Morning at Kanchna Ghat
rings like a debased copper coin.
In the mist descending from the turrets and battlements,
there is damp lime, bat droppings,
and the sweet-sour rot of centuries-old moss—
the sunlight is still caught in the teeth of the canopies,
searching for a way down.
Over there, from the sanctum of Raja Ram,
a heavy brass bell clangs—
a ruthless, irreverent sound!
Like some old, foul-mouthed clerk
standing at his master’s bedside, demanding his due—
“Wake up, sir!
The Betwa’s water has turned red,
how long will you dodge the people’s accounts behind closed doors?”
Below, at the mouth of the ghat,
cold, indifferent black stones lie sprawled with legs stretched out—
stones on which moss has been gathering all night.
Suddenly three or four bare feet leap onto them,
the slap of water bursting,
and wet footprints on the stones’ chests…
Children dive to the riverbed,
groping for coins thrown by the faithful—
what do they care for the age of stones,
in their fists only four-anna bits glint!
Far off, midstream,
the wet oar of an old dugout cuts the water—
khut… chhap… khut…
when the iron of the wood strikes the Betwa,
a low echo swims all the way to the steps.
At the far edge of the ghat,
between dust and rock, a thorned cactus stands taut—
on its flat, spiny leaves
piercing the first ray of morning like a spike.
On the last stone of the steps,
dhoti gathered wet to the knees,
clearing phlegm in his throat, an old baba sits.
No mantra, no hurry—
just cupped both palms like a bowl,
filled them with a little murky Betwa water,
and let it seep back through the gap between his thumbs
into the current.
For years, this has been the daily rite…
whatever salvation was tied in his bundle,
he has been handing over to the river in installments.
Without any receipt.
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