The sky over the Ganga at Varanasi fawns over the city its magical marvels

The chiaroscuro of midnight, settling and unsettling your mind

Leaves you sleeping yet unslept

 

The sky at dawn is a speckled saffron, dotted with flocks of birds

flying out for the day

It resembles, I swear, the Sadhu’s saffron stole printed with holy mantras

To the patient pensive pilgrim the sky is suddenly the colour of the frothy

milky chai

That he is craving already

 

To the sounds of cymbals and temple bells

It adorns itself in a redolent red

 As the sun creeps up

Teasing, flirting, grudgingly nudging slowly up the sky

And what a sky! A pious holy blue, now that the sun is up

 

Before noon though, it is wrapped up in a grey shroud

As the ghats spew the smoke of thousands of cremations

 

As many souls making their way to heaven, on a flight from Kashi

Like Shiva donned the ashes, so man turns to ash, before the ascent

In the city that is the launching pad, where death is promised Nirvana

On the banks of the Ganga

 

The river has its own marvels

It cleanses the sky with dewy breezes

Making way for the fragrant wisps of the evening Aarti lamps

and the musical chants

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Varanasi, the city, that is throbbing with life

 And the business of death