Last nite Tues (puja) nite at Nimtallah Burning Ghat — a few black skulls in the woodpile — Pouring white fat (ghee) into the flames, it burns brighter and sparks shoot out, the body burns faster — an old man wrapped in white carried in on a wood woven-string couch — thin caved-cheek bony forehead — and a little girl lying on the woodpile, her mother wrapped in white collapsed, singing a psalm, on the ground nearby.
Over the Wall in the gathering ground of ganja saddhus, a huge midnight circle, many crosslegged men with pipes, cymbals clanging, a drum, and two men dressed in women's veils and saris, whirling like dervishes, a few boys in blue shirts whirling against them — occasionaly rhythmic shuddering of the hips, and crawling crab-legged on the ground pumping pelvis back & forth between different circles of devotees under different trees — all joining in waves and diminishing separately again — Sat down with a saddhu in orange robes and pufted his pipe.
Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) was een Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver. In zijn Indian Journals doet hij verslag van zijn verblijf in India in '62/'63.
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