The pyre was built next to the riverbank, and we gathered around it, forming a semicircle away from the water. Thick logs of wood were interspersed with thinner branches, now totally covering the coffin.
The priest handed Dipti’s father a flaming branch and directed him to light the pyre to begin the cremation. I felt the heat graze my skin as the fire began to spread through the outer layer of wood. My knees went weak at the thought of a baby’s—not just any baby’s, but my niece’s—body being burned to ash. I wobbled before regaining my balance.
The priest chanted a mantra as the flames continued to spread to other segments. My mind flitted to the memories we’d never get to share. Uma learning to walk, trying her first bite of dal, her eyes lighting up when she saw fireworks, me teaching her how to make chocolate chip cookies. I’d been determined to make her feel protected and comfortable—ensure that if there was something she couldn’t talk to her parents about, then she could speak to me. Teach her that she didn’t always have to be strong—that sometimes it was okay to be vulnerable. I’d never get to say or do any of those things. More importantly, neither would Neel or Dipti.
The fire burned, spreading until each of the other branches and logs was fully consumed by the flames. The temperature around us had risen. Wind whipped through the air, not allowing the burnt smell to linger for long.
Neel covered his mouth, and when I saw tears stream down his cheeks and disappear under his hand, I couldn’t hold back my sadness either. A sob escaped from my lips, and I buried my face in the end of the dupatta that hung around my neck. I felt a soft cloth brush against my shoulder and looked up to find my dad handing me a handkerchief, his own eyes red.
Dipti, who had been standing stoically during the funeral, almost as if she weren’t in her own body, began to sway back and forth, like a shaft of wheat succumbing to the wind. She turned toward the skies, searching it, her expression hopeful.
“Mom,” I heard her whisper, “please take care of my little girl.”
Her dad squeezed her hard. “She will,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “They are together now.”
Hearing Dipti’s pleas to her mother was too much to bear, and I had to turn away to collect myself again. Even my mother’s reserved expression cracked. She looked as though if she let herself cry for a second, she’d never be able to stop. She looked so human, so vulnerable, more than I could ever remember seeing her. The gravity of the situation weighed on me. I wanted to reach out to her, to offer her some sort of comfort, but couldn’t bring myself to move. We had never had that type of relationship in which we acknowledged each other’s vulnerable moments, but I had often wished we did. Before I could convince myself to make the gesture, she gathered herself, put one palm against Dipti’s lower back and the other on her forearm to offer her support. The moment had passed.
“We must be strong,” my mother said to her, barely moving her lips.
I wondered why. Why was my mother so insistent that we always be strong? If there was ever a time to lose control and be emotional, this had to be it. Dipti did not respond, but she did manage to stay erect by leaning against her father, his arm firmly around her waist, while the fire consumed the body of the baby whose cry she would never hear. Not knowing what to say and suspecting no words could provide any comfort, I gently placed my hand on Neel’s shoulder. Another tear slid down my cheek. I brushed it away, the moisture warm on my fingertip. We stood very still as the fire raged on. The crackling of the branches as they broke under the pressure of the flames pierced the silence before being swallowed by the wind.
When it was over, the ashes were scattered into the river, engulfed by the flowing waters. Each ember now on a journey separate and apart from the others.
“We should go back. It’s getting dark.” Dad put an arm around Neel’s shoulders.
Neel nodded and turned to Dipti. Her eyes were shiny and glistening. When Neel looked at her, his face revealed that he had lost more than his daughter.
“Virag Mama, I wish this wasn’t happening during a time that should be happy for your family,” Neel said.
“Such is life, Neel. We cannot plan it.” Virag Mama patted him gently on the back. “Right now, you must focus on your family.”
As we walked toward our cars, I saw an elderly woman begging to passersby near the riverbanks. A dalit. The lowest rung of Indian society—people who did not even have a ranking in the Indian caste system. As we approached with our somber faces and flowing white clothing, she stared at us, hunched over, using a large stick to support her weight. She began to back away.