Hammered brass, the kind that outlives everyone who's ever owned it. At the center, Ganesha — no wick of his own, because he was never meant to burn first.
Around him: modaks, because he's never without them. A lotus, leaf still on. Jasmine buds, closed tight, waiting on warmth.
Light the wicks around him. Let them go one by one — the modaks first, then the lotus, then the jasmine, opening as they melt.
He goes last. Slowly. The way visarjan was always supposed to feel — not sudden, not staged. Just given back, in its own time.
Jasmine and vanilla in the air by the time he's gone.
