Next morning as we stood by Eknath’s house along with the entire village, waiting for the body to arrive, never had so many people made such little noise. When his body finally arrived and the women increased the pitch of their crying, it took the mere moment to put us in a funeral state of mind. His frail old parents and the 23-year-old widow were in each others’ embrace, trying to find feeble comfort in their moment of utter ruin.
Today things are a bit different at Eknath’s house. When we reach the house, his mother Parvathibai is washing clothes outside. We ask her if this is Eknath’s home. She nods and for some reason starts shivering. Then she starts crying.