Twenty-Four Hours in Pokhara

A poem byMarianne Peel Forman

For Ramchandre

"My life goes on in endless song,

Above earth's lamentation.

I hear the real though far off hymn

That hails a new creation...

How can I keep from singing?"

-Traditional Hymn

Twenty-Four Hours in Pokhara

You could not know.

You did not smell the jasmine along the uneven centuries old steps

perplexing to these symmetrical Western feet

Stumbling on rocks covered with moss and dew

Twenty-Four Hours in Pokhara

You could not know.

You did not see her eyes,

Open and round

Blurred blue spots

Congealed over eyes the color of Nepalese morning tea

Oblivious to light

To shadow

To the colors that cover the Annapuras at sunset

Twenty-Four Hours in Pokhara

You could not know

You did not see her hands

Fist without fingers

No white linen bandages to conceal what the leprosy has stolen from her.

I wonder how she will hold the rupees

tossed to her

so that she move on and out of the way,

so passersby can continue to pass

Twenty-Four Hours in Pokhara

You could not know.

You did not see her face

This four year old child

With the sunrise at her back

Perched on a stone wall

Sucking her fingers.

The cookie I place in her hand is filled with rich mango creme

And she unscrews the wafer

Licking the flavor of the fruit

From the inside out

Twenty-Four Hours in Pokhara

You could not know.

You did not hear her voice

Descending the steps of the Hindu temple

Where a bell was rung

After dyed red rice was pressed into her forehead,

Homage to the monkey god.

She slips her hand in mine

Balancing me in this crooked place

Singing Sha la la la la

Sha la la la la in the morning...

Sha la la la la in the evening...

And I respond with “My Lord what a Morning”.

And When I fall on my knees

With my face to the rising sun,

We weave a patchwork of morning songs on this mountain

Giving honor and blessing to the light of this day,

Of all days.

Twenty-Four Hours in Pokhara

You could not know.

You did not see his hands

Orchestrating these folk songs,

The blind truly leading the blind.

His vision is partial,

He tells me he can see shadows

Some color

And does not need to use a stick.

He moves among the sightless singers,

Mingles with the flute and the bellows keyboard player

Cueing them in with the rhythm of his body,

The way he moves to the music of the song.

His arms are largo and vivace,

Transforming the tempo of the melody.

His hands are nuance, as he conducts these musicians

Who are unburdened with sheet music,

Free in this courtyard,

Celebrating the Tihar festival

For a plate of rupees and rice

Which will become a picnic feast of sweets

The very next day.

Twenty-Four Hours in Pokhara

You could not know.

You did not feel his hands,

Tight around my own

Accepting the invitation to join the dance.

Moving feet and arms

we are synchronized in our swaying

And I follow his lead.

We dance to the Piridee

and he tells me of the most pleasant surprise

of meeting again on this festival day,

How there is no distance between us,

How he will always think of me with love and remembrance.

He is blind to my face

And my eyes that cannot keep from singing and crying.

This young man and I,

we hold hands, silent and still,

For many moments after the music ends,

And I long for his grace, his wisdom, his vision...

Text and Photographs © Marianne Peel Forman, 2003