The alleyways in Varanasi are narrow. No cars can drive through them and cows frequently block them. I heard a group chant getting louder and louder ‘Ram Nam Sat Herr’ (The name of God is truth) and suddenly I am pushed aside and six men carrying a body wrapped in muslin walk past.
‘They are going to the burning ghats, Leah. Let’s go there now.’ Meenakshi said.
We followed the procession with great interest and I noted there were no women around. Meenakshi told me they aren’t allowed to attend the cremation, ‘Women are too emotional… traditionally they would throw themselves on the pyre in grief and I think the men are still taking no chances.’
We sat down on the steps of Manikaran Ghat which is the oldest and most sacred cremation ground for Hindus and suddenly men urged us to move on. Gesticulating towards me, they told us we couldn’t sit there.
‘Why?’ Meenakshi asked ‘There are so many people here.’
‘Well… you can sit here but she can’t,’ they pointed at me. I was a white face amongst the sea of brown. ‘She’s not a Hindu.’
Of course I had no idea what they were saying. My Hindi is limited at the best of times as I generally spend most of my time in the laidback savannahs of Tamil Nadu so I watched with ignorant interest. Of course Meenakshi, my own personal Hindu Goddess, translated for me later…
‘You fool. We all are born and will die, she is no different from us.’ There was a certain logic to her argument and so in the end they allowed my presence. We haunted the Manikarnika Ghat for days after that and they only registered us with raised eyebrows and occasional mirth.
Literally, all we did was watch dead bodies arrive at the edge of the River Ganges, be placed on top of a pyre and then systematically burnt until only ashes remained. The process takes about 2 – 3 hours and all that remains are the pelvis of a woman and the chest bone of a man. The most recent body was so fresh it bent at the touch of the poker. I watched the head shrink, the torso being pushed into the flames and a wayward foot be guided back to the fire. Only hours ago this person was a living human being who breathed, talked, and ate yet now they were mere ashes.
The wind changed, we faced the heat, breathed in death and it was more than I could bear. The smoke and ash filled my pores and made my eyes water but still we stayed and fought the rising panic inside. Inside all I could hear was, ‘I am going to die. I am going to die. I am going to die.’ To counteract my inner realisations of my own impermanence, India being India, the air crackled with commotion. Cows followed the calls of their owners, dipping in and out of the river, foaming at the mouth. One caught a death shroud on its horns, a pretty decoration all gold and red. There were men hanging around smoking, spitting and chatting and what surprised me most was the lack of emotion involved, it was all very matter of fact. There was one group where a man even brought a radio down with him so he could listen to some music whilst it was all happening. Yet when the body had disintegrated the men would dip into the river and wash their karmas away.
‘Cremation is education. Burning is learning,’ a young man told me. It was then I realised that we always live - our elements transform but they still remain, from the bonds of our bodies to the boundless.
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