Lost

The grass cuts when I brush too close.
Tall stands of it.
And a brilliant yellow pea
I recognise uselessly as senna.
And if there was a path,
it’s petered out now,
leaving the ground littered
with little rocks.

A likely place for snakes.

The hill in the distance ought
to be a landmark,
but it’s not the holy mountain.

And when I reach this village
it’s not the one I know.
On the edge are tiny fields
of beans and chillies
with neat embankments
of tamped-down sand.
Pompom marigolds
and cluster chrysanthemums.

And two cows tethered
in the shade of a tree, horns
painted blue for Pongal.

Women and children smile
and shake their heads.
One small boy comes running:
What is your name?
Ashram? I ask. Ashok Tree?
He beams and sings it this time:
What is your name?
What is your name?