Land could be bought, sold, owned, divided, claimed, trampled, and fought over. The land was stained permanently with pools of blood; it bulged and swelled under the outlines of the countless millions buried under it. But the sea was unspoiled and eternal and seemingly beyond human claim.
In death, all men become saints, she thought, and she both welcomed and rebelled against the thought. Perhaps it was better this way-this erasing of bad memories, this replacement with happier ones, like changing a dirty tablecloth.
Now, with everything else-work, money, house, pride, dignity gone, only the love remains.
You will never believe me, I know. But wherever we may be, I will remain
Your husband, Gopal.
All these tears shed in the world, where do they go? she wondered. If one could capture all of them, they could water the parched, drought-stricken fields in Gopal's village and beyond. Then perhaps these tears would have value and all this grief would have some meaning. Otherwise, it was all a waste, just an endless cycle of birth and death; of love and loss.