Kathmandu, Nepal
Pashupatinath Temple
The Burning (Cremation) Ghats along the Bagmati River
In
insatiable appetite, a greedy fire spits out the flames of a violent
hunger. Riding a wave of wind, a whipping tornado of smoke takes a turn
back towards the ground and the heavy breath of burning flesh engulfs
its circle of male mourners.
They do not flinch.
On the
deck of the burning ghat, tearless faces await shaved scalps; A
sacrifice to symbolize their new un-chosen un-attachment to the body
that burns. A single, small and circular black patch on their heads is
all that is left kept, seeming to me like an X marking and respecting
the last line of connection, and a path we will all one day walk,
between this world and the next.
In the fire, a human thigh,
blackened beyond recognition, falls from its bone. Immediately, a
bamboo pole is thrust into the pyre and the thigh is pushed like a log
deeper into the coals. The fire rages; As if it too longs for and
appreciates the consumption of that considered rare and sacred. The men
sit squatted, flat feet, arms crossed, watching without word of
protest, as Immortality burns.
The mothers, sisters, daughters,
aunts and nieces are not here; Their tears thought too likely to lure
the eye of a soul caught in the bardo (between worlds) back to a
reality where their vessel is no longer capable of the carry. So once
again, the men and women are pushed to their separate corners of the
dance floor, women to the corner of birthing and life and men to that
of dying and death.
The men sit in silence. This is the first
place I have ever noticed where the swinging doors of conversation on
politics, business and sport are solemnly shut. Instead the men stick
their fingers into the warmer crevices of their bodies and, without
word or commentary, watch the silent captions that scroll in their
minds underlining the scene.
And the fire burns.
Without
discrimination it burns all our accomplished and failed dreams, all our
material gains and losses, all our relations of love and hate, all our
deeds of both good and evil intention, and all else that ever once,
positively or negatively affected our formations of earthly ego.
The wind blows again and the heavy breath of burning flesh engulfs its circle of male mourners.
They do not flinch.
What does it take for death to become an unflinching matter?
Custom? Numbness? Aloofness?
Enlightenment? Unattachment? Understanding?
Torture? Habit? Pain?
Respect? Courage? Love?
A
one-eyed money sits on a perch beside me, watching with curiously
human-like gestures, and less blind than I, as the fire continues to
dance under death.
*****
Just want to say thank you, again, to WorldNomads
for renewing their sponsorship and continuing to insure that my travels
are safe and worry-free. Having been in regular contact with their
staff and in use of their super-internet-friendly and overall excellent
service, I feel fully confident putting my name on theirs. So if you're
planning travels and in the market for travel insurance, there's a
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*****
I'm entering a meditation retreat at the Kopan Monastery, so I will be offline and unable to respond to emails for awhile. In the meantime, there are a few new pictures in the *new* Nepal photo album to browse through.
