Yesterday was a difficult day in Jogiwara. I woke to cries of anguish when Hari’s mother discovered the lifeless body of her oldest son. The sun was barely up. Hari came into my house unannounced and told me that his brother had died in the night. I got up, put on some clothes and went to the room where this lovely, friendly man’s body lay. His face had been covered with the blanket that had kept him warm during his last cold hours.
People had already started to gather. There is no ritual book. Tradition takes over. It is all unspoken. People talk amongst themselves, but there are very few words spoken. No one has to tell anyone what to do. People know their roles exactly. The men