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At the Manikarnika Ghat The faithful gather here at Varanasi, bony beggars, rich rajahs with rubied turbans, wading into this filthy riverbed at sunrise, seeking miracles from Ganga, the river goddess, in exchange for dead offerings. I think of you, mother, and detest the acrid smell of ashes, human dust of bone borne upon murky waters swollen with silt, waters that wind down, feeding into limitless oceans. How could you, so neurotic, so gentle, so afraid of unknown things, spend eternity alone, drifting? Wade, sinners with muddy feet, and wet prayers spreading like manna from this sacred spot. I cannot abandon you, mother. or cast your being onto strange tides, imagining that fine white ash clumping like mud along distant shores. Shoeless, I stand transfixed, while Ganga's long fingers slap against the stone abutment. I feel removed from human fable, from piers of fire, from smoke rising, a giant mainspring spiraling heavenward, measuring days, tolling deaths. Have you found a shorter path to heaven, mother? |
Additional Notes:
My Mother asked to be cremated upon her death, but left no instruction as to where her ashes should be spread...
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