When Sohini boarded a small wooden boat at dawn in Varanasi, the ghats were still half-asleep. Priests were setting up for the first aartis, and smoke from burning incense floated over the river like breath. In her hands, she held a small paper lamp with a single marigold tucked inside. “My mother and I had planned to come here together,” she said softly, her voice barely rising above the splash of oars. “When she passed away, I felt I had to come anyway. It was something unfinished between us.”

