Late Leave in Kashmir

It is now November `46
And you are still not here.
I must take leave now or lose it.
Karachi rail station is a cacaphony
Of honking ramshackle taxis, strident voices
And the bellowing of sacred cows,
Their horns painted blue and gold.
Porters on spindly brown legs
With a stack of tintrunks on their heads
Bigger than they are.
Stagger over sleeping figures.
The night train north leaves at midnight.
The desert landscape to Hyderabad is bright moon lit.
Waking, I am surprised to see a bearded unsmiling
Turbanned head, a few inches from mine,
Staring in at me.
More people seem to ride outside for free
Than pay fares.
Following the course of the mighty Indus river
We are in Rawalpindi, the railhead, by morning.
The end of the line.
Further journeying north will be by road.
We chip-in for an old Chev. taxi rather than
The ramshackle bus.
Through long avenues of walnut trees,
Across rickety bridges,over foaming torrents,
Winding, ever winding and climbing.
A marriage procession approaches.
The groom decked out in gold edged white tunic
And turban, bedecked with flower garlands.
Tambourine players and whirling dancers
Surround the demure bride
Carried by planaquin, head bowed,eyes heavily Kohl lined.
Her sari a subtle mix of orange and red.
Approaching Srinigar the surrounding peaks
Now tower in neck cracking height, snow-capped and stark.
We haggle for a houseboat hire on Dal lake,
The water, reflective mirror smooth.
In the morning we discover Shalimar gardens
Where once pale hands dipped.
Rose-less now,in late autumn.
A chill wind blows down down from the high passes to Tibet,
It reflects my mood.
All this to see
And you not here for me to share with you.