Uttarkashi
They call it Uttarkashi---the Kashi of the north
Like Kashi it is built along the Ganga.
But the similarity ends there, the stream
That flows through the town is not the Ganga
That we know, the broad and sluggish river
At Benares, carrying on its bosom, the sanctity---
With half-burnt corpses and untreated sullage.
This is the Bhagirathi, the mother stream
Of the holy river, still smelling of pine cones
And watched over by lordly deodars
And lofty cypresses with scaly trunks.
This is the high spirited maiden which still has
The virgin purity of untrodden snow.
The town sleeps early only the nightly smells
Of a pahari dinner and wood smoke linger
In the temple courtyard along with the nandi.
But the silence of the Himalayan night
With its million stars is mixed
With the music of the river, the Bhagirathi
Singing with wild abandon her endless song.
