Just had my first chat ever on line, Bill Gates has shrunk the world ! Jai greeted India thusly:"love ya mama! say hi to arun and anil and thajji and smita bhabi and anita bhabi and arun and the dhoodwalla and the dhobiwhalla and the guys that sputter past on the tractorloads of gravel at 4am and the daybreak bells of varanasi". The dhoodwalla is the milkman who delivers a half gallon of milk to the house every morning. Fresh, not pasteurized. He is the son of the old dhoodwalla, who was the son of the old dhoodwalla, who was the son..... Same with the dhobiwhalla, the washerman.
Today we head back to the ghats, turning left toward the main cremation ghat. As we crawl through traffic,, I notice that it is very easy to spot widows here. They do not wear their colorful glass bangles anymore. When a husband dies, his wife shatters her glass bangles, leaving only the gold, and will wear them no more. I am reminded of the haunting Alison Krause song from Cold Mountain: "The crimson tide trickles down from the mountain, separating the widow from the bride". We are concerned about Anil's health after his stroke. He does not look well. I asked JP what would happen to Anita bahoo if he died. JP said he did not know, there are no rules. I appear to be obsessed with widows, for obvious reasons, as JP and I age. We actually talked about this today. Of course he would like to be cremated here, as would I, but I don't think an unembalmed body could be legally transported half way around the world. And we are NOT going to be embalmed (take note my children). So, I guess we will be cremated in the US and our ashes brought here.
We walk slowly along the ghats, passing many interesting things. Men sewing on old treadle sewing machines. At first I think of this as old fashioned. Then I remember the one Benita was using in Gurgaon. She turned the crank with her right hand and moved the material with her left. (She makes a little money sewing pillowcases for people). And I thought how much she would appreciate a treadle machine. All things are relative. Indian site seers in long row boats gliding along the river. I know they are Indians because no westerner would ever get into such an overcrowded craft. Orange clad holy men, foreheads smeared with ocher. A very brave boy trying to get his kite string disentangled from the tail of a huge bull. Girls playing a form of hopscotch. A dog scratching a body completely covered with sores from mange (I send him a quick blast of Reiki). Suddenly people shout at us and we look to see two bulls fighting and heading right to us. We scatter for safety and wait until they are well past. I came close to being killed by bulls, near this very spot, on our last trip. I was walking up the long, wide steps to the top of the bluff along the burning ghat when a cow, with a bull atop her, came running diagonally down the steps from above, crossing behind me on the step I had just left. I felt the breeze pass behind me and heard everyone gasp. That was probably the only chance I had to actually be cremated here. There is always something good hidden within something bad. We pass the ancient scales for weighing the wood used for cremation just as we begin to make out the bodies burning. Hindus dream of dying here in Varanasi in order to break the cycle of life and death. So, you will see old people dressed in rags with a small bag tied around their waists. This contains the money for the wood to cremate them. There are towering stacks of wood along the bluff here. These fires go continually. There is a saying here that the ground of this cremation ghat will never be cooled. I have been here when there was a long line of heavily laden boats snaking down the river, waiting to deliver wood . We stand in silence, along with a few other westerners, and watch as gold clad bodies are brought to the river and partially submerged, then back up to wait their turn to be annihilated.
I found myself hearing Handle's Messiah in my head, ..."and the body will rise incorruptible". With their belief in reincarnation, Hindus would never understand the idea of God bothering to raise up dead bodies. Why bother. The body is nothing more that an old coat, discarded for a new one. While the bodies slowly burn, other piles of cooled ash are raked into the river. Bits of gold are scattered everywhere. Twenty feet away, a boy washes his water buffalo while others fly their kites. Ordinary, so ordinary.
Peace,
Nadine
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