Notes From A Himalayan Village

By Goirick Brahmachari

Village In The Himalayas | Charlene Fleming |

A constant hammer on wood and a distant conversation.
Two voices, two villages,
Separated by a river that scorns
The silence and floats into my ear
Through these razor winds.
There are no moons. No remorse.
Only imagination.
Drunk and high, 
I Sit here in the cold

Wishing crows good morning
As they sigh.
Time hangs on the edges of the mountains.
Something tells me: this is where I will always return.

Days turn into night
Nights become us
Who turn into humans 
Once in a while.

I am not the one
Nor I am two
I am not meant to be
In these crazy times.

Outside the holy ice 
Melts with joy. The river is
All we can hear
Not a single sound to cheer 
This sad sunrise without light

Only occasionally 
A Yak gets angry

Early morning smoke 
Rising, every house must have woken up now. Here,
Some Ice to wash their faces,
Some Ice for their eyes.
Planks of wood, for ceilings, stones, apple trees for walls.
Fire, firewood, yellow fields of mustard, and
Dried wild grass white to warm our dinners.
Yes, the pickle is for free.

‘Bhaya’, this is my balcony
That is your territory
Or else, use the terrace,
Said the Israeli
Who served in the Zionist army
At this Himalayan homestay 
Where usually common sense prevails.


Originally from Silchar, Assam, Goirick Brahmachari’s debut collection of poems, For the Love of Pork (Les Editions du Zaporogue, Denmark) won the Muse India — Satish Verma Young Writer Award (Poetry) 2016.

He is the winner of Srinivas Rayaprol Poetry Prize, 2016.

His chapbook of travel notes, Joining the Dots, has been recently published by Nivasini Publishers, Hyderabad.

Show your support

Clapping shows how much you appreciated The Scene & Heard’s story.