Stories from the Road 2002
an ongoing travelogue

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exploring every alley towards the holy Ganga.
small steps wet from longi and sari drip
dry with the build-up of dusty gray sediments of Himalayan wash-off.

of wash-off from the streets of Banaras with goopy, titanic piles of fresh steamies, the ware and tare of slick cobblestones, the soles of many thousands of cheap, plastic flip-flops, flip-flop in this place where
every step is holy,
where Shiva lives in every crack, crevice, stone, and tree.
and wash-off from the eroding banks of fresh timber cuts to feed the fires at the burning ghats. and the wash-off from these places of samsara release too.

the toes and feet carry these find grains of sediments up and down these steps every morning and evening where women and men wash themselves and each other, their bodies and clothes, changing and dunking, pouring and scrubbing and soaping, floating and splashing, swimming and gazing, and praying with their hands together towards the rising sun.
there is warmth in this early morning light -- like no other -- and it’s shimmer ripples around half-submerged children
-- silhouetted from where I sit --
learning the ways of their world.