On the bank of the Ganga, where the river runs cool and silver between the hills, there lived an old sage named Devala. He had spent his whole long life by that water — bathing in it at dawn, sitting beside it at dusk, teaching beneath the tamarind tree whose roots dipped into the current.

When Devala grew very old, his students gathered, worried. "Teacher," they said, "you are weak. We are afraid for you."

Devala only smiled. "Do not be afraid," he said. "I am not afraid. Sit with me."

They helped him down to the riverbank one last time. The evening was warm. Fireflies drifted over the reeds. The Ganga murmured its old song, the same song it had sung when Devala was a boy, the same song it would sing long after.

"All my life," Devala said softly, "I have practised one thing above all others. Not the chants, not the postures — those were only tools. The one thing I practised was remembering. Each morning, each meal, each breath, I turned my mind toward the Lord, like a sunflower turning to the sun. I practised so long that now I do not have to try. He is simply there, the way the river is simply there."

A student wiped his eyes. "And now, teacher?"

"Now," said Devala, "the body is tired. It wants to rest, the way a traveller wants to set down a heavy bag at the end of a long road. So I will set it down. But I am not the bag. I am the traveller." He closed his eyes. His breathing grew slow and even. His face, lined by ninety monsoons, went smooth and calm, like the river when the wind drops.

"Remember Him," Devala whispered. "That is all. Remember Him, and the rest takes care of itself."

And then, between one quiet breath and the next, the old sage let go — his last thought resting on the Lord he had remembered every day of his life. A breeze stirred the tamarind leaves. The fireflies rose in a slow, glowing cloud. And the students, who had come to mourn, found instead that they were not afraid at all. Their teacher had not vanished. He had only walked through the doorway he had been facing all along.