The Women in White

The women in white pass silently
Out of the gate, down to the path
To the ghat, down the stairs
Onto the sand.
Under the moon, laying their bundles
Among the rocks, unwinding shawls,
Warm woolens discarding,
Slipping off shoes.
Above them the moon glows like a lamp.
White mist glides through the forested
Peaks, green and steep, climbing
The indigo sky.
In front of them Ganga boils and heaves,
Her ocean voice filling the air.
Slim margins for dipping,
Waves and currents.
One by one, into the river they
step, facing the East, and bow to
The Mother of Rivers,
Ganga the Great.
Taking a breath, they dip under the
Water, cleansing bodies and souls.
Then with the next breath they
Pray for the dead.
Taking a third breath, dipping again,
They pray for the living elders
Who shield and support them
On the rough road.
Taking a fourth breath, dipping once more,
Currents catching their hair, they pray
For teachers, well-wishers,
All their dear ones.
Lastly, wiping their streaming faces,
Still facing East, they scoop water,
Handfuls to offer back
To the Goddess.
Prayers ended, they leave the water,
Walk up the beach to dry and take
Their places on mats in
Sitting silence.

Over their heads the piping of birds
Hails the dawn chorus, joining
The ceaseless voice of the
River at dawn.