In Rishikesh the sky is split with its own light. From the ghat our flames drift down the river at dusk, stuck in eddies and circling pools, snagged in the tree roots that line the banks. The sadhus robes cover the steps in orange and they sing and clap their hands in unison. Their robes were once white. All around them is the smoke of the pyre.
A month ago at the Triveni Ghats I met Ganesh, the sadhu who said he drew strength from walking by the water at sunset. Around us people were gathering to release their deepums, little flames floating in ghee, down the Ganga. It is here that the river tumbles out of the mountains, clear with patches of green like the Feather River coming out of the canyon near Chico. We saw a man lean down and drink water in the cups of his hands and Ganesh turned to me and said,
See how much faith he has? He thinks it is safe to drink the water because it is holy. I would never drink the water here. I saw wild elephants last summer on the other side amongst the trees. They always drink where the water moves fast enough. So do I.
Once, I had read a story in the newspaper about a herd of wild elephants. Their forest had been chopped down by developers, so they left to live in another one north of Delhi. Years later, the elephants heard the echo of trees falling again. They recognized the yellow bulldozers. But this time, as the developers slept, the elephants dragged all of their equipment and threw it off a nearby cliff.