ABSTRACT
Muni Baba died in September 2012. The last time we met, seven months prior to his death, he spent the afternoons seated at the roadside in the mild winter sun. He held an inhaler in his hand, and complained about his trouble breathing, and that no Bauls came to see how he was doing. He scrutinized his arm, stretching it out for me to see his dry and wrinkled skin, and then he touched his chest, breathing rapidly to demonstrate his difficulties breathing while looking at me mournfully. “The final stages of my life will be hard,” he said. “My chest hurts. My back hurts. How many days will I have left? I am suffering (amar kasta khub). Kristin, you understand. I will die. It will happen. They will make a grave (samadhi) for me in Tarapith” (where Chayna’s mother had been buried).
