The Last Battle

Returning from the crematorium, I looked at the eerily empty divan. That was mother’s spot, where she sat and sometimes dozed. She was on that divan most of the day, holding court, and dispensing advice to all and sundry. She had a great understanding of the world around her, and at another time, in another place, with access to higher education, she would have been a CEO of a large corporation. She had all the facts and figures of the family enterprise at her fingertips—pending orders, items delivered, and payments due. Her wise counsel would be sorely missed.

We all went to immerse her ashes in Cauvery. Accompanied by a purohit chanting slokas, we descended to the river bank. The urn was handled reverently, and gently placed on the water surface. It floated and bobbed, turned every which way before being drawn in by an eddy of current. From a loving mother’s womb to an ancient river’s womb.

We stood with folded hands and teary eyes.


Rudy RavindraRudy Ravindra lives in Wilmington, NC. His fiction has appeared in Bewildering Stories, Ginosko, Chicago Literati, Saturday Evening Post online, and others. More at