At peace those red soled feet

I saw them creeping silently into view, swaying precariously amongst the bustling traffic. Stunned and slightly intrigued i kept my focus, unperturbed by the two kamikaze auto drivers ahead who were planning to race down the rest of the street. I don't think I'll ever forget the image of the red soled feet, covered in a garland of white lotus flowers. To whom did they belong? I did not know, whether the bearer was old or young or male or female, i knew nothing but the soles of their feet. I followed the red soled feet until they disappeared from my sight, turning off towards Howrah. I already knew the rest of their journey, the place they would rest before a flame was set to them, i knew the ashes would flow down the holy river and they would be as they had been in life, part of Calcutta's deep woven Tapestry. I couldn't help but think of the red soled feet, considering how real death was in that moment, so unlike my experiences of closed affairs and private grief. No one stopped to let the hearse by, no one slowed down, no one hung their heads in a sign of respect, the red soled feet were part of the city, part of its rhythm, part of its flavour, ever part of the mounting chaos. I smiled to myself, unconcerned by the city's collective indifference, i thought that finally the red soled feet had found their peace in the city of madness.