Mountain Echoes Poem by Dipika Mukherjee

In Bhutan, the mountains call with peals
of prayer bells, mantras churned by brooks
as pilgrims trek a weary path
to the Taktsang Dzong, where a holy man
soared to heavenly heights
on the back of his woman tiger.
Legends spring from rocks here,
of the eternal through ambrosial waters
The Buddha looms large in bhumisparshamudra,
touching earth, rooted here.

Yellow tsatsas, in the red shade of spinning wheels,
mingle cremated ashes into dusty clay,
flags flutter a rainbow salvation,
as two little girls, like kittens in the sun
settle next to me, on the wide rock,
the older speaks haltingly, the younger not at all
yet we play scissors-paper-stone
they teach me Dzongkha, gymtse-dho-shoko
grabbing hands to cut, cover and swallow whole;
it's a language of flashing fingers,
palms turning black-and-white, nap-ya-karp
human babble jostling in amity.

I want them to win.
To always reach out
with such grace, such openness,
to gesture of crows-spider-horses,
to encapsulate a living world
in such mellifluous hands
within tiny folded palms.

Their laughter peals like the prayer bell
over these sheer cliffs, kissed by moist clouds
drenched in holy waters.