Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 130275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
“Sav?” Dylan said, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Sorry,” I said, voice thick. “He’s okay, Dyl. He misses her. Every single day. But he’s in college and doing what he loves with his life.” Dylan was focused on every word I said. “I don’t think he’s found someone else. I’m …” I stopped myself from talking.
“What?” Dylan pushed.
I sighed. “I’m not sure he ever will.” Dylan nodded like he understood. “I believe, like you, he feels half of his heart and soul are missing.” I shook my head. “I haven’t really spoken to him in depth about it.” My stomach turned. “I should have. He’s like my brother. I should’ve checked in with him more. I should’ve talked to him about what he was feeling, if he was—is—okay.” I looked up at Dylan. “I’ll be there for you, Dylan. Whenever you need me, even if it’s just to talk. Or to reminisce about Jose, as you knew him. I’m here.”
“Thank you,” he rasped, and I sat with him for the next couple of hours in the courtyard, staring at the water feature, as Dylan slowly sat up straighter, seeming a little lighter for speaking his truth out loud.
I was so proud of him. And I prayed he was proud of himself too.
I knew Jose would have been, and hoped that whatever kind of afterlife existed, he was smiling down at his soulmate too.
Proud.
Pitch Darkness and Blinding Light
Cael
Varanasi, India
THERE WERE PEOPLE EVERYWHERE. EACH NARROW, WINDING ALLEY WE walked down was gradually filling with bigger crowds. The smell of spices and tea permeated the air from the vendors who were selling food and drink on the sidewalks as we passed.
Everything was out in the open here in Varanasi. It was almost overwhelming to the senses, and the city was filled with so many different things to see, to absorb, my mind spun. There were barbers cutting off people’s hair for religious purposes. Pictures of brightly painted Hindu gods decorating the city. It was bustling and loud and filled with what can only be described as life.
Savannah held on to me tightly as we wove through the alleyways, following Mia and Leo as we approached the river that Varanasi was famous for. The river Ganges. Our guide, Kabir, had already told us of this river. In Hindu culture it was believed to have healing properties. The pilgrims who made the once-in-a-lifetime trip to the Ganges would immerse themselves into the river and let the sacred water wash away their impurities and sins.
The water flowing through a person’s hands was also a way to remember their ancestors, the dead. My chest had pulled tightly when Kabir had mentioned that.
It was early morning, the sun barely in the sky, and we arrived at the Assi Ghat—a wide stretch of steps on the Ganges’s riverbank. As soon as we reached the top of the ghat, I came to a stop at the scene before me. Laughter rose out of the mass of people congregated in the river. People of all ages, from old people down to infants. They scooped up the water, pouring it over them, letting it fall back into the river.
A sense of awe filled me. Just hearing their laughter, them living in this moment, believing this water was remitting their sins, was a memory I knew would never fade.
“This moment, for many of them,” Kabir said, “will be one of the greatest highlights of their lives.” Kabir smiled down at the children splashing, and I pulled Savannah close to me.
There was something about this place that seemed to calm me. Kabir had explained when we’d arrived that this city was known as the place where life met death. A highly spiritual place, sacred to those of the Hindu religion. And you could feel it. You could feel happiness from pilgrims and tourists alike, but you could also feel the heavy cloak of death hovering by. Like every stage of life swirled into a huge mixing pot, bubbling around you.
I looked up and turned to view the ghats at the very bottom of the eighty-something row that sat on the riverside. Those were ghats of cremation. Twenty-four hours a day, bodies of the dead were burned here. Their ashes placed into the Ganges to purify them in death. Kabir had explained to us that it was a Hindu belief that if a person died here in Varanasi, or their body was brought here to be cremated, they would break free from the cycle of reincarnation and reach nirvana.
Because of this, the city was always busy, loved ones wanting to give their deceased family members the greatest gift of all—the eternal gift of paradise.
I’d gazed up those ghats in the distance and felt a pang in my chest. I would love to have given Cillian something like this. Would love to have given him a piece of heaven after the hell he’d so secretly lived in.