First Farewell
We wrapped a long length of red holy cloth around
his body, slung him between two green bamboo poles,
and carried him to the edge of the Bagmati river.
We covered his cold nostrils with soft cotton balls and
placed six sacred beads of Rudraksha in his palm for moksha.
We lit a bunch of sandalwood incense and stuck their points
near his head. We threw a tong of rice on his chest and started
chanting mantras for the peace of his soul. I walked around
the pyre with a burning piece of wood and lit a handful of kindling
at his feet. The dry logs whooshed and the pieces of flesh
sizzled and spluttered. The flakes of ashes flew off and fell on our heads.
Later, as the sun turned red on the horizon, we left the burning
pyre to go home. The black oil lantern was hanging down from the wall
its faint orange light barely filled the balcony of my house.
Nearby, my small brother kept on expecting for Grandfather home soon
from the farm, with a bottle of baby pots, pedaling his rusty axon bicycle.
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