Death by Ganges

A boatride down the Ganges in Varanasi is considered to be one of the richest experiences in India. Varanasi's dozens of riverside ghats (steps to the water) reveal nearly every aspect of life in this country. Here people come to bathe, wash clothes, water their buffalos, enjoy a boat ride, deposit household garbage, grow watermelons, await the monsoon, fly kites, beg, drink holy water, meditate, find a guru, die, and sell souveniers and snacks to tourists. The Ganges is both purity and filth, all at once, and one cannot be separated from the other. Around one fourteenth of the world's entire population live along the banks of the Ganges, and a great number of them reside in Varanasi. It's also one of the most polluted waterways on earth, with raw sewage constantly emptying directly into the river.

A typical boat ride passes along most of the major Varanasi ghats. There are ghats for several Jain temples, a Nepali temple, Hindu temples, and one named for Jesus (via the Hindu lens). Nearly every ghat has at least one small shrine to a Hindu god, usually the locally favorite god Shiva, from whose head the goddess Ganga (the river Ganges) is said to spring. Every boat ride is certain to pass by two important locations: the main ghat, Dasaswamedh, with a great concentration of people, colors and smells, and the most important burning ghat, Manikarnika, the most auspicious place for a Hindu funeral.

I admit I was a bit nervous to see the burning ghats, unsure to what degree the cremations would be visible and if they would be ghastly. I remember quite vividly a scene from one of the Koyaanisqatsi-type documentaries depicting a close-up Hindu cremation in time-lapse that I saw probably in the early or mid 90s. It had a lasting impression on me. Americans are not used to being confronted with death in any way - we hide it and are shamed by it. Funerals are mournful and private affairs and cemetaries are quiet, well-maintained refuges. Accidents are cleaned up immdiately. Roadkill is about all we are likely to see on a given day.

In India, everything is open and visible, and sometimes (for better or worse) it feels like there is no such thing as privacy or shame among the spitting, burping, snoring, smelling, poor, diseased, and disabled masses on the sidewalks and in the trains. I didn't really expect death to be any different, and as we approached the burning ghats with smoke spiraling upwards from a handful of fires, my stomach clenched in anticipation. Would this experience haunt me? Make me feel ill?

At first, all I could see were massive piles of wood perched on the ghat, and I noticed immediately that Manikarnika Ghat was visibly darker than the others. The towering buildings were gray and there was somehow a lack of color. It seemed the deep grayness came from the constant fires - ash sent spiraling upwards clung to the sides of buildings surrounding the vicinity.

Then I noticed my first funeral in motion. Facing the river, an adorned stretcher lay on the bank awaiting the ceremonial dip in the Ganges prior to cremation. A body was bound to the stretcher and was mostly covered in bright yellow flowers, with only the head and feet visible. The deceased man was ancient and looked incredibly serene. It wasn't at all a disturbing sight. It seemed as natural as any other part of life, maybe due to the contextualization of India, and at that moment my stomach slowly started to relax. I looked around and in-progress cremations were taking place at that moment - a number of fires burned on the banks, but there was no gruesome imagery to witness. The area smelled of sweet wood, not of burning flesh (9/11 comes to mind), and the bright fires had a palpably spiritual meaning.

Our boatman then pointed out two men over a tiny white bundle. This bundle contained an infant, but it would not be cremated. He explained that there are five categories of deceased that do not get cremated on the banks of the Ganges: babies, pregnant women, death by snake bite, lepers, and sadhus (holy men). Instead, these bodies are ritually immersed in the waters of the Ganges, their funerary stretchers laden with heavy rocks to bring them down to the bottom. Remember, normal people bathe in and drink from these waters every day. I realized fully that there are hundreds of dead bodies at the bottom of this river. Yet, while this thought would be horrible in the U.S. it was part of the flow here, and the Ganges seemed all the more powerful for it.

Over the few days I spent in Varanasi, I saw dozens of Hindu funerals taking place. I never saw anything remotely frightening or disturbing, even when I looked up one evening and noticed a pair of feet of a dead man just inches above me, his funerary stretcher lashed to the top of an autorickshaw for transportation to the ghats. Everything I saw was purely absorbing. The dead were treated with respect and were beautifully decorated for their final moments on earth in human form. A deep sense of faith permeated all action and no one seemed gripped by despair or horror. Families of the dead were certainly present but I couldn't tell them apart from the spectators - everyone watched each funeral taking place with infinite patience and calm. No beating of the breasts, tearing out of the hair, no wailing, so sobbing, no covering and no shame. There for all to see, these funerals struck me as almost pleasant. A very odd feeling to have for an American, and what a relief from the terrible anxiety we put ourselves through.

One funeral really stood out above all others. One evening after dark had fallen, we took dinner at a pizzeria overlooking a serene ghat. Far away we heard the sound of bells and dismissed it as a typical ceremony putting the gods to sleep. But the bells approached and became louder and we realized this was something different. Suddenly from a stairwell emerged a dozen men clanging bells and garbed in white robes. Several of them held up a funerary stretcher. These men had a purpose and did not walk slowly or mournfully - they were headed straight for the holy Ganges, no looking back. I saw on the stretcher a very gray head bobbing around with the motion of the monks' feet, moving so much that for a moment it had the illusion of being alive. Immediately, I thought this must be the death of a sadhu; for they paint themselves with gray ash once they make a commitment to the ascetic life.

The procession was down at the banks of the river very quickly, where they intercepted a waiting boat. The monks loaded up, pulled the stretcher on board and gunned up the motor. Within moments they had disappeared into the night somewhere on the river, where they would ritually deposit the dead sadhu into the holy waters. Ten minutes later the boat returned and the monks unloaded, sans-sadhu, and dispersed. There was nothing else to it - again no long drawn-out agony or mourning, yet plainly visible and firmly in the real world. It doesn't get more real than the Ganges.

I thought about what I knew about sadhus and the pieces fell into place. I knew that once a sadhu makes the transformation to ascetic, they are mourned as already dead by their families. I then realized fully that this is meant literally. The family of a sadhu holds a complete funeral and at that moment he becomes a holy man. The family comes to the ghats and commissions a funeral, and in place of a body they burn a physical representation made out of chapati (flatbread). This "chapati-man" is the only traditional Hindu funerary ceremony a sadhu will receive in his lifetime. The fire represents his soul's release from the bounds of the physical world, and this is taken as real; this is how a sadhu achieves enlightenment. The painting of the sadhu's body with gray ash is a literal reference to the state of being physically dead, and going naked or with only a loincloth or beads reinforces the absence of attachment to the physical realm. Not because they are spiritually above it but because they are truly relased from it - they are literally dead.

So when a sadhu expires physically, it's different from the way we understand it in the West. He has not died as such. His funeral has already occurred, his family is not allowed to have another or come to witness this second ceremony. There is nothing left for his disciples to do but give the remnants back to the holiest of spots - the Ganges.