Arson

He descends the hill in saffron and crimson, proceeds with prayerful devotion, the air sweet with jasmine and yak butter. He lights a candle,

subtlest of foreshadowings. He should have been at the temple chanting or sweeping or making alms rounds. Instead he joins

the procession to protest recent shootings. A fellow devotee places a cushion in the middle of the street. The monk extinguishes

the candle, sits in the lotus position. A growing crowd gathers. A friend takes a five-gallon can from a car trunk and pours gas over the monk, who,

in one unhurried motion, lights a match, the sound like a finger snap. He bursts into flames, remains unmoving, silent, even as his bald head begins to bubble.

Later an official will call the act self-inflicted arson. In Kánh Hòa province, a couple kneel in front of a lit candle, a lotus blossom

and small framed photo, trembling shoulders almost touching. Their lips move almost soundlessly, mouthing two words over and over—Our son.