I had never seen my brother in tears before. I could not tell if he was really trying to balk his tears, but his eyes were thick with them. Although he was squatting on a greasy rock a few steps behind everyone, he was stealing every last remains of my grandfather through the crowd. Everyone at the cremation was standing around this mammoth fire eating up the last of the woods and my grandfather. The wood blended and merged with his body like the red and orange in the fire. His right arm that had crept out of the woods looked like logs – all thick, all voicing their recent fate through the deep, pulsating red. The fire was growling in that dusky wind, and Ghatko khola – the river passing through Panauti – was roaring its mourn below the rocks. Panauti had lost an educational, social and cultural protagonist, a freedom fighter.