From the white peaks of the Himalayas,
flows Alakananda,
faintly gurgling over the silver cobbles,
bearing dead flowers and golden leaves –
on her trembling, tender heart.
At Devprayag, she meets her love –
the wild, turbulent Bhagirathi.
On a cold Himalayan night,
years and years before,
Alakananda confessed her love to her.
She caressed her calloused feet,
and kissed her coarse lips.
On a night, far back in time,
Ganga was born from their love.
It’s Ganga who tells her mothers –
the songs of her cortège,
her rhythmic sail to the flames of sea.
A lean farmer, Ganga says,
a gaunt, his ribs like –
narrow forest streams.
His feet like black rocks –
which never met rain.
From a brittle branch, he hangs,
his toes – half sunk in my heart.
Among the bright green shrubs,
like two red berries,
stares the eyes of a girl too young.
From her mouth flows a perennial stream,
turning the white pebbles red.
The footprints of men lie deep around her,
which even I could not efface.
On a frail boat, sits a frailer man,
black hands on his lustrous white chin.
Across his lap lies a cold boy,
brown eyes closed shut to the world.
The boy’s fist, clenched for justice,
arms up for freedom,
now bleeds the red and puss of oppression.
On a lotus leaf so broad,
floats a pen-wielding arm –
cut off from the wrist.
The blank ink leaves a trail behind,
a lean rill of words, igniting waves on fire.
A pulse emerged from the lifeless limb,
a song without words but echoing pieces of life.
Ganga cries to her mothers of horrors and blood,
the earth crumbles in her screams,
while the world sleeps in a tranquil indifference.
On a cold Himalayan night,
years and years before,
Alakananda confessed her love to her.
She caressed her calloused feet,
and kissed her coarse lips.
On a night, far back in time,
Ganga was born from their love.
