Kashi

Here, the queenly Ganges flow.

Boats and lamps tread like fishes.

Some fast. Some slow.

Like that unfathomable depth of river,

is our grasp of life.

Here, on the doors, death knocks.

Loud, pounding on the ear and heart.

And then where Her eyes fell,

the forehead throbs and

when one sits, the ground slants.

Here, every meandering road leads

you to a shrine.

The twists of the lanes

stumbles you upon snake charmers,

betel leaves and wild trance.

Here, the air tastes of

incense sticks and pyre smokes.

The madness and the clatter though

seem to dwindle when eyes closed.

Here, silk and piety equally sought.

Here, cultures in the past madly fought.

Here, amid the dark wild manes of Shiva,

emerge the moon

that the river passionately echoes.

Here, poetry effortlessly lurks

at every nook.

Here, cows, birds and bulls

graze every alcove.

Here, one hears the dusky deathly knocks

and the cremation fires on riverfronts.

Here, stacks of wood wait

to burn the next dead.

In eagerness or indifference?

Indifference perhaps.

As millions of deaths it has already observed.