Darjeeling, Darjeeling, oh Darjeeling…
Queen of the Hills… Darjeeling
To be in her laps, is like stirring in the midst of clouds
flowing down the crag
that embraces you in its chilly, cotton,
nauseating swing
transporting you to a distant past, memories that are
black & white – the monochrome that sets in the town,
in the drenched high streets, ridges, alpine trees
after a cold, sad rain that brings
thick, bluish fog of eve
that chokes the life out of this presumptuous old hag
Along the streets that rise
from the chaos of lower bazaars
Past damp, derelict looking wood
and concrete clusters of buildings,
past the moss-covered clock tower
The ticklish whiff of momo and tongba steaming
in the air from roadside eateries and bars
Walking up the winding streets
dazzling with yellow lights from shops, as girls with fresh pinkish cheeks
haggle and boys try to woo them playing on guitar
until you reach the wide expanse of Chowrasta
where people congregate on the benches
and talk about filthy local politics and their garden flower
In the morning, the town bobs up and down,
recover and disappears again in the mist
The Kanchenjung seem like a stately iceberg
that appear and vanish in thin air
While the verdant tea gardens roll in the hills in a gentle tryst
On a clear day with the erratic sun
blazing the town suddenly come alive,
all flushed like a comely young girl, blooming spring flower, unplucked, swirling as a feather, crisp
This sudden transformation of this frazzled old maid
reveals the innate delicateness of her youthful days
Kathmandu
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