The Circle of Life

by Deirdre Toh (Singapore)

I didn't expect to find Nepal

“It’s still early, but you should have lunch before we visit Pashupatinath. You might not have the appetite after that.” Rani advised. “You will see open cremations”, was all she would offer when I pressed her further, not wanting to spoil it for me as she thought it was best that I experience Pashupatinath without preconceptions. I was in Nepal for the mountains. I was struggling with the reality that my trek in the Himalayas was over and I had to return to the city, Kathmandu. I was terribly missing life in the mountains– the crisp mountain air, the clear blue skies and the tranquility had been my daily comfort. I was out of place in this city, overwhelmed by the buzz of life and noise from the traffic, the air pollution that cast the landscape a dusty pale brown. I had a free day in the city before my flight home. Let’s just do the half-day city tour, I had thought, even though I knew little about those places. It will help me pass the time. Rani, my city guide, had greeted me at the hotel and ushered me to the car to begin the city tour, fuss free and business-like. She briefed me on the sequence of visits for the day: Durbar Square, Monkey Temple, Boudhanath Stupa, Pashupatinath Temple. Our final stop was Pashupatinath, a sacred Hindu temple. As a non-Hindu, I could only access the public grounds of the temple. At every few meters were shrines with deities, adorned with fresh and stale offerings, bearing the secret prayers of locals and visitors. “You will see open cremations”, Rani’s voice echoed in my head. A subtle hint of burning material and incense wafted through the air, but I could not tell if this was due to the air pollution. Or something else. Then I turned a corner and I knew. Across the river from where I stood, an entire extended family gathered at the banks of the Bagmati River. A lifeless female body lay on a large wooden plank leading down to the river, blanketed in a white sheet and another layer of bright orange satin. Only her face and feet were revealed. In a few hours, her ashes would be released into this river that continues downwards to join the holy Ganges River in India. This was a river that time and tradition had turned a murky yellow, the remnants of ash and wood evidence of the multitudes that had come before her. One by one, the family reached into the river and wiped the feet of their beloved. They said their prayers and had their last moments with her. Then, someone in the family started sobbing uncontrollably, and suddenly I became acutely conscious of my presence. Like an intruder gatecrashing a family occasion. Would the family mind my presence, even if like the other visitors, I were mindful of the situation and quietly watching from a distance? Wouldn’t they want to mourn in private away from curious eyes? In the backdrop, life went on. Children chased each other with carefree abandon; monkeys hopped from roof to roof of temples and pagodas; pigeons marked their existence on the concrete ground in random little sprays of black and white, not unlike the unpredictability of life. With the cleansing rituals completed, some male members carried her to another section of the river and set her on the pyre. The family gathered around once more. A torch was prepared– ignited. The torchbearer, the eldest son, made three rounds around the pyre and carefully set the burning torch on his mother’s mouth, beginning the final extinguishing of life. His duty as the eldest son was completed. The flames would do the rest. Here was death, raw and uncensored. It didn’t have to be indoors. It wasn’t shameful to mourn in front of others. It didn’t matter that the river for the cleansing ritual was not the cleanest. It didn’t matter that while some dealt with death, close by, life must, and was allowed to go on. Rani was right. My heart was heavy. Heavy with the weight of life.