On the thirteenth day after you passed away,
the priest made an ingot from dough.
Said it was you.
I bathed it with Ganges water.
Clothed it in sacred threads
and spoke to it in the language of mantras.
Your thirst was quenched with basil-scented sprinkles of moisture.
The poor and the Brahmins were fed.
The crow, the cow and the dog were fed.
‘You’ were satiated.
And moved from being a stone cold lump in the heart
to a light travel of air in the lungs.
From a clamp of grief on pores
to dew in the eyes
The harshly scraped receptacle of anguish
now in dialogue with cool nectar.
As though to miss you was to feel your presence, not absence.
Succour a pulse, beating in the gentle blending
between dying and departing.