Early morning in the diaphanous fog As the city wakes up Beyond the embankment, The Indian dhobis pummel rosewood clubs Against yellow, orange and white garments, Over smooth flat granite of centuries, Then unwittingly flutter the clothes dry Upon bamboo poles.
Even if river water Is somewhat polluted, Unfit to drink, Or unsafe for aquatic life, She is still the daughter of Vashistha, And if you are not queasy You may bathe in it And get your sins washed away.
The river still murmurs shlokas, The granite stones still echo With the movement of exposure, And if you listen you can still hear Unrecorded voices emerging From behind the clothes and stones Willing to converse with you audaciously If you are willing and able.
