Umbilical cord
All that is living and all that is dead lie here as silent as the Supreme Self. Seventeen human bodies are burning. Not on seventeen pyres. Like winter’s small coils of fire, the corpses have been divided into many parts and are burning apart, giving off heat in silence. So many bodies, burning in a thousand pieces—yet no crowd has gathered to bid them farewell. Nowhere around is there any loud weeping or sniffling. There is no one here. No one anywhere along the riverbank. Not a single soul. No one lives here. Not a single one. Here the dead have no right to flare with sound. A soundless, hushed everywhere. In this warrant of secrecy the flares of fire climb into the sky without a sound, to offer the dead their final salute in silence. All around—a gleaming darkness. No one knows where the invisible eyes keep watch. Someone spits from far away. Someone whispers: “Not a single bone must remain whole. Grind them to pulp. Then cover it with sand on the river sh...