The trucks that go by are marked like
party vehicles for la Dia de los Muertos.
The wind pampers my face, loosening
my lips so I can smile at the
sky dancers outside. Like a heavy
rain sliding down a stationwagon window
the world outside cascades forever
provoking tidal waves of sensation in
my form. A truck sealed with Shiva’s
face squonks directly in my ear,
announcing the transport of livestock.
The colors are unimaginable
The movement is unhindered.
A procession of trucks and buses rolls on
through — “SPEED CONTROL“, a side
angle of Lord Shiva, Baba Travels and Tours
Unlimited, Bro’s Yatayat, Ganesh like a
Japanese cartoon embracing a lingam with affection,
tired and amazed faces beyond number, wise eyes
painted gaudily below headlights squinting into the distance, gods encased in
plastic cubes for a holding tank of frontal protection: it’s
all so much like a circus
with an elephant god as the ringmaster.
Every circus has its end, but
the show must go on. Dirty
bags of rice are carried on kids’
bicycles, and dust seems to seep up
from the ground like geyser-streams.
A man pushing Royal Everest Ice Cream
makes a score
and squeeks away.
A brick shack standing strong with its
roof held down by rocks, bricks, and at least
must be making some kind of proclamation.
Orange sparks of love fly when the
man welds iron scrap together
for some hidden purpose. Young guys
smile at me — it’s hard to know why
I am always so amusing
— aside from the obvious. Bemusement
is always thick in this atmosphere:
even more than dust.
Bus Leaving Kathmandu Going Back to Indi