The Everest Hotel: A Calendar
Asadh, June-July. The first drop of the monsoon. Always the same fat sound, warm with shipwrecks, fastings, ululations, granaries. Exhaling Arabian salts, breath of a stranded oyster, a rock orchid opening in Bhutan, mist of a cardamom hill. Tasting of swear, the swear of the finger that carries it to the tongue. Children hold out their tongues, and old men, but always it strikes the chest bone, one sharp rap, then the warm flat trickle, discharged so quickly of freight and obligation. Good heavy drops, half the rice crop's virtue, ecstasy in the lapwing's gullet, fear in the anthill.