When Death is the Highlight of the Day!

What do you do when your day is interrupted by an offer you are dying to refuse, but can’t?

I had made it to Varanasi, one of the oldest living cities in the world and one of the 7 sacred cities of the Hindus.  It is the  place to die!  I knew that Varanasi was home to the finest religious river frontage, with miles of ghats (steps) along the Ganges.  I also knew of the burning ghats in Varanasi, a place where people come to be cremated.  What I didn’t know was that they would be the place to hang out!

Now, having become used to a colourful mix people greeting me with an even more colourful mix of requests every time I ventured out, and all with relentless enthusiasm, I was gobsmacked as I disembarked my first cycle rickshaw into town………

‘Madam! Dead Bodies this way!’  ‘Many many bodies today, Madam’.  Is very good day to come’.

I hadn’t even decided if I wanted to go to the burning ghats, such was my reluctance to stare death, literally in the face, and whilst on my holidays.  I was now being persuaded to have my senses assaulted by big, smiling, enthusiastic faces!  How does that work?

It occurred to me that there was great disparity in what I made death mean and what it meant to die right here in this city.  Where I come from, it doesn’t matter where you die, it’s sad, we grieve, pay an unnerving visit to the Chapel of Rest and then get the hell out of there and leave the rest up to the funeral director.  Come the day we lay ours to rest, it’s sombre, we talk in quiet tones, wear black and NEVER lift the coffin lid!

To die here in Varanasi is cause for celebration because it means that havingdied in thisHoly City of Light, you’re straight on your way to Nirvana – God.  No more life cycles for you, my friend, you’ve hit the jackpot, your work is done!  Funeral parties were coming by, with bodies wrapped in gold and orange silk, surrounded in flowers and bobbing around on a bamboo stretcher, carried by the men in the family.  Drums were played and the men chanted all the way to the Burning Ghat.  At one point, a body zoomed past, propped up in a makeshift tray built on to the back of a tuk tuk, with around a dozen family members in it, on it and hanging off it – how do you get 12 people in a four seater vehicle?  Come to India.

I decided to take my merry little friend up on his offer and bob down there myself to see how it was done.

So, with some more of my new best friends, off we went.  The streets got narrower as weheaded into the dense labyrinth of the narrow streets of the old City.  As we got nearer to the river, stock piles of wood began to line the confined paths and suddenly, my mood changed from one of street carnival to Nightmare on Elm Street.  This was thewood used to make the funeral pyres and I could smellsmoke and death.  I couldn’t turn back, there were too many people behind me, including the dead who clearlyhad a date with their final destiny.  I couldn’t turn off because there was nowhere to turn off to.  Buried amidst the crowd and the cows, the drums and the dancing, I was headed for the river.

The smell of smoke got stronger and finally we were there.  A big stone building, built ontwo storeys and standing right next the ghats, shielded my view from the burningpyres.  I was asked if I would like to visit the ladies that lived in there, all sick and all waiting to die.  I climbed the stairs, hoping that the sight of the living would be be preferable than the sight of the dead.  Around 6 ladies lived in one room, which had big glassless windows all around.  They were literally living above burning bodies everyday and no window to shut out the smell or the smoke.

I was called over to the window.  I hesitated, as I knew this would give me a birds eye view of all that was below.  I was the only one in the room that had a problem with this.  I was also the only one from the crowds below that had a problem with this.  I figured that this must be something to do with my internal map of the world, as no one seemed to share my fear.  So, I moved over to the window and, not daring to look, or look away, I allowed my eyes to focus on around 18 bodies burning below me.  It was strangely OK and moreover, I was strangely OK.  I stayed for a while, I watched arms and legs being poked back into the fire, faces crumple under the flames and flesh turn to ash.  And it was all OK.

It was the day I discovered another meaning to death and a meaning that was to serve me in what was to become my destiny.  That said, I had not desire whatsoever to change the meaning I attached to bathing in The Ganges alongside the devotees and the dead.  Not a drop of water got anywhere near me. This was one map of Indian culture that I simply couldn’t get my head around!

How do you know when something is real or perceived?  At what point do you recognise that the meaning you give to any experience is a choice?  When do you decide to loosen tight perceptions, often cultivated from past learnings, into an expanded map of the world? Have you ever noticed that language and tone of voice often determines your choice of meaning.  I had a happy little soul share with me his delight for all those fortunate enough to die and burn on the banks of The River Ganges in the Holy City of Varanasi – good enough for me to think, Oh, Ok, I’ll pop down and check it out!  I wonder, which of your experiences in the past, present and future will now change as a result in having choice over meaning.

For a life gifted twice

And in honour of bubbles, botox and red velvet gloves

Jacqui Lane

www.jacquilane.com

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