Sinews of a River (Ganga)

The waters commune
between this world
and the next,
a proxy server
running on faith.

Taut tendons
strain against
the strength of
multifold years
even as offerings
to the dead
are eaten
by silver specks
soon lost in the water.

Pot-bellied priests
with ritual-stained teeth
spew incantations
from the Vedas.

Boats named
after gods
stand guard
at the banks
that reverberate
with appeasements
in the holiest language
of the Gods.

Garlands of marigold
adorn waves
as flowers in the
arms of a little girl,
drawn together
all over the river

A tourist haggles
with a boatman
to go up and down
the ghats
so full of sights
and stories.

Boatmen here
are impromptu
custodians of history
handed down
from father to son.

Our boatman
takes us
by the hand
into once-colorful,
once-alive temples
that lie
submerged in
the river, where
sadhus perform
ritualistic prayers.

Urchins scramble
to pick up
coins
thrown in
by the devout,
swimming
against the
current.

Somewhere
half-hidden by
smog, a bridge
with honking
cars and
trundling trains
full of the
faithful
hangs over
the holy expanse.

Buffaloes ferry
spirits across to the
accountants from
the burning pyres.
Families gather on
diesel-powered boats
and perform passage
rites into heaven
for all
departed souls
from three generations –
they have dug up
family trees and
lost relationships
to ensure heavenly berths
even for their pets.

Yet, in all her
glory, humility
prevails. For,
when I step
onto the
embankment,
the river gently
washes
my feet, a
bride with the
henna still on her
hands, seeking
blessings for a
fulfilled new life.