At Manikarnika,
the dead entered the flame,
the Ganges carried time,
and nothing remained the same.
They call this Kashi,
the dwelling of Shiva,
where death is not ending,
but a door to moksha.
One pyre became ash,
another answered with fire,
and I watched my certainties
burn higher and higher.
What is a self,
but a story we defend?
What is death,
but the ego’s final end?
Shiva said nothing.
The flames said, “Let go.”
The river kept moving.
And I stopped asking to know.
Asha Seth
Read Asha Seth’s poems in her latest collection – The Color of Us
