Catherine McLean
Varanasi
Morning
comes.
The
molten sun that hangs
over
empty eastern waste lands of dirt, weeds and plastic bags
sears
my pale eyes and skin like a dragon’s breath.
We
wait patiently, overfed sun-burnt tourists in
straw
hats, running sweat.
Beside
us a ragged group of barefoot watermen
eye
our camcorders and fanny packs.
The
river Ganges,
a
sheet of shimmering bronze, conceals the corpses
of
the freshly dead ― the diseased, the leprous, the holy,
the
innocent newborn.
They
are wrapped and weighed with stones,
thrown
like anchors into the swirling eddies of the sacred river.
Downstream
the
sodden ashes and cracked bones
of
garden-variety pilgrims, three hundred daily,
are
shoveled from the fire pits straight into the shallows of the Ganges
to
be borne on their final journey to the sea.
Hindus
believe it is bad luck
to
die on the wrong side of the great river.
Those
unfortunates will return as donkeys ―
beaten,
braying, fornicating, dying ―
through
endless loops of karma.
The
lucky ones
Die
on the sunny side, and soar straight to Nirvana,
which
dwells somewhere among the crumbling raja palaces
and
centuries-old temple spires
overlooking
the smoky crematoriums and open fire pits.
The
lucky ones
drag
their hollow bodies to the ghats of the river
and
drink its holy waters,
bathe,
swim, brush teeth, toss their garbage.
Gangrenous
water bottles, swollen oranges,
disposable
diapers float among the bathers.
Occasionally
a cadaver,
anchored
with stones and ropes,
breaks
free of its moorings and bursts to the surface,
an
oozing puffball ready for capture
on
the digital memories of tourist boats
drifting
up and down the swirling waters.
Skeletal
rowing men, at eighty cents an hour,
pull
the oars and count themselves
among
the lucky ones.
We
pay our fare
and
are rowed across the great river,
passing
energetic morning swimmers
in
Speedo suits, glistening brown
muscles
and white smiles.
The
cracked and empty land of the eastern shore
Is
deserted by all but a few bony garbage pickers
sifting
through shoreline detritus,
and
a troop of howling monkeys.
We
do not get out, not trusting our luck.
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Catherine
McLean is a writer and multi-media artist living in Vancouver, Canada. Her poetry, non-fiction and short fiction works frequently
focus on global issues. Her most recent project is a collection of poems to be released this year, entitled Mountain Ice,
dedicated to the impoverished children of Nepal.
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