“It’s customary to negotiate the cost of the sacred fire for cremation with the funeral priest or dom . He sets the highest price he thinks a person can afford and then you have to bargain to bring it down,” explains my guide, as he introduces me to Chowdhury, the current dom . Chowdhury’s family has, for generations, been tending the perennial fire that fuels the pyres at the Manikarnika Ghat in Varanasi, which is supposed to be the most sacred place that a Hindu can aspire to be cremated in.
About 200 bodies arrive at the ghat every day, for moksh (liberation from the cycle of rebirth according to Hindu scriptures) beside the sacred Ganga. The dom is in pole position for prime pickings. There are, of course, temple trusts and the funeral registry office to deal with as well. Even so, the mental math is mind-boggling and, though I refrain from asking, the inevitable question does come to mind: who gets to keep all that money?
There’s also money to be made on the jal shav vahinis (boat hearses) that transport the deceased and their families. I am amazed by their cheery colours that don’t seem to reflect their dismal duty at all. On another sort of boat that is taking me from ghat to ghat on the Ganga, I spy bundles of garish clothes stashed below a wooden bench. When I ask what those are, the nonchalant reply makes me shudder. They have been taken off the bodies that the poor push into the river as they can’t afford a funeral pyre — the clothes are later collected, washed and resold in the market.
Shaking off the thought, I turn to the panoramic view. From my vantage point, where the smoking log of the sacred fire stings the eyes, I see the pyres burning below, just above the steps that meet the waters of the river Ganga. A black dog gambols through the haze, delightedly rolling around on a bright red brocade cloth edged with gaudy gold that it has scavenged from somewhere.
A few paces away, a family of mourners lifts a loved one from the pallet. The chief mourner, with his freshly shaven head, glances into the distance. I realise he is looking past the piles of wood that lie ready for the last rites, and at a group of foreign tourists (a gaggle of goras , as the men call them) who are busy positioning their cameras. Technically, photography is prohibited here, but it’s common to see the watchers watching the watched. That too comes at a price and there are people willing to pay. The tourists are also looking for the Aghoribabas , the Shiv bhakts who have a very different approach to enlightenment. They believe in immersing themselves in the most macabre practices till they see the light. Often found meditating around funeral pyres wearing skull-and-bone necklaces, and said to be partake of cadaverous feasts and indulge in everything from drugs to alcohol, the ash-covered Aghoris are indeed quite the photo-op.
Back at Manikarnika Ghat, each of the wooden pyres apparently needs at least 500 kilos of wood. “It’s brought on boats down the river from forests grown especially for the purpose,” says my guide. All along the ghat and the alleys leading up to it, are shops where you can buy these logs by weight. In the same narrow streets are little shops dedicated to sandalwood, brocade, incense… all the trappings of the final journey.
Life here deals with death practically. Tea stalls conduct brisk business. As do the kachori vendors. You can’t do your job on an empty stomach — even if it’s being a pall-bearer or raking through ashes to ready the space for the next ‘customer’. The famous Blue Lassi shop, which serves 83 different varieties of lassi , has been quenching the thirst of its clientele for close to 70 years from its strategic location en route to the Manikarnika Ghat. In the 15 minutes that I wait on the street-side bench for my kullad of creamy lassi , about eight funeral processions pass by.
And then there’s that most bizarre specialisation of all –— photo studios that click and process pictures of the dead, even displaying the ‘best’ photos on their doors as incentive to the bereaved to take home a memento. For the dead, Varanasi is a step towards salvation. For tourists, it’s a life-changing experience made all the more poignant by its dedication to death. For the people of Varanasi, it’s business as usual.
The writer is a chronicler of lifestyles with an accent on destinations and dishes.
