Varanasi

We travelled five thousand miles to arrive at death; A public ceremony at the foot of a ghat. Three thousand rupees worth of wood Fashioned into a makeshift bed For a permanent sleeper. The fire is to purify the soul Which presumably is prone to catching sin as you Would a cold. Exceptions are made for The pregnant dead - mother protected By the innocence of her spermed egg. And priests whose self-proclaimed virtue Saves them from the gruesome grill. Down the shore at another ghat, Is a festival of light and chant Celebrating the holy river Which, despite being highly toxic, Is surprisingly velvet to the touch And un-perfumed with what you might expect: Burnt corpses and animal excrement. Soaring above the temples is an Electric crematorium, Modern, affordable, glum. Its twin towers offer the sky An endless stream of white scum, Tinged - if you’re that way inclined - With the souls of slum dwellers. A reminder, that here too, There will be a change of weather. Hassan Abdulrazzak

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