The City of Light

The Wise Men say it is the world's oldest city, standing
Proud on the banks of the Mother Ganga as she flows
Down the heart of the World on her quest for the
Absolution of the Sea God, and once taken by him
Gives birth to the life-giving Rain.
The city stands witness to the ever-changing River,
The ebb and flow, monsoon and drought timeless
In their seasonal march across history
The imposing palaces soaring high above
The gentle journey of the Ganga in April,
The temples commanding worship and fervour
Fill the scene coloured in reds and ochre.
Stained with the tide marks of the monsoons
The ghats stretch up from her banks, stairways to the sky.

In the city's narrow alleys, the smell of urine
The warm, overpowering reek of dung assail
The senses and the high-pitched cries of the monkeys
Leaping overhead, scolding us as they turn
Watching us with the ancient eyes of Hanuman.
Accompanied by a Brahmin, fending off beggars
Like flies, secure in the majesty of his caste,
He strides through the Old City oblivious
Of the mange-ridden dogs and abandoned bulls.
The electric wires criss-crossing overhead
Act as trapeze wires for Hanuman's troupe
Swarming overhead in increasing numbers
“Foreigners, Foreigners” they shriek.

The old man in the alley sitting patiently
In his tea stall, surrounded by chai drinkers
Drinking warm ambrosia, paying no attention
To the dirty anxious little boy drawing water
Or the roar of the motorcycle careering down
The narrow sludge-filled cobble alleys
Custodians to centuries of mud, and mire
And broken dreams cast into the Ganga at last.
The piles of broken clay cups try to catch my feet
As I pick my way through humanity and history.
The stench of cruelty assails my senses
The sorrow of the underdog, the misshapen and
Malformed clutch at my conscience
Misery in the millions is too much to bear.

The Seers say the ancient city Benares – Varanasi now,
In times gone by was the hub of the spiritual world
Still the great religions hold her in their thrall.
Memorials to wives burnt alive on the husband's pyre
Catch my eye, small, almost unnoticed, vermilion now faded
The Ganga has claimed the memory of those fires.
The bells ring an urgent cacophony, calling us to prayer
The thought, heavy in my head, of all those lives
Lost in the fires of centuries, beats on the edges of my skull
Desperate cries, death wails wrap around me like swaddling clothes.
Sunset and sunrise over the Holy City, too much to bear.
I join the faithful, the songs of praise and ritual
Enacted day and night since time began
My heart broken by countless years of suffering
Long to escape from this city, the cradle of spiritual man.

Just yesterday I looked at the photographs taken years ago
Each and every one is filled with an incandescent light,
Luminous beauty spilling richly off the page
The buildings, the urchins, the beggars all shine
In the wonderful pure Light of the Divine.
…..................Om Shanti........................