The Yamuna River at 5:30 AM did not look holy. It looked tired. A grey, sluggish ribbon cutting through the smog of Delhi, smelling of marigolds, mud, and industrial decay. Kabir stood on the ghat, his trousers rolled up to his knees. The cold water lapped at his ankles, sending a shiver up his spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. He felt ridiculous. He was a man of science. A man of logic. A man who had built his career on data analytics and scalability. And here he was, holding a copper vessel (lota) filled with water, black sesame seeds, and kusha grass, about to perform Tarpan—an ancient ritual to "satiate" the ancestors. This is irrational, his brain argued. Dad is gone. His carbon has returned to the cycle. Pouring water here won't hydrate him in the afterlife.