The body burns slowly. Flames melt the flesh and bones. Skull without a face. Rustles of water and blood evaporating. Leg breaks off and falls. A strong and pungent smell. Explosive sounds from the tree. That's how it all ends. Put in a coffin and buried underground or burned on a pile of wood, it doesn't matter. At the end of all humans are perishable.
I froze in front of the body for a few minutes that felt like an eternity. I watched the face until the skin slid and fell on the bare ground, like an old mask taken off and revealing the true face underneath, leaving behind a bright white bone and two black holes that draw me to them. I thought I would be scared but there was something intriguing about it. Something forbidden.
A pat on the shoulder snapped me out of my thoughts. "See this is your first time here." I turned around and saw one of the locals standing beside me. He was right, of course. This was my first time seeing a human body burn. He smiled at me and revealed a missing tooth. His skin was brown and rough and he has rags as work clothes. For him, it was another day.
It took me a moment to get back to reality. I’m at Manikarnika Ghat in Varanasi I recalled to myself. Surrounded by workers carrying piles of wood, groups of white-clad mourners accompanying bodies to the bonfire, and clerics throwing scraps of ash into the wide Ganges River, which is contaminated with human excrement, carcasses of animals and everyday trash, and with boats that sail between the slime and filth. Here and there small groups sit on the Ghat steps drinking chai and smoking hashish. The smoke of the many fires fills my eyes. Behind me, an old man messing with a stick in the fire, making sure that the flesh would burn to the bone, and the bone to ash.
I stared at the stranger's face, not knowing how to respond.
Before I could come up with a reply, the man without hesitation begins to explain the importance of the Ghat. “You see, this ghat is one of the holiest ghats alongside Mother Ganga. In Hinduism, it is believed-“
"No money, I don't pay" I cut him off, taking him as another beggar looking for quick cash from tourists. He patiently assured me that he is a worker here and that he did not expect a payment, only good karma for sharing his culture and history to an interested tourist. Again, before I could answer, he continues with his explanation. “In Hinduism, it is believed that a dead human's soul finds moksha (salvation) when cremated here. Death is considered only as a gateway to another life marked by the results of one's karma and reaching moksha breaks the cycle of rebirth.”
While talking, the man guides me up along the ghat steps passing several burning pyres. The smell of the dead hangs heavy in the air. Several men caring a stretcher, on it a body wrapped with gold and orange silk, pass us taking the body down to the Ganges for the final purification act of being dipped into the river before cremation. The man explains that the ghat continues to burn day and night and hundreds of bodies are consigned to the flames daily, each body requiring between 200 and 400 kilograms of wood to be burned sufficiently, meaning the sacred ghat burns through as much as 80 tonnes every day. The cost of wood is paid by the relatives and depending on the type of wood selected the cost changes. After the bodies wrapped in silk and flowers are turned to ash, the remains are collected and sprinkled in the Ganges.
We reach the top level of the ghat and walk into a small room with big windows looking over the Ghat, several people dressed in rags are sitting in a circle, in the middle of them a small campfire. “This is where the eternal fire breaths. The fire of Goddess Sati. Which has been burning for thousands of years.”
“It is believed that Goddess Sati, jumped into the fire and immolated herself, Lord Shiva carried her burning body to the Himalayas. There, he was immersed in unending sorrow. Lord Vishnu, moved by his plight, sent forth his Divine Chakra (one of his weapons) which cut Goddess Sati’s body into 51 pieces. Each of the places where her pieces fell on Earth were declared as a Shakti Peeth (significant shrines and pilgrimage destinations).”
“Every pyre here is lit by this sacred fire”. “And call me sunny” he adds out of nowhere, breaking his lengthy informative speech and giving me a big smile and a small nod with the head.
“Let us get a chai” Sunny says as if to show he has finished giving his tour of the ghat. “Sure” I replied and we walked down the ghat stairs to a small but overfull chai stand not more than ten meters away from one of the burning pyres. It seemed surreal, how people can drink chai and make small talk as if human bodies burning is no big deal.
We each get a chai and find a place to sit on the stone steps. “So where are you from?” Sunny asks me as he takes out a chillum from his pocket. His first question since we met. “Israel” I said. “Ahh, yes. Many Israelis come to India” he replies as he lights the hashish filled instrument. “Do you like India?” he asks as he passes the chillum. I say that I do and tell him of the places I’ve been in his country and explained how different my country is. As we continue to sit on the ghat stairs, making ideal conversation, drinking chai and smoking hashish, bodies continue to burn around us as if it’s just another ordinary day. And I think to myself that these fires will stay alive for thousands of years more.