Roberto Romei Rotondo
up the Ganges
She lay thin upon the pyre. There was a lull in the air. The sun melted scarlet at the horizon. The Ganges ran on.
A dead dog’s leg floated past the bathers. A topless buxom woman drank of the river, gargled then swallowed then spit.
A man knee-deep in water frantically rubbed his wet face with the palms of his hands. He then swam some ways, pushing a metallic urn used for the cleansing ritual.
The sound of water splashing and voices murmuring everywhere.
A dizzying sweetness filled the air like an atmosphere. A scent of incense and all else.
The ghats teemed with folk of all walks, both locals and pilgrims on their final journey, come from afar, everywhere life, people shaving, combing, grooming, smoking, massaging, drinking, eating, praying.
A blue boat drew past a pier by the pyre.
A wiry Hindu descended carrying a parcel wrapped in cloth.
Soon the chanting and a billowing smoke, a crackling fire, and a sending off into the early evening dimming distance where life’s vanishings resolve invisibly anew.
Indifferently solemn yet all in good form.
No big deal.
Just another day in the life on the Ganges.
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