The Last Journey

I sat on my haunches, dry eyed as she motionless and rigid lied On the cemented, grey floor near the old decrepit door. All near and dear ones were crying in muffled tones. She lay oblivious to it and the rain her face serene and erased of all pain. She had to be dressed in accordance with custom Like a bride as she had died a ‘sobhagavati’. Her clothes had to be cut off from her stiff, cold body in front of everybody. She lay exposed, shriveled unmindful of the indignity, In contrast to the dignity with which she had lived her life, As a mother and a wife. She was bathed with ‘Ganga-Jal’ dressed in fine silk and dot of vermillion. Then began her final journey. She was put on a funeral pyre, as the flames leapt higher Her mortal remains were burnt, all that was left were some bones and dust. It was collected in a urn to be immersed in a sacred river turn by turn. And carried away to an unknown destination leaving behind all she had loved with dedication.