[Editor's intro: Subhash Kak is an acclaimed poet and the author of much cited articles on acient Indian history and historiography. He is professor of computer science at LSU, Baton Rouge--c j s wallia]

1. THE TRAVELER

The traveler in his room
deep at night
hears the rain --
an endless percussion composition --
and then lightning
clap of thunder

He plays a hill-song
on his flute
about his aloneness
that wafts above
the patter of the rain
to the married caretakers
who creep closer
to each other.

2. AT THE CROSSING

Journeying for several days
in heat and dust
across the desert,
sheets of rain
deluged us
as we reached
the great congregation
on the plains
where two rivers meet.

I had marched alone first
and then joined a group
but in time I became
like a drop in a swollen stream
rolling along to join
the vast gathering.

Light and dark
the waters met.

Beneath the outer calm
beyond the inner churning
some made the crossing
to the other side.

3. LOSS AND LOVE

The sparrow that built its nest
feeds the chicks without rest.
Why does the sparrow toil?
The chicks will fly away
one day.

An eagle swooped down
and stole the chicks.
The sparrow darts here and there,
searching in corners
picking twigs
letting out shrill screams.

What is love?
A mirror to an expansion,
it is like rain
on a mountain path
that soaks the soul.

But some tracks
fall off the mountain.

4. A PRAYER

It was from prayer books
that I learned to adore you with names.

Words are like bamboo
lashed together
across a mountain chasm.

When I lost my path
I needed more than words
to join my journey.

I have seen your image now.
The music of your creations
has become one with me
and I know that worship
is the happiness of walking
to the wilderness.

Words bind---
the smile on your face
has liberated me.

5. ACROSS THE TABLE

Across the table
in the crowded room
I found two big pools
of your eyes.

Behind the quiver
of your lips
and shy sideways glances
I saw many hidden selves --
creatures of the depths
in a mountain lake.

There was a longing for love
beyond mind and motherhood
a fear of fullness
dying and rebirth.

6. STORM IN BATON ROUGE

The storm has hung over us for days:
the rain looks like drops in a hall or mirrors.
The ground beneath the crepe myrtle is red
with fallen flowers and decaying leaves.

Gusts of wind catch the rain and smash it
against my window like the beat of a musical score.
The churning of the red dust in the garden
has yielded a shallow pool where the raft
of a dried branch is crowded with ants
trying to reach the sheltered corner of the wall.

In the back porch I find a frog in my shoe
as during the rains in previous years
driven to seek refuge in my outdoor shoe?

The shivering birds in the branches look forlorn
my own parrot follows me around the house
repeating the same tune as if asking:
When will the rain stop?

7. DESERT ROAD

Driving towards the setting sun
in the only car on the highway
through the unending cactus-fields on the mesa
I think of past journeys
over the kumkum fields of Pampore.

After the ritual of coin-offerings at the road shrine
the driver begins the climb to the plateau.
I am alone in the straining, crowded bus
and crossing the yellow splash of saffron,
the hills dappled in different lights,
darkness loosens her skirt
over the rim of the mountains.

This is a short evenings
the curtain falls quickly.
I shiver in the cool air
streaming through the open windows of the bus.

I do not know that the chamber
that holds the memory of this journey
will be opened by the cacti
in the desert.

8. TEA-HOUSE IN BUSAN

The tea-house stands on the rise on the hill road
elegant reminder of old tradition
it offers comfort to weary travelers.
Over tea cup,
the jasmine mingling with the blossoms on the trees,
one could see the road
snake into another valley
and on the west
the sea and the setting sun.

The place is quiet now
but for the tourists posing for pictures
and the view from the deck
under the curving, ornate roof.

For tea we must walk across
to the restaurant beyond the hill
where nubile girls entertain
singing to guitars and harp.

9. MANILA PALIMPSEST

Memory's many layers on the canvas when peeled
Splendour of the shamanic past,
Hazy image of Panyupayana,
North Indian islands,
Traders searching for gold
Silver, spice and beauty.

It is distilled at the Villa Escudero plantation
Two hours away through lovely little villages
Here meet water and village, old and new.

Sit on a chair on the shallow river bed
Or wade your way across to the edge of the waterfall
Listen to your own voice in the muffled noises
Of the excited picnickers.

I walked over to the museum
And saw the likenesses of the old chiefs
And counted the fifty-four beads
Of an old rosary.

10. MIRROR

Going up the mountain path
Guided by the cawings of the raven
And pulled by the scent of wild flowers
And forest pine
I hear the faint gurgles of a rivulet.

This journey to nowhere brings a calm
As the trek in the rolling sands of the desert
The cacti fields of the highland
The ocean-edge
Seeing the setting sun
On a distant island.

Calm is loving
Seeing oneself
Mirrored in the eyes of the Other.