The calligraphy of silence
And concentric rings of water
Ebb and eddy in
The black and white photograph
Of the widows of Benares.


Black and white
And no truth in between, either
Just a wash, a wash
Of moonlight; from
The unblinking bad eye
Of a sorrowful sky.


Like dimmer moons
The shaved heads catch
Their bit of light,
But one strains, and straining draws
With their wrinkles
Their deathwish on their cold faces;
The warmth of pyrewood.


The black and white picture
Also lies to me
Like a good reporter
Tells me no story; and coerces
My only story
Out of me. My widow
Is my mother.


No shaved head. No white
Saree. Not even a grand
Subject. For the art
Of black and white.
Just one more mother.


All art is another drug.
The shadow it casts
Into the dark, damp floor
Of my heart
Depends not on light,
But on the height of my threshold.



The tradition of widows gathering, sometimes willingly, other times unwillingly, is based o the Hindu belief that those who die in Kashi, or Banares will go to heaven. The widows, many very young, are usually abandoned to the dak and miserable existence along the banks of the ganga. They have their heads shaved, and wear white sarees. They have nobody to take care of them, and only death is their salvation. In recent times, there have been reports of exploitation of these widows, who are abandoned by their families to the ’final salvation,’ a gory tradition of inhumanity.

Many photographers have framed their plight, as also several documentaries. Bresson, Raghu Rai and, also, perhaps, Raghubir Singh. These are the masters. There have been many lesser or more known photograpghers too, who have used the widows of Banares as their subject to profile the inhumanity of society.