From the horn crazed dusty streets
beings selling fruits and veggies
a woman wearing rich blood red
and sparkling gold kurta
with a bamboo basket
tied on her back
Dogs run aimlessly on the path.
Up the four flights of stairs
through the mythological iron gate
warm honey smiles and soft hearts
greet me with an enthusiastic
Up two more flights of stairs
is the heart of the Nepali family.
The kitchen herself.
where bellies are filled
with savory saag, dal, bhat
and activating cardamon.
Where laughter rings
though out the entire Katmandu valley.
Where high pitched feminine angelic voices
and earth tethering madal drum
echo from a flat square thing- called a cellar phone
which downloads these tunes from the seeming etheric realm.
The smell of cumin drifts through the air
like golden leaves sprinkling
the autumn sky.
Light blazes from the kitchen doors.
an energetic force,
inside is a vortex itself.
Where medicine is served
through mamma Earth’s organic nourishment
and good ol’ family connection.
Where tradition is held
to share space
and honoring each other every day
is more important
than the race
to get to the next place.