So, Ma had talked about me to this vulgar stranger, and in such a negative light. It required all my self-control to keep from bursting into tears at this betrayal, sobbing wretchedly like a little girl again until I was panting and could no longer catch my breath, falling down crying right there at the foot of the Shiva linga at Assi Ghat, and beating the ground with my fists in a tantrum like your stereotypical female hysteric—but it was necessary to maintain the decorum of the occasion. Lips pumping fishlike, throat constricted as if an umbilical cord had again been twisted around my neck by Shmelke my twin, I nevertheless had to carry myself with adult male dignity and move on. Already our forces were advancing, the bamboo litter at the head with the cadaver like a beached whale dredged up from the sea strapped down to it carted by the next shift of four eunuchs. I took my rightful place directly behind, followed by the founding core escort, our ranks swelling with bystanders and gawkers as we processed along the way—sadhus and holy men, yogis and ascetics, beggars, boatmen, launderers, pushers, touts, dreadlocked kids stoned on hashish, strumming their sitars, banging their tablas, seekers, tourists, the jet-lagged and the insomniac and the homeless, dogs, goats, monkeys, cows. The mood was celebratory and festive, and not discordantly so. Death held no terror here even in the darkness of night. This was Kashi, the city of light where death was bound up in the fabric of life, accepted like any other bodily function, taken in, passed through, and eliminated.

We made our way chanting along the promenade rising above the holy river Ganges, past Tulsi Ghat, and the Jain Ghat, and onward, with the hope of reaching Harishchandra Ghat as our next station, to switch bearers, change horses as it were, when an unforeseen event occurred at the ghat named for the great god himself, destroyer and transformer, Shivala Ghat. This is the ghat favored by cows and water buffalos, herded here from the cramped teeming interior of the city and marched down the steps into the waters of the river to bathe and cool off, leaving in their wake great wet mounds of waste matter, sloppy heaps of dung. On the bright side, when our bearers stumbled and slipped on the muck, they managed to stop their slide after rolling down only about four or five steps and were spared crashing down the entire flight. Most importantly, the body on the stretcher thank God remained securely in place and did not suffer the humiliation of plummeting with a horrifying thud. Still, it did not emerge unscathed. It was smeared with shit as if it had been rolled like dough in sugar, the eunuchs were shrieking, their saris and makeup were ruined, we were obliged to stop and wait while they descended into the water with the stretcher and submerged entirely to clean off as best they could. When they came up out of Mother Ganga there was no time for drying, no warmth from the sun, which had not yet risen, our schedule had been disrupted, it was imperative to move on. Ten fresh eunuchs, four on each side in file, plus one at the head and one at the feet, were now required to ferry the waterlogged body, weighed down even more by the coverings soaked through and through. Alluding to the excrement that had in such a ghastly spectacle toppled the guest of honor and her bearers, the hijra guru said, “It is the filth of Shiva and therefore pure, all opposites are illusion.” We took whatever comfort we could from this wisdom as we continued on our way.