When you shake off ash, the last flakes that fly in their negligible weight along the ever-so-slight current of air personify the story of a saint. Like a parakeet free to soar but ignorant of where, for all its life it has known only captivity. Like a butterfly out of its pupa, a little unsure so it climbs to the top most branches of its tree – the tree, an unaware shelterer – but is innately destined to vanish into oblivion. Like instrumental music that translates into different thoughts for each new listener. Like the feather of a rooster that has shed itself in a cock fight, unknowing of the reason for its abandon yet preening in admirable glory.It is the story of every celibate monk ever to have taken the vow of solitude. It is the beginning. It is where infantile steps towards learning begin. In that sense how is an infant any different from a sanyasi? Both at the mercy of others. One for sustenance, one for penance.