We set out while it was still dark, our four noble eunuchs honored with the first round of bearing aloft the bamboo stretcher on which the shrouded body had been laid out, blanketed with vivid cloths for warmth, heaped with garlands of flowers for beauty, firmly anchored with strong bands to prevent shifting or slippage or any unseemly accident along the way, God forbid. As the eldest son and mourner in chief, renamed Mani for the occasion, I walked directly behind. At my side was the hijra guru himself, the eunuch chief in all his splendor, conferring upon Ma the distinction of his presence and the blessings of good luck in his power to grant it as she embarked on her journey toward liberation. Then followed an escort composed of additional initiates in the exclusive society of eunuchs as well as members of the fraternity of bicycle rickshaw wallahs led by Bulbul, all of them eager for the honor of taking their turn carrying the effigy of my holy mother. Making up the rear, at a respectful distance, came the woman and the animal, Manika and Fetter Feivish, accompanied by several of his colleagues. This was the core group, the nucleus around which many other spiritually attuned seekers would amass as we made our way from Ma’s apartment chanting, Rama nama satya hai, the familiar verse intoned over and over again every day by funeral processions wending through the lanes and alleys of Varanasi—the refrain that reverberated in your ears day and night and could never be fully unplugged, Rama nama satya hai, God’s name is truth.

In faithful compliance with Ma’s extraordinary request to be transported to her final destination not by the traditional route through the constricted streets of the city itself but rather along the wide promenade at the top of the broad concrete steps of the ghats, we progressed from the apartment through some twisting roads and alleys, then down the clay slope to our first station, the great Shiva linga under the pipal tree at Assi Ghat. The darkness was still intense, an hour at least remained until the sun would begin to rise over the eastern shore of Mother Ganga, there were no electric lamps or other lights to guide our way as the power had failed as usual, yet already there were bathers and pilgrims at Assi Ghat performing their daily salutations, rising wet from the holy river as if reborn, their clothing clinging to their bodies and rendered translucent, climbing up the slippery incline. By the light of candles affixed with their own melting wax around the base of the linga, I instantly recognized among the Shiva devotees Ma’s girlfriend Zehava, despite the helmet she had on to protect her hairdo. I did not hesitate to approach and introduce myself. Addressing her in Hebrew, I informed her whose remains we were now carrying, and invited her to show her respect to the dear departed by joining our cortege.