Nabin Tiwari The evening in Varanasi carried its usual symphony of life and death—the rhythmic chants of priests, the crackle of lamps along the ghats, and the ceaseless murmur of the Ganges beneath a dusky sky. Smoke from incense coils drifted lazily over the stone steps, curling around the heads of pilgrims and the cloaked figures of wandering ascetics. Arjun, whose heart carried the weight of a mother’s fading life, moved silently among the crowd, barely noticing the colors or sounds that so many others revered. His focus was on her pale face at home, the shallow breaths, and the…
