ALONG THE GHATS OF GANGA MATA

Varanasi

                              Kashi

                                          City of Light

                                                                 City of Shiva

                                                                                          Benares

single stretch of strand where Ganga reaches south to north

            steep steps of Main Ghat, Dasasvamedh Ghat

                                    gateway to Ghatland

                     the sweep of quasi-Biblical tableaus

                                                splashes of Renaissance pigment

                               running the curved riverside rim round to Assi Ghat

            Namaste.  Namaste!  You are welcome to the lila of the universe,

            the play of God.  Are you seeking for guru?  Here you see infinite

            horizons.  Ji han?  No, not for spirits landlocked.  The secret of life,

            my friend, is to accept.

            seven days before Holi bonfires, on the bank of Holy River

                        dust swirls up like bursts of Delhi exhaust

            Which proves no bank

                                               but low-lying flats of scrubby, loose sand

            Pula Mela now a patch for water melons, a hamlet of tents

                               yet during Magh Mela

canvas city for nomadic sadhus and naked Jains

            Distant trees of that left bank

                                                           a dark cylinder of steel wool or fog

               for another meagre monsoon has cheated the great Ganga

               half its former fluent self

greywater at low ebb

                              placid wrinkles

                                           drained of its brown complexion

far from the silty, muscle-rippling torrent of a Himalayan salt-cave

   combing through the tangled hair of Shiva

                               via the realm of kores of gods

rushing with swagger and slap half-way up these ghats’ stone steps

Namaste, sir.  You want boat?  I have boat, good boat.

Expectant boatmen lie in wait for the obligatory pre-dawn boat

     ride   Show some respect    Remember the ferryman’s status at

            Styx.      And when Rama was ferried across Ganga

 he took the low-born

                                    boatman to his bosom      Don’t do that here!

            You die here in Varanasi and you go to Heaven direct.  You break the

cycle of karma, so you no need come back.

At water’s edge

                        washermen in dhotis soaping washrags on stone

slamming clouts against tilted boards      another scrubbing his teeth

            with leaf of neem    or tube of Kolghata?

White-clothed faithful in prayer, seated in lotus position, palms

                          open to the sun god, Surya, who

            slowly bathes them in pink tints to rose to harvest yellow

Some youths swim out    gleeful    duck jet black hair    spurt

                        water from gobfuls                 No fears

            Goddess Ganga will save them from the effluvium of toxins

Someone washing his face from a boat    another lathering his hair

      with oodles of shampoo, not the genuine urine of holy cow

            yonder   o ye of great faith cups hands

                                                      actually ingesting the stuff!

as if it were Maharashtra wine, the really good stuff:

                        Hari om    Hari om    Hari om

Even-tempered now, Ganga

                        for laid-back oarsmen in slow motion

     and a party of squawky mem sahibs who’d brought their own

                    caseful of pure Perrier from New York  

 ‘Yeah, electric cremation is more humane.’

                   Western couples in loose white gear, thongs, earings

  Intrepid’s groups of twelve cautious intrepids

                                    with their navy Say No To Plastic

bags of plastic bottles, mineral water double-sealed, apprehensive

    peering into those mysterious depths for uncremated corpses

            or poor underdone jobs slipped in that might bob up

                                    with a leer, charred scars

and ready-to-board pirates sneaking up to your gunnels

            boats twirling        beards as abrasive as hot mango chutney

                          grappling with one fist, the other tensing

               to grasp an armful of sheening saris to woo and wow

            or barter holy Ganga water with specks of genuine ash, even

a bucket of seedy-looking river sprats for bewildered Japs

                   Ganga mata ki jai!  Ganga mata ki jai!

Mid-morning back at Main Ghat, about to amble south towards Assi –

    Ghatrats charge scampering like a pack of black-spotted leopards

            touts on commission for the boatmen

Boat, sir?  Boat?  Would you like boat?  Where you from, sir?

You come.  My brother has boat. You want coconut?  Make puja?

Buzzing postcard-wallahs test temper and shortsightedness

            Cards flashed before one’s peepers

                          You stare blankly into distance

like a beaky owl and descend steep steps with chilling dignity

                        toffed-up touts’ ghatattack as aggro as Agra’s

You seeking for moksha?  You want the knowledge?  Excuse me, sir.

I know where is freedom.  You come this way.

