".... Who would fardels bear
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of ?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ..."
Hamlet III, i 76-83
Not many holiday tours, or adventure packages, dare to take you on the ultimate trip: to the world of Death and transition rituals. True, if you go to European cities, you may visit cemeteries or visit the tombs of historic figures in great cathedrals. Or you may go to Egypt, or Greece, or the Maya or Inca lands to see burial mounds or pyramids. But how many tours take you to witness the actual ceremonies for the departed, and watch like ghoulish voyeurs as a family prepares to send a newly deceased loved one on a final journey?
The day began auspiciously. We were all in a good mood for our "final day." The weather was sunny and warm, and we were happy to welcome back Ramilla, our Kathmandu local guide. A hearty "last meal" of breakfast heightened our mood. Our first stop was our "final temple" of the trip, the Hindu temple of Changu Narayan, a lovely temple on a hilltop overlooking the Kathmandu valley. Impressive, but unfortunately accompanied by gaudy souvenir shops that seemed to hold more interest for several of our group mates, who followed the "shop till you drop" religion. This was combined with a mid afternoon visit to the impressive Boudhanath Stupa, with the eyes of Buddha following our every move. We visited the Stupa after an agreeable lunch.
I wanted to write about these two temples, worthy as they are, and put them out of the way, so to speak, in order to deal with the stop where we visited Death, the undiscovered country. Many people are familiar with descriptions of the cremations in the holy Indian city of Benares on the Ganges River. Nepal's equivalent is the Pashupatinath Temple on the banks of the sacred Bagmati River in the heart of Kathmandu. The temple is Hindu, so we were unable to enter it directly: no matter, for Ramilla took us up a hill around the "back way" in order to view the proceedings. Fitting, I suppose. Death comes for all, so why should we be denied the opportunity to enter Death's sacred place: in effect, we were turning the tables on Death and were sneaking up on it.
The temple was an impressive and widely spread out array of stupas and shrines, inhabited by Hindu "holy men" who offered blessings and photos for a price. But then we descended steps to the river banks: plumes of smoke rose ominously in the air, and a strange but not unpleasant scent greeted us. I began to get an uneasy feeling in my gut as I looked across a bridge to the opposite bank: at least four cremations were in progress, and others were being prepared. Our casual banter stopped immediately. Nothing could prepare us for what followed.
"If you dare look, come forward and observe," invited Subash. He went on to describe the rites and rituals before us. But I could barely hear his voice, which seemed muffled and sent from a deep and distant place. For there, in front of me, perhaps fifty feet away, I saw the burning body of a newly dead person. It was not a wax dummy, not a mannequin: the person was alive a scant few hours ago, and now lay in a surreal bed of dark wood, red flame and billowing black smoke. An arm seemed to grasp the bier upon which it was placed, and a foot glistened an awful yellow-gold colour in the bright sunlight. The chest and torso had already sunk into the ashes of the bier, and, mercifully, the head was not visible. I stared, fascinated, open-mouthed, and completely moved by the sight. Family members tended the fire, spreading straw over the corpse to try to make the burn more even and efficient. Then, I recovered my hearing: Subash had finished speaking, but instead of his voice, I heard the hiss and squeak and rush of the burn. Subash had earlier explained that butter had been spread on the corpse to enhance the burn, making it hot and quick.
Immediately beside this inferno, a new family arrived, led by women in white shawls, and men carrying a burden: a new loved one, wrapped in blankets and scarves of mourning, laid out on a metal stretcher. The men placed the body on the top of the river bank, on the highest step: the men removed their shoes, rolled up pant legs, and stepped down to the river to ritually wash themselves in the river's holy water. The corpse lay momentarily abandoned while they did this, covered in the silk scarves of white, gold and orange. Then, the men stepped up the bank, picked up the corpse from the stretcher and tenderly bore the body to the river. They uncovered the feet and head and washed the newly visible body parts with holy water, wordlessly, tenderly and without tears. Then, the body was re-covered, carried in several arms back up the steps of the river bank to the stretcher and then born off to a platform down the river where wood and straw awaited. I followed them on my side of the river: I was not part of this, yet strangely connected. On my side, the world still happened, still moved, still breathed: on the opposite bank, things seemed slow and silent. When the family arrived at the bier, I witnessed the initial lighting of the straw, which had been spread over the body. I looked back at the first cremation, now almost complete, and thought I saw the soul of the departed one make its upward journey on the billows of smoke into the sky.
I have a hard time describing how I felt for the rest of the two long days that followed. I was not horrified nor offended by what I saw or heard. How could I be? We all knew that this site was on the agenda. We are all mature enough, and are experienced travellers as well, to know that some sights are uneasy. And we all know that Death is part of life, and that it awaits us all. The people in this part of the world accept this fact much more readily and openly than we in the west do. But we were all silent for some time as we walked away. I felt humbled and honoured to be there, and I took no photos or video. Despite their openness, I felt that I'd be intruding if I had done so. I felt that I was a guest of these families. And I felt that I had a duty to bear witness to their ritual: I came to this place, and I felt that I had to look straight at them, straight at what they were doing, and not feel strange or even sad.
The next forty hours were the transit home. Flights through two nights, exhaustion, boredom in airports, wretched turbulence over the skies of Japan, and jet lag seeping into our very souls. Finally, touchdown in Toronto, the chill of autumn air, a quick romp through customs and baggage recovery, a quick ride home, and .... just like that, the trip was over. Nothing better than my own bed beside my tired wife. I drifted off to sleep, as warm as though a flame burned around me.
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