The Ghats of Varanasi

The Ghats of Varanasi

The ghats come clean when drops of rain

Flood slurry scum from ancient slabs

Of stone hauled thick from Maharajan cliffs

Into a river flowing brown, opaque and swift

Wide rows of toothy stone, the ghats, in packs

Down from the spitting slums where kids

Wake spritely and squat early in the shade

Then climb into their bare snake suits

These ghats live well on refuse and on ash

As women pound the clothes of day to pulp

In the wash to mangroves where the licks

Of tigers curl in sleep at Bengal Bay

Singing softly in the dusk, the ghats

Ignore the clocks and what is at their backs

Intent with solemn sticks that float with bones

In time with eons and lit candles on their lips

These ghats take all children thin and wet

Whose mothers peer through iron bars to see

Their searing shimmers wiggle as they rise

Or dive in magic arches and bold splash

The gritty ghats lure cashless, squinting bulls

With monkey gods, blue women and the strays

Lap puddles and chew mango seeds til gone

Leaving holy places with their dry thin stools

Brahmin bells proclaim what we have missed

Truth be told, you’ll find it in a coconut

Its cool white milk and wet shredded meat

Is hulled and hairy and smells of burning flesh