Late morning,
Shiva’s ghat lies desolate.
Relatives have departed
To the echo of
Ram nam satya hai, and
If there is moksha
It must have happened
On another plane
Without much ado.

Far away,
From the shore,
Two adolescent boys,
Play in the muddy water
Splashing at each other
And then at some
Mythical being,
Or just imagining
Some contentious sport.

Obviously,
There is the reddening glow
Of a burning pyre
Of an unknown Indian woman
Dripping fat
From her distended legs,
Another half-burnt skull
In the garbage
Yawning for recognition.

The boatman arrives
Bare-bodied except for a
White dhoti tied
Around his waist
Wanting to make money
From foreign tourists.
‘No, no pictures please!
These are sacred places
You will hurt our sentiments.’

A Kashi panda
Pulls out leftovers
Of the dead
From ashes in the river:
Gold, money or what have you!
The smell of
Burning hair and skin
Nauseate some of the
Sightseeing women.

Why this
Morbid fascination
With death?
The strange belief
In shock therapy,
A desire to seek
The soul of India,
To find the jewel in the well!
If you can’t take it, don’t go.