I was in Jerusalem when I received the call, putting the final touches on the schedule for a two-week retreat at a meditation center in Dharamsala for some of the veteran members of Women in Black who, for over two decades, had been holding vigil in their black kerchiefs every Friday afternoon before the Sabbath at France Square (which they had renamed Hagar Square), not far from the official residence of the prime minister of Israel, against war and violence in general, and against the occupation of the so-called West Bank in particular. I am ideologically very sympathetic to this noble cause and was working especially hard to reward these obviously extremely well-deserving heroines with an amazing experience. Even so, I immediately dropped everything and handed over the entire dossier of their itinerary to one of my agents on the ground, in our branch office in an old Templar building in German Colony. I took the first flight out of Tel Aviv that I could get—price in this emergency was of course not an issue—and landed in Mumbai in the early hours of the morning. From there I connected via SpiceJet to Varanasi, arriving at my mother’s apartment in the late afternoon.

The rebbetzin Dassi was in the kitchen, cradling an infant in one arm who was nursing at her breast, a toddler dragging down on her skirt. With her free hand she was stirring a pot of rice and lentils on the stove for her other children, who were climbing like monkeys all over the sofa in the living room, the cushions piled up to form the ramparts and turrets, the chambers and hidden recesses of a fort. Dassi nodded a somber greeting and jerked her head toward the closed door of my mother’s bedroom. Ma was in bed, with Manika’s face poking out from under the covers beside her. I kissed my mother’s dry forehead, like old parchment under my lips. “Ma,” I let out. “What took you so long?” she said. “I was waiting. I have to talk to you. I didn’t know if I could hold out much more.” Her voice was feeble, practically inaudible.

Manika rose from the bed and left the room in obedience to a wordless signal from my mother. Ma indicated to me to draw nearer and bring my ear close to her mouth. “If you love me,” Ma spoke, “put your hand under my thigh and do me a favor. Do not bury me in America or Israel, or in the ground anywhere. But when I am dead, carry my body along the ghats, from Assi to Manikarnika. Cremate me there and throw my ashes into the river.”