THE PILGRIMAGE

The annual family pilgrimage, a time-honoured tradition,

worship the gods and ancestors, show them our devotion.

Connect with the divine,

visit the family shrine.

The pilgrim site, architecturally ornate,

village-size perimeter, tall iron bar gate.

Everywhere I see

monkeys roam fancy free.

Perching on poles,

dancing on domes,

vaulting off vehicles, 

rolling off rafters,

capering on canopies,

bouncing on balconies.

Funny, frisky, scavenging,

stinky, scrawny, menacing,

Why do monkeys blight this site,

I muse…

receive a cacophony of views:

They’re our cousins, we have common ancestors,

They’re here to remind us of our place in the universe.

Ugly little beast!

Steals our food for his feast!

To teach us humour, how to be kind,

things a bit lacking in mankind.

Lament our glorious temple dome

 built on the ruins of their ancient home.

Just ideas, all suspect,

nothing  put to test,

what you might expect

on a spiritual quest.

We hurry and flurry from deity to deity,

worry that each receive our piety,

dreary with devotion,

weary vexation.

Father and son pray, a stony distance apart,

swill silent chants, annoyance in their heart.

Mother and daughter stage a seething ritual,

slighted and sulking from the morning squabble.

In the sun a monkey grooms her mate,

I’m sure it’sa great way to relate!

 Others leap from crest to crest,

babies  glued to back and breast.

We open the family shrine, light lamps,

greet the ancestors with incense,

fruits, sweets, nuts, the prescribed prayer,

close the door behind us, and  leave, till next year.

A monkey comes, hungry, paws at my bag,

whining, bones jutting, skin like a rag.

Waving a stick I keep it at bay,

growling fiercely, shoo it away.

Poonam/September 19