The sitar’s high-pitched plucks were the only sound as our boat glided toward an outer bank that looked like a ribbon resting along India’s girth. Night turned the Ganges from brown to black, and Varanasi’s lights became fireflies in the dark.
In the pocket of my jeans were two things: the ring that had been feeling smaller with each passing day and each advancing adventure, and a slip of paper—a eulogy. It was a departure from the vows promised to husband and God seven and a half years earlier. Divorce vows to be read aloud to ring and river. This little leaf plate with the small dancing flame would be the funeral pyre for my marriage.
By Kristin Zibell (to be continued)
