Except for a neighbour we were alone.
She gazed at me, opened her mouth reluctantly
for the pomegranate juice,
waved it away; focused on 
her last breath - a deep deep breath 
sucked in, as her eyes closed. 
In this holy town on the banks of the sacred Ganga
there was a single crematorium, - electric, and a long wait.
We sat by the dusk-dappled river – its currents sluggish 
with earthen lamps, flotsam, grief.
Our turn. She was laid on the ground.
A priest hovered, chanting mantras of liberation. 
A grandson fed her closed mouth joss sticks, tulsi leaves, 
sandalwood, clarified butter...
then spooned butter all over her body.
I thought she would awaken, wave it all away
as unnecessary - like her life lived
on bare necessities.
Temple bells rang in a relay in the distance.
On rails, they slid her into a heated oven.
My heart hammered like a bell clanging for
my mother. 
When her ashes cooled, an earthen pot
set them afloat on the holy river,
the currents coursing now with purpose,
carrying her away on a strong flow 
lit by lights from a town on the other shore.