Because of this unexpected pit stop at Shivala, we now moved ahead at a purposeful clip in our legions, chanting our Rama nama satya hai, hoping to pass Harishchandra Ghat without stopping there to pay our respects as we had originally intended. This, however, was not to be, and perhaps in hindsight it was correct that we pause for some moments of silence at this holy site, since it is the more ancient of the two cremation ghats and regarded by many of the Kashi old-timers as the more sacred and therefore the preferred access route to moksha. What prevented us from pushing ahead directly was the small mob of children who slept in Harishchandra in the shadow of the electric crematorium, and in the pavilion, and on the benches, and along the retaining wall, and in any sheltered nook they could curl up in the fetal position to stick their thumbs into their mouths even among the open-air pyres, burning continuously. The boisterous parade of our throng passing in the night jolted them into wakefulness. Illuminated by the fresh and smoldering flames of burning bodies, the urchins descended on us like tiny demons, the whites of their eyes and teeth gleaming in the darkness of that underworld as they penetrated our ranks, circling our legs, squeezing in very close, groping, clawing, grasping, begging, stealing.

Still, even as they clung to us and hung from our necks and arms, we barely slowed our pace, plowing ahead, shooing them off like mosquitos, the eunuchs letting out terrifying cries and howls from the monster abyss of prebirth dreams, startling the imps into flight. We thought we had succeeded in shaking them off entirely, but a small hardcore contingent had regrouped ahead of us. In a straight row barring our way, they were squatting bare-bottomed and defecating, staking out their territory like dogs, looking up at us defiantly, sniffing and grinning triumphantly. It stopped us in our tracks, their pathetic barricade. We stood there gazing far too long, overcome by the realization that this was their only line of defense, there was nothing we could do to save them. So we simply circled around and went on. I wanted to call out to my mother, Ma, wherever you are (certainly not in that obscene blob we were hauling), these are the poor starving children of India you were always reminding me about when I refused to finish all the food on my plate—take a look, Ma. Ma, why did you have to fixate on Manikarnika for your cremation? You’re too heavy, Ma. You love little children, Ma, you could have chosen Harishchandra. Then we would already have arrived.