11AM, Wednesday. August 11. Chandanwadi, Marine Lines, my mother’s body, all 28 kilos of her lay prostrate, on a stretcher at the crematorium. Preparations were underway for the cremation, not complex prayers, but simple ceremonies. 

As various powders were handed to me, and as I gently spread all over the white sheet and rubbed sandalwood on her face and forehead, her eyes opened.
“Feels good, Rahul, thanks… this is the last time we’ll meet face to face, quick chat?”