Out of respect, we avoided them, casting our curious eyes away from the smoldering piles where Hindus made their transition from this life to the next.
A haze had settled over the river, the tired humidity catching the smoke and smell of recent fires.
As I passed funerals and dancing bathers, I decided that this river, this place of transformation, would be the final resting place for my marriage. I would release my engagement-cum-wedding ring into this sacred river with a ceremony of my own.
That evening as the sun faded into a haze, we filled a blue wooden boat big enough for a tour group, crew and sitar player. The river slurped the ghat stairs, sucking Durga Puja remains into her current. A campfire smell pervaded the sludgy damp of the riverside. The brown of the Ganges blended into a muddy pink sunset. The bathers had gone home.
By Kristin Zibell (to be continued)
