Saint

Round about a grave six foot long, a congregation gathered as the sun glided into the mountains. The pleasure nature bore seemed monotonous and the gathering murmured. Alone he stood a little far away, looking deep into the flame and bouncing pebbles on the river. He was missing something, a clear emptiness he felt. It was his father.

He looked back and thought of his father's last wish, that he be burnt and his ashes buried. Yes, his father believed in religion, not one but many. Today he was learning what he meant. He was always teaching to bring the right out of everything. "Be generous like Jesus, cunning like Krishna, let your ordeal be Islamic strict and your idol be virtuous as Rama. " the thoughts stretched and he continued to end the funeral. The gravestone read "a man of numerous beliefs, today his soul relieves, gallant was his logical god, to him magic was a fraud. He rests in peace as the world runs crushed."

The voices dispersed into the dark trees, the coal flamed red and the stars lit the day bright. The crescent moon beamed smiling lighting up the lands. A single oil lamp flickered half way over the hill in the home of the dead. The man let a silent tear that wet the pebble that washed away in the waters.

A man died that day. As Gita would put it, a soul left the body. But none but time knew the ideal is to survive. A few days later came a religion, 'humanism'.