Fernweh: [Homesick for Abroad]

Over the Bagmati, the breeze carries mumbled prayers and chanting, chiming bells - and the smell of burning bodies.

If I shut my eyes, I can see it all again.

Downstream a Holy-man de-robes and washes himself in the life-giving waters. Closer to the temples pilgrims pass through archways and pause in the shade as a car crawls to a stop by the riverbank where wood is being gathered. A body appears wrapped in white linen and is laid to rest by the water.

I watch from the other side as parents lead their children past the body and climb down the steep steps to reach the river. Their clothes carry the smell of incense from the temples which they wash away. Now only a hypnotic, deep chanting floats on the breeze.

Some flowers are placed on the body by the water as the wood is lit nearby. Two men re-arrange the body, so that for a moment, the pale face of a woman emerges from the linen. I wonder who she was, how old she had been, how she had died? But moreover, I ask myself why I am witnessing this.

My gazing stare is one of few. The holy-man has dried himself and is returning to the temple as the bathers encourage their children to dip their feet. No one cries or screams as the body is finally lifted onto the fire. The smoke thickens as damp straw is laid on the deceased and more flowers, trinkets and offerings are thrown into the blaze.

I wonder if I should have left by now; but beside me another fire is being prepared where another body will be cremated. The body arrives on a stretcher and no one asks me to leave; so I stay.

By the time the ashes are poured into the water the children who splashed their faces and dipped their feet have long-gone. The mourners head for the temple where I cannot go; so I follow the Bagmati back downstream, with the breeze and the chanting and the prayers and the smoke.