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 the water to be swirled away by the current. All is movement, life, and colour. Where is Pashpatti, the place of the dead? A few yards lower down the floating petals, bruised and sodden, strand on a pebbly beach. A man, broken with sobs, and assisted by a small wondering-eyed boy, is building up a funeral pyre over the fair form of his daughter. The gentle voice of the Baghmatti is heard as it ripples over the shallow ford, telling of ancient sacrifices and satis, crooning the death-song it has sung for many centuries, as it bears away on its bosom the woes of those who have suffered and died at Pashpatti.