Bare-chested Vijay and Digby-jay bent busy over the skeleton

            of a narwhal.  Or bleached ribs of a rowboat    recalling a goat

carcass chewed at by dogs in the bush, stray scruffs of dogs

            with growths the size of half-pomegranates

    lavender-hulled row-boats moored in clove-hitched cluster

                                    Woman, eyes downcast, averted

                        Sari and pallu delicate pink as a crane’s leg

No green-and-gold saris of Benares silk here with intricate zari

            Or tracery on hennaed hands with gold bands

                        Envy the unself-conscious man

Who squats to pee into a crack between paving stones

                        On the main beat            accurately, it so happens

            Adding to the dubious streams leaking

                                                Down brown-stained steps

‘All India is a toilet,’ mutters a red-turbaned pelerin in passing

 Space cake?  Hashish?  Sir, sir, you want bhang? 

 

            Eleven o’clock back at Dasaswamedh, Main Ghat

    foetally tucked up bodies of five sadhus dossed on steps

       sleeping amid goats’ pellets and cow shit and stains of blood

a darker red, as if a sect of pilgrims has opened veins in sacrifice

more likely, betel juice gobbed out from packed cheeks, paan

            just as monkeys store nuts in cheek pads            Bewhiskered

weathered heads on swags, their sole personal possessions

                  bones covered by thin, washed-out orange robe and turban

                          and deeper orange shawl, wooden sandals

                  in the shade of the pink-barrelled water filter that shoots

                          down the grey-stoned Mughal stupa

                                      with its dome of inverted goats’ dugs

            You wait for some revelation or wise saw, sermon or tirade

               even a glaucous, penetrative stare into the mysteries      in vain

                         Just a sleepy-eyed, skinny-limbed itinerant expecting

                                    A scatter of subsistence coins

            A larki, eight or five, with basket of marigolds   clingy as lati vine

                        forefingers a circle in the other palm to hint

                                                                                       one rupee, thanks

            Buy flower!  Please buy flower!  For puja.  Make wish!  O please!  Please!

            A limping mongrel stops, sits, twists to bite fleas on its scabby rump

                        but can’t     From the shadows, a kid goat suddenly wakes

                                    bleats a rattle of anxiety and trips up a step or two

                away from its mother, trembles    and suddenly

                                    skipping down a flight of steps to comfort

                        its black billy buck dad      with chuck under the chin

                                         deserving a shower of rose petals the deepest red

            Beneath a concrete umbrella,

                                                    a man lying on his side reading The Times

            Of India, one leg forming a triangle on his thigh

                        in yogic half-lotus    two goats asleep by his grounded foot

                                                                        Working the steps

            a seller with huge wicker saucer of green grapes shading his noggin

            The karmas done here are not destroyed and remain forever (‘akshaya’)

            German Bread of Life Bakery, Restaurant and Info-Café      Ayurvedic

                 Massage                 Advertisement hoardings, several in tatty scrolls

Astrologer explains your life-line, mumbles astral configurations

                            as if studying the form guide    calculating the odds

                                    May your life be shining the livelong day

                                    But I see you trouble with the faith, isn’t it?

            So how far away is this peace and happiness?

            Three hundred rupees and a dip in the Ganges day and night.

            Ganga Mata washes all your sins away.  Very cheap, eh?

                        Ablutions absolve absolutely  (Acton?)

            Five boys playing Tendulkar on the concrete concourse

                           Kapil Dev is slinging the tennis ball in

                from wide outside the imagined crease, silly mid-on stationed

                         on the ankle-twisting fifth step.  Temples of cow dung

               piled like Pontefract doughnuts, patted and patterned

                        on slope of stone            Razzzle of bangles, bracelets

                                    baubles, beads on stub of concrete pier

                        Already your nose twitches at that odour

                                                                                            that sickly

                  sweet fragrance of Manikarnika Ghat

            Cremation ceremony, sir?  I show you.  Come!

                                                Then may the fire ovens consume you!

            Soot-faced stupas in Mughal grunge overlooking in sombre severity

                        Piles of logs and faggots of varying quality

                                    and price                 stacked back to upper

            steps   Scented sandalwood for the rich;   for the poor

                          sticks as spindly as sinewy legs of old rickshaw riders

                                         Glittering clots of dirty gold tinsel

                                    and crumpled pale yellow-to-orange marigolds

               trail down to scurf the water’s edge, a slick of mud, ash-

  clotted            Cows still nosing for cud among the pyres

            One munching an orange garland

            Beyond   the leaning temple of Shiva yaws before your eyes

                        Spellbound, two trippers endhowed beneath shade-cloth

                                    drift closer to the daily ritual of death

            And do thy duty; even if it be humble, rather than another’s, even

if it be great.  To die in one’s duty is life:  to live another’s is death.                                                                                                              Bhagavad-Gita

            The toll of a temple bell and a cadaver is briskly brought down

                        on a bamboo-framed palanquin by four untouchables

                                   matter-of-fact fashion        Death is their business

                No-fuss doms    these charnel wallahs   it’s their life

                        They remove thin golden fabric

            that envelops the body    lay the stiff on cross-stacked logs

                        poke kindling sticks    toss ghee, herbs and spices

               onto the flames            Lords of the Dead; they own the franchise

            This is the first dead body, or its shrunken shape, mummified

                        in grey cloth     you have ever clapped eyes upon

                                                to face finally

Please, uncle, I work at the hospice.  It’s very hard work.  I see you 
are interesting in our customs.  I don’t want money for me, but make 
a contribution.  Just make a contribution!

            More tender-loving and dignified, the family farewell

body wrapped in white cloth                 brocaded and laced with spun

    gold    bound to the palanquin    strewn with garlands

            of marigolds                  The two-by-two procession winds

     through the din of choked chowks and galis

                        The womenfolk singing laments to tabas and flutes

Male family and friends straggle back from the pyre

                                    to render last respects from discreet distance

        Pockets of tourists mute and solemn gaze from galleries

              above black plumes of smoke or at side barriers

                    forced to consider the doms’ consolation

Death of the body is more than the great leveller; do your duty

            and the next incarnation can take you closer to nirvana

        When the flames kick, start licking

               you think crackling of sticks or hair            Or legs?

                        Sorry, it’s the smashing of the brain

                                    for the spirit’s flight

    And slope away downwind, feeling ghoulish suddenly

From Mir Ghat, the whop of a batsman slogging a defiant six

Good sir, you give donation, please.  Poor people want wood to die

Dusk at Assi Ghat, light palpably falling, ripples darken, soften

            Boatmen row out toward the left bank

                        From spits of sand        in spasmic glide

        aiming for some mysterious metaphysical centre of

                                    Holy Ganga

Kites, yellow, green, pink, in dog-fight above the ghats dart

            like swallows                Reflections of amber and white light

  on stolid walls dark with jut and rib, crochets and crescents

       Above, the ziggurat of deckle-edged towers, minarets, empty

            multi-deckered boarding houses with blind sockets

    red-bottomed monkeys with tails upright as walking sticks

                        lope the crenellations like slack guards

                                                                or loop the banyans

Greased-up wrestlers in briefs enjoy a rub          wade thick thighs

            thwacking water at one another hard of hand    

Dipping into the silence, the gentle plash

            Strategic stilling of boat mid-stream              one oar deep

    held         coming to rest amid reflections a-shimmering

Anchored            the boatman lights the wicks soaked in ghee

            with reverence      one hundred and fifty candles

    in leaf-boats     passes them round to bemused night-owls

         who lean over the side, fuss their little craft on the still dark

water                Make wishes for family friends, self

     Mesmerized as the leaf-boats bob toward one another

            miniature squadrons starboard and larboard

    Wish-makers caught quiescent in the circle of candlelight

This wick we say is ego.  And the oil, ghee, is our negative aspects

After the orgy of wishing

            the motherboat glides in hushed dabs towards theatre

                                    Dasasvamedh Ghat

                        now bathed in an aura of angelic white light

     From its platform abutting the lowest steps water-steeped

                        shadowy devotees       four or five     fully clothed

dunk themselves    under cover of dusky shadows      billow

            wallow    in ecstasy

                                                          In distance            retreating

                   the flotilla of leaf-boats wish-laden signal still

      a glow of burning teardrops against the darkness

                                    a line broken at times by the prow

of another tourist craft nudging toward Main Ghat

                                                for the lighting of the sacred flame

                                                                dedication

            Mata ganga

                                    Surya

                                                  Lord Shiva

                                                                        Agni

                                                                                    the Universe

                                                 Ganga cha, Yamune cha, aiva!

                                    Five young Brahmin priests in long, white robes

                        one with flowing, shoulder-length, Christ-like locks

                               pray to the river goddess   in melodic lilt

                          chanting their Vedic hymns             amplified

                        Bells clanging, cymbals clash, a clarion of horns, clapping

            hesitant then rhythmic    by spectators glued to steps

                        Mingling of thick, dolce aromatic    other-worldly

                                camphor    incense sticks    flowers     earthen lamps

                 In unison, the priests swing their censers flaming

                                                                        With a swish of flamboyance

                                    turning to the four points of the compass

                                                O Ganga!  O Yamuna!

                                                Godavari, Saraswati!

                                                Narmada, Indus, Kaveri,

                                                Be manifest in these waters

            Somewhere toward the black sleek of middle river

                                                            the long line of sparkles has vanished

            Light has succumbed to darkness

                                                                        The candlewicks are dead

                                                                                                Michael Small

            March 12-April 6, 2009

            published Crematorium (on-line magazine 'issuu'), January, 2019