BRATISLAVA UPANISHADES
The first journey to the ghat. Every morning. Through mouldering alleys. Round the spiritual treehouses. By the smoke-grimed skyblue doors. In his quilt , as in a hollow of time, a mummy slumbers. Rise up, alive or dead. I see you. Dadaji is bringing a pail of splashing milk. Slithering steps go froglike on the slippery bricks. Barefoot. The soles slurp. They weave round the cowdung patches and the blood-red spittle-blobs. From betel-chewers, splatterers.
More...