Two copper pots stood there
For as long as I can remember
I think they were from Haridwar
Or an earlier trip to Kashi perhaps
Holding within, the path to Vaikunth
So the elders believed

Yet when the time came, no one remembered
My grandmother passed, in a moment, no prep
Like the eye-donor certificate found later in her trunk
The copper jal became redundant from that moment
In any case, the water in those ancient pots
Would have dried up long ago, if not turned rank

Death came visiting again.
This time it was my father who slipped away, typically sans fuss
“I could not even give him a bit of water”
My mother’s lament did not mention the gangajal
Whose creed does not allow for untimely departure

I think of the mother river, and those of simple faith
From which source, does it flow, and how does it know?

…

Lina Krishnan is an abstract artist and poet in Auroville