Landing on a prayer

The stone walls of the temple have eroded with memory, and salt from the river that divides it. In the crevices the lost souls of the burning dead from the ghats have settled, waiting for redemption. Their half charred bodies go floating by draped in saffron sheets among flowers, garlands, incense and plastic bags. They all congregate midstream refusing to let the mourners mourn alone. The dense smoke rises in the west and we could double up from the nauseating stench. Yet we dawn our sunglasses and the watch the sun disappear behind the smoke, drenched in sepia as if in a morbid movie scene and continue to gawk.

Sadhus lounge comfortably across the river, drawing the last bit of warmth into their bones before the night gets cold again. They are blowing at their worn brown nails and weaving their fingers through their braided hair. They could be swimming in another dimension contemplating maya or just be high and hungry. The whites in their eyes are yellowing but they light up like little bulbs when they pose sportingly for the cameras. Click!

The trees have forgotten their colours and are washed in the monotone of the brick lined pathways and moss infused walls. In contrast jumps a monkey god reincarnate bathed all in slippery red. He now leans against a wooden door with a sculptured face above it that would give you sleepless nights. The face is frozen in agony as its hands tug at its serpentine locks while the gods dance shamelessly on them. He jumps excitedly and points at the gold-plated shikhara motioning us to bring it down and crown him King. Black wood, chipped stone, idol worshippers, the golden shikhara on the upturned eaves will never come under his just kingdom as he bids us adieu with his swinging mock-tail.

Dust has settled deep into the carvings of the stone. Someone had washed them with a hose but a speck or two had escaped and has fused into the details now. They will become unrecognisable blobs someday. There are channels along the wet ground that lead down to the murky river. Does the sky meet its horizon? Does the river reach its ocean?

The temples are bleeding along the edges. The smoke settles on our skin; we would be ash too, sooner than we know. The black moss will reclaim its heritage again, 1600 years is not enough. It will not rush, it will bide its time in the shadows. You can neither escape dilapidation upriver nor death downstream.