"Focus, Jajman," the priest said sharply. He was a young man, barely twenty-five, wearing a dhoti and a Nike smartwatch. "Stop analyzing. Just do." Kabir sighed. He was doing this because Shukla Master had insisted. "You have intellectualized your grief, Kabir," the old man had said. "But grief is not an equation. It is energy. And energy needs a conduit. The ritual is just the conduit." "Face South," the priest instructed. "That is the direction of the ancestors. The Pitru Loka." Kabir turned. He looked at the hazy horizon where the smog met the river. "Now," the priest chanted, "Om Pitru Devata Namaha... Pour the water slowly. Let it flow over your thumb. Visualize your father receiving it." Kabir tilted the copper vessel. The water trickled out, cold and clear, washing over his thumb and falling back into the murky river. What am I doing? Kabir thought. I am feeding water to a memory.