Christopher Hansard:[ Sanjay's Grandmother]

the blood in her veins flowed like the indus

roared like the ganges

rumbled like the brahmaputra

cascaded into

a strange place

where honour

was

a shifting cloud

his grandmother

died

but

passed on

the essence of who she was

if you look into that marketplace

called death

there are endless grandmothers

who can guide you through the maze of hawkers

and trinket sellers

the in-between is much like this world

it is man-made, a fabric of the human condition

but is real to the lingering consciousness

think of death as a second birth

her last words were not a shout

but an exclaimation

of a universal truth

that few can walk

or even speak

the words

grandmother

sits in the space of things

she weaves the threads

on which all the sacred words

are strung