Reflections on Khatmandu

Khatmandu
Cows and goats graze on the streets.
Dogs everywhere, sleeping peacefully on the side of roads, not moving for the frantic traffic.
Indian man follows me around the shopping square, he knows I want that little wooden chess set.
The mother rattles the bell for the blessings of the Hindu gods.
A mouse scurries through our apartment.
From the rooftop we see children playing, no shoes, drawing on the brick wall with chalk, one seven year old girl carries her year old sister around as she plays and draws.
Soupy spicy curry mixing with rice, using your right hand to pop it into your mouth.
Stuck in a traffic jam, sitting in a rickshaw, a narrow road, people are barely getting by the bottleneck halts all movement and then suddenly it is released.
Sitting on the second floor having breakfast, a merchant calls from the street, we think he is selling oranges, he holds up a large fish.
Buying art from a sweet Nepalese man, who serves us tea, talks of the art, bargains for the best price, he sells well.
Streets of dirt and rocks, children sit and play with plastic bags they have found.
Pigs chow in the river, on the river of garbage where a dead goat lies.
Bright coloured saris flow in the wind of dust.
Police hold bamboo canes, the army holds long rifles.
A place where Namaste means hello, good-bye, thank-you, no thank-you, I don’t speak Nepalese so I am going to say this all the time.
A city of rubble and seemingly mass confusion.
The scenery is lost from all the smog.
People coughing, choking, spitting, hoarking, Namaste they smile.
Khatmandu

Lianna