Chapter One: The long breath of Gokarna Das
Gokarna Das took a long breath – in fact, it was more like a deep sigh if not a heartfelt gasp – as he gazed across the expanse of water at the funeral pyre. As a long-time aspirant seeking to infiltrate the charmed circle of Southasian writers in English, he had finally discovered that the only way to achieve success was to start the story at a cremation ghat. No two ways about it, he thought pensively, as the heat from the flame danced against his knotted face and brown, muscular torso.
Gokarna Das did not have any top on because it was important to expose his brown, muscular torso, with a darkened brass talisman that hung on a black braided thread down his substantial chest – don't make the mistake of writing 'breast'. With morose eyes, he surveyed the scene. One pyre, two pyres, three pyres, all of them funerary or funereal, he could not decide which.