child’s head and feet are resting on her legs.
The body is almost touching the floor.
While the entire bus stares at her oblivious beauty and the sinking baby,
I start to wonder, will the man next to her, on whose shoulder she has been resting with such natural familiarity, start to touch her slyly in places inappropriate. Alternatively, I imagine the baby falling onto the floor and waking in terrible screams.
But nothing happens; just her purple sari shines brilliantly.
The bus leans into curves but they seem comatose. After another 15 minutes she suddenly wakes, picks up her child and stumbles out of the bus.
As my eyes follow her descend and disappear,
the bus drives on into the milky evening,
and where I was going I could not remember.
Mountain amorosity, curvy with the wild and elemental settling on its surfaces. The sun drops and I watch inflamed mountain peaks.
I throw useless thoughts and old enemies down its ridges.
I develop an addiction for sunrises and sunsets,
the quiet has a fissure breath.
I walk up the mountain to come down again.
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