Varanasi Days pt4 13-23 March ’18
bbq n corps
Photo by me with Canon7D
The Antyesti, which can be translated to “last sacrifice”, the funeral, the ceremony itself, is something rather fascinating and mystical, particularly for someone who (like me) has attended only to traditional Christian’s funerals.
What stuns me the most is that the people involved in the funeral; the sons, brothers and other relatives of the dead/defunct don’t cry or grieve over as much as in the funerals I’m used to see; they don’t seem so disheartened or sad. I can’t say they are happy neither, but simply, it seems they know how to accept death for what it actually is: a natural event; a mere gateway to an other life, or, hopefully (and that’s why so many Hindus come to die in Varanasi) the liberation from Samsara, the cycle of birth and death. A game over in dryer words.
“It really does smell like a bbq, doesn’t it? I can’t wait to feast on the left over. I hope some toes will have some meat left on them. They are my favourite bit. Yummy”. More confused and puzzled then ever I do my best to ignore this peculiar animal; focusing my attention to the pyre.
It’s strange feeling to know that the fire I’m looking at, which indeed smells like a bbq, is burning what not long ago was the vessel of someone’s soul. It was a living person. A Life.
Now, that vessel, it’s a mercilessly carbonised pile of lifeless meat, bones, viscera, organs and hair.
What’s ever stranger it’s that I can’t say I feel sad or sorry for the defunct or his family. I. That it has always been enough only to see a funeral, or a wedding, or overhear a talk about dead, even if just on TV or radio to make me drop few tears.
It feels so natural to die here. Death must feel at home here.
The scenery is purely mesmerising; a fire had always had this power on me.
The flames twist and tangle with one another, embracing in a sacred dance that feeds on anything that can nourish its combustion.
The smoke emanated is a strenuous dark one, it aims to the sky, and in its upward motion it liberates and disperse the soul of this deceased through the air and merges it (as one) with all the surroundings. Memento, homo, quit pelvis es, et in pulverem reverteris.
Silently watching four nameless cadavers turn into ashes, I can’t help but thinking that indeed, there is something powerful in this place, in this city.
Maybe it is the energy released by the cracked skulls and burnt carcasses, I don’t know; but definitely there is something in the atmosphere, like an intense vibe. It’s almost breathable.
Everyday around 100 remains are blazed down to dust and disposed into the Ganges; assuming that each one of them brings along, on average, 5 people to follow the function (plus those people who came along but are not allowed to the ceremonial site: women and kids); all of which carry an invisible baggage of strong emotions, sentiments and some kind of attachment toward the parted, and even stronger emotions and faith towards the Holiness of this place; then well.. they must leave something behind them; some sort of energy that it’s, to some degree, perceivable to those who stick around here captivated by this fascinating ritual.
This thought, somehow, comforts me. The goat, as if able to read my mind, bleats a laugh.
Or maybe the comfort comes from the inebriating Ayurvedic cigarette I just lighten up. Either ways she seems pleased.
Almost intentionally, as to break up some of that comfort I’ve just found on such uncertain grounds, she comes over and ask: “can’t that energy be created by those people that live around here? Those who place so much faith and indeed energies in making a living out of all of theeeeeese?”. Indeed it could be possible. She goes on and explains how things work around here, what part of the show each one is playing:
“Look that guy down there!” She points her long beard towards the direction of a man standing next to a group of tourists: “He’s explaining that he runs an hostel right at the top of this ghat. It’s for people who come here (to die) and don’t have much money. So no, he’s not advertising his place or trying to win over some new customers. He explains that he operates only on donations: whatever the family can afford it would be enough for him. And -he adds- that he helps them to buy the woods for the fire-show. -No! He didn’t actually used word fire-show. But shortly he’s going to use a very important word. Here he goes!: ‘I do it as Karma-Job: I help them with what they cannot afford in this life’. So lofty and noble, innit? It’s a similar concept to the one of a ‘café sospeso’ you’ve in Italy.
Only in this case the provider of the service is actively seeking for the necessary funds. He does so by asking to the audience if they want to contribute with the whip-round. Marvellous! I’ll let you guess whether or not he’s going to use those money for a ‘pending funeral’ or actually pocket it right away.”
My sinful mind imposes me to be suspicious.
“If you stick ’round long enough you can meet a myriad of these generous peeeeeople ready and willing to share their stories. All working solely on donations and moved by the same core value: practicing Karma-Job.”
I can’t figured out if she’s being sarcastic or serious. “Do they really do that?”
“They really do believe in Karma, most of them. And some of them will keep all the money for themselves, while others will give it, at least in parts, to a noble cause, exempli gratia: to people who can’t afford a decent funeral. As always reality leis in between.”
Good point. I think to myself.
“You ought to avoid generalising about people. Each one is different and in some way, unique. Plus, everyone has their own priorities and values.
What I can tell you is that you can’t expect always to support the right cause.
However, I can also tell you that doing nothing in order to avoid supporting swindlers, isn’t a good idea neither. Ultimately it’s up to you. To a certain extent, you must have some form of faith; follow your instincts and do what makes you feel good.”
This goat is wiser then I would have imagine, wiser then many people I met.
“I believe that heating the leftovers of a roasted body is a right thing to do: it helps disposing of some waste material and provide me with nutritions, which in turn means I don’t have to go looking for food somewhere else.”
She bleats me goodbye and darts toward a freshly scorched corpse.
As I sit here sipping on the nth cup of Chai, watching -quiet literarily, live passing by, I fell so calm and peaceful. So much peace around death it feels unreal.
Death must feel at home here; at least as much as life does.
#404 ciao
Cribo Vagabond 