An evening in the summer of 1990, Udhampur, Jammu Province
I am sitting on the steps of a ghat. In front of me flows Devika, Ganga’s younger sister. The light is fading. A body has been burning on a pyre for a long time now. There are no people. Smoke from the burning pyre is rising to the sky, turning it black. The smell of burning flesh and the crackle of burning bones are the only trace of life.
The sun has set. The moon is out.
A flute tune flies from somewhere. My gaze doesn’t leave the burning pyre. The flames are dying, at last. Time lingers. Only a heap of ash is left with a crown of embers adorning the pyre. He who might have lived for almost a hundred years is gone and will never come again to the ghat as he might have every morning and evening to offer prayers and to take a holy dip in the waters of Devika. Devika, his only savior and the saviour of all those who live and die here. “All those who come to her and bathe in her waters are redeemed.” So goes the belief!
The tune comes nearer. In front of me stands a flute seller playing upon a flute. He plays a pahadi dhun. His gaze is fixed on me, his fingers tapping rhythmically on his flute. The melody is beguiling. Looking into my eyes, he stops playing and hands me his flute without saying a word. His expression conveys everything.
“I have no money,” I say to him.
“Don’t worry about the money,” he says. Keep the flute and pay me when I am around the next time.
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