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.
