The vaporizing white fur on hump of a wild yak:
the Himalayan Kedarnath mountains
when the October sun shines,
backdrop the temple at basecamp
that enshrines jyotir-lingam believed to be
the hump of Shiva hiding as bull.
Two rocky green mountains fortify the sides
leaving passage in front for the flowing Mandakani
whose past wrath devastated all but one—
the temple guarded by an escaping boulder
when Chorabari Lake emptied all at once.
If the scares she gave the valley were on her:
struck on head, injured on chin
and beaten on a thigh,
along with healed forehead and wrists.
But now she is calm, guiding pilgrims and others
with her presence heard from anywhere
in the trek path to temple from Gauri Kund.
She whitens her glacial teal waters
when strong or on fall, especially
on a random immersed rock
like pouring milk on top of a lingam.
Privileged fly in and out in helicopters
but acclimatizing end up some to collapse,
who also miss out stamping on
mud from the trail or horseshit of
snorting and chiming ponies
that are the taxis and trucks here,
alongside palanquin carrying rhythmic men
and sweating men who move like tortoise
carrying people on shoulder baskets:
among them, kids smiling at each other,
a resting woman as if sunbathing with
coolers, boots, sweaters and leather pants on,
and failed hikers and the old-aged.
Sweepers work non-stop,
scavengers pick litter from the side of hills
and trail-side shops make your mouth watering.
When dark sets in, temple’s bell rings,
aarti is lit
and devotees sing prayers in synchronization;
if you could hold up tears,
feel Shiva in the air
at such a remote height
beyond which it’s only wilderness.

Sriramgokul Chinnasamy lives in Chennai, India and has M.A. in Creative Writing from Teesside University, UK. He is the author of ‘The Selfie Boy and Other Short Stories’ and ‘A Teesside Girl and Other Poems’. He also writes short stories in Tamil and translates contemporary poetry between English and Tamil for magazines.