Early morning in the western ghats
With Ayyapan- a tribal now guide
a dagger in his shoulder bag
sole defence
in a 2 hour jungle trek
feet sinking into brown earth under the tree canopy
fingers caress rough tree bark
part heavy bamboo thickets with berry stained nails
ankles heavy with honeyed morning dew
as ayyapan introduces every tree, flower, paw print , dung even
there coiled , folded into the roots of a banyan tree
a sleeping python, beautiful yellow
savouring wetness,smiling?
under a blanket of dead leaves
resting after a fruitful nocturnal hunt
its content over pouring
embracing us even.
beauty in a snake? Maybe it was beauty of the ancient tree
the lazy streaks of sun corseting it,
and the jungle ablaze in the green fire of monsoon
enchanting streams, fern- fringed, dance to
the lulling jungle music of
the cicada’s rhythmic song and high pitched languor call
And later the sacred spectacle
of elephants tottering downhill, throwing kokum dust,
as the matriarch stood sentinel
holding up her trunk like a sword, deciphering all the scents we threw at her
as we retreat, walking backwards in rapture, in awe.
As our resting place only seconds ago
Is trampled, fondled rather by mammoth feet.
Ayappan saw them with ears- just in time
Soft whispers of breaking branches .
Now over dinner as you recount your Europe trip,
You talk of tulip gardens , quaint villages, serene churches turned to pubs by dawn
like Wordsworth’s Daffodils
snake , you crawl my thoughts
return me to ayyapan’s jungle trail.
Holiday respite distilled into one memory.
Peace: if that is why we travel
Then I found you as a sleeping python in the western ghats.
