I sit cross-legged before your portrait and lighted lamps. The priest chants Sanskrit hymns while throwing flowers at them.
Other members of the family sit in awe nearby.
Outside, the plants you took care of are in full bloom. Bees are busy fluttering from one to another, sucking nectar.
Your portrait, with a garland of sandalwood, would be hung again on the wall in my room.
I have kept your secret that you had brought your painful life to an abrupt end so that others might live their normal lives.