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| The Ghats of Varansi, India |
This extract is from the chapter
City of Death which describes my time in the holy city of Varanasi in India. Here, I describe my visit to the main burning area on the banks of the Ganges where the dead are cremated.
* * * *
I treaded carefully in the darkness on my way towards the main burning Ghat of Manikarnika. This is the biggest burning Ghat in Varanasi. Even from a distance, the flames from the multitude of burning pyres lit up the night. Once I reached the Ghat, I stood a respectful distance away and observed the scene before me.
“Please, no photos,” whispered the voice. A rail–thin man had positioned himself beside me. “I can explain about the burning Ghat if you wish,” he said, and was into his routine before I could stop him.
“Please, come closer,” he said as he beckoned me to follow him nearer to the fires. He brought me to the railing that surrounded the main funeral pyres. I could feel the heat of the flames on my face as they engulfed body after body.
“When people die in Varanasi, they are happy as it breaks the cycle of birth, death and rebirth, what we call Samsara,” said my guide. “When the cycle is broken, there is no more suffering for the souls. This is a very holy place for Indian people.”
As he spoke, a brass band passed by in full flow, heralding what I expected would be a wedding party. That was until I saw the pallbearers carrying a body following behind them. It seemed that death in Varanasi was a cause for celebration. The light of the fires danced on the faces of the people watching. Other corpses, dressed in fine silks with richly woven designs, waited their turn. I watched as orange flames engulfed the blackened human shape that was jammed between logs of sandalwood.
“Five kinds of people cannot be cremated at the burning Ghat,” my guide continued. “Children under five years, pregnant women, holy men, snake–bite victims, and lepers.”
“What happens to those people then?” I asked.
“A stone is tied to them and they are thrown into the river,” he said. The body I had seen in the water that morning must have been one of these people. The guide explained that it takes about two hundred and fifty kilos of wood to burn a body in about three hours. The flame that lights each pyre never goes out and is said to be eternal. Women are wrapped in gold cloth, while men are wrapped in white before going into the fire.
It was a hellish scene of death. One flaming pyre contained a bandaged and bloody figure, whose upper body and arms thrust upwards, as if trying to sit up. On the pyre next to that, only a blackened skull was visible, as the flames had consumed the rest of the body. A popping sound from the fire behind me signalled a head exploding in the heat as other organs sizzled. At the river's edge below the fires, young children sifted through the ashes of the dead, hoping to find a ring or gold filling left behind by the flames. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. I walked away quickly from that place with a feeling of dread in my stomach.
The guide showed me the special area where only the dead of the Brahmin, the highest caste, were cremated.
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| Cattle resting near the Ganges River |
“However,” he said, “the monsoon sometimes causes the river to rise very high and cover all the burning areas so everyone, high and low caste, must be cremated on the roof.”
I watched some people shovel the ashes of the dead into the river. He noticed my gaze.
“Those people are Doms, the untouchables,” my guide explained. “It is their job to work in the burning Ghat.” I had heard that this can be a well–paid position and can be passed down from father to son for generations.
“Two hundred and twenty bodies can be burned here in twenty–four hours. The cost is two thousand
rupees per body.”
“Two thousand
rupees is a small fortune in India,” I said aloud.
“Yes, is a lot of money but people can help with the cost,” he suggested.
He then explained that he worked on behalf of the poor people who lived in the building just behind the burning Ghat. They were waiting to die and couldn't afford the cost of the expensive sandalwood needed for the cremation. I thought this was terrible at first — imagine a retirement home overlooking a graveyard. However, I started to think that maybe these people looked forward to the day of their death with joy. Finally, their soul could break free of this world of pain and suffering.
I didn't know whether to believe his story until he brought me into one of these buildings. The place seemed overcrowded and elderly people squatted down along the walls in silence. While we were there, a young shaven–headed boy, sobbing with tears, was ushered past us.
“Crying is not allowed at the fire,” explained the guide sadly. “It impedes the passage of the soul.”
I asked why the boy had a shaved head.
“He is the eldest son and chief mourner so according to our traditions, he must shave his head. It is also his job to light the pyre that consumes the body.”
I donated some money to the home and thanked the guide for his help. Of course, he insisted on a donation also. In Varanasi, such public cremations seem to be a very ordinary and natural thing. The burning of the bodies didn't seem grotesque or obscene, but was done with respect and reverence.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. As I passed the fires, the wind changed suddenly and the acrid stench of burning flesh engulfed my nostrils. I covered my mouth and nose with my hand. I had enough of death for one day.
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More photos from Varanasi and India
