by Bhanu Kapil
The Ganges at Hardwar. Dusk. Steps. For two rupees, I buy a boat of palm
leaves. It holds a diva: tiny earthenware pot, oil, a wick. I light a match. Push
the boat into the river with my hands. Years later, the Pacific foam boiling
at my feet, invisible whales migrating north, like the stats at daybreak, I try
to remember that night. That version of water. I can’t.
I remember the oiliness of my fingertips, and the smell of human flesh,
upriver, burning. Frothy crusts, steam: the smell, also, of hot milk being
poured, brass bowl to brass bowl, dudh, thick syllable, at the top of the
steps. How I sat for hours, drinking the hot, sweet, milky tea, my last night
there before I headed south, to Jaipur. A red desert. The opposite of a sea.
Its aftermath.
- Share this Poem:
