Watchers

Of the early morning, Delhi.

That's it then, the last train arrived almost on time and the last day drags wearied heels around the streets of Delhi...or sit contemplating another coffee at European prices in the starfughs on connaught place; drawn in by the need of wifi as much as coffee. But now have boarding pass, of sorts, or at least a hopeful equivalent which gets me past the military and into the airport.

Morning is still cold here, warming up but still the temperate north upon the sunwearied self feels chill...and I think of the himalaya in a gentle arc rather than linear progression back to Europe...a couple of months early for kashmiri climes but still drifting upon dreaming memory and, I wonder, at this point whether I can still tell the difference; is there a difference?

It seems shortened in the telescopic hour, seems distanced upon the clock...but the horizon holds bright secrets and possibility, as it always does, beyond the necessity of a pause and quest for a new map...maybe even a compass which works. Maybe not.

But it's going to be an adventure this return, already is, has been, will be: what next as the old ghosts ask...what else but the risen dawn and the possibility of the new day. There's no need to travel, no need to dream, only illusions upon the empty page of the moment thought and passed .. maybe I've been infected by some of the bullshit babas, westerners playing at wisdom in clichés of dress and linguistic mutterings from some parody that they believed to be true: as ever the sharpened cynical blade scythes through my hippyesque ideals...but this is a land of actors and seekers, there's always going to be collateral damage in these games...more yeats, earlier 1890's ish, the dolls...a paraphrase, better to walk naked. "Aye pilgrim," echoes the voice of pancho, "I hope you swam well."

"Aye, as do I. Maybe I managed not to drown this time, but you never know."

Boom siva!