35053668-Empire-of-the-Soul-Paul-William-Roberts

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EMPIRE OF THE SOUL
only to find I’d returned to the place where the journey started. But
for the first time I understood it. Across the span of twenty years, my
two selves felt reconciled – so much so that I no longer saw any
contradiction between them. Even the smoke from the funeral pyres
smelled fragrant, beguiling.
I set off, intending to walk back to the main ghat. I knew I would
hear his voice the millisecond I heard it.
‘The sun was reliable, no? In his way . . .’
The dom raja sat alone on a neat pile of sandalwood logs, cleaning
his long fingernails with a splint. He had that freshly-washedwearing-clean-clothes
look all wealthy Indians revel in at daybreak.
The Indian summer will soil, wilt and crumple it long before noon.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘Why?’ He looked genuinely unsure.
‘I said I’d come at dawn.’
‘Did you?’ He stared with professional interest at the construction
of a fresh pyre nearby.
‘You told me you’d show me something.’
‘Show, is it?’
‘Yes. In the boat – that’s what you said.’
‘Today I am too much busy.’
He continued to work on his nails. ‘That’s OK. I’m a little rushed,
too . . .’
‘Dashashvamedh, probably.’
‘What?’
‘This ghat –’ he pointed toward the main one, ‘– where all the
pilgrim peoples go. But you have seen many thing here now, is this
correct?’
I said I had.
‘Are you knowing what name mean?’
‘Name?’
‘Dashashvamedh.’
‘I forget . . .’
He proceeded to tell me the story, in the bored and disinterested
tone of a parent with a naughty child.
Long, long ago, there had been no rain for as long as anyone