Corpses : By Rangeya Raghav

The rays of the sinking sun were sliding on the river. From the depths of the water, a light was trying to break out. A hush had fallen all over the place. Only the barking sound of dogs would occasionally break the layers of silence; crack them open and then close in like black moss. In the hideous shadow of that cremation ground, nobody could tell whose pyre was ablaze. There was no one on the trail of steps leading to the ascetic’s platform. Just a while ago, a few gentlemen had occupied that space. Their faces were full of sorrow, disenchantment towards the world, as if the world had nothing to offer. Even the pyre had now grown frigid, whose blazing flames had made it impossible to stand, even at a distance of twenty hand spans, from it. Reclining on the charpoy, Maniram broke out coughing. He is old, his body is wrapped in orange-colored clothes, there is a thick metal ring on his left arm and rosary beads in his right hand. His body appears to be muscular. “Babu,” Maniram’s voice echoed – “did you go out into the city?” “Indeed I had gone.” Babu answered stepping out while drinking from a glass of water he was holding. “Then.” The old man’s voice echoed again. Babu is a youthful man, he bears the hint of a moustache. Carelessly he tosses away the glass right where he is sitting and says, “I cannot do the kind of job you want me to.”             “Why.” The old man says in a dry tone – “Is there an abundance of food, son? Cannot do the job. And here you refuse to light the corpses. Then what will you eat?” “I will leave home.” Babu replied concisely. The old man broke out into peals of laughter and then with a sad face began to count the rosary beads. Babu got up and left. This was an everyday occurrence. No one noted this as anything significant.