We could not carry our dead properly on our shoulders; the pyres felt hurried, the priests anxious. It is debated because some say the protocols were necessary, but I say a soul’s passage cannot be measured by metres. In my own courtyard, we had to whisper the *shok* for my uncle into a mobile phone held towards the river. My father's almanac, which prescribes every rite for such a day, lay useless on the damp bed, its pages curling like a withdrawing hand.
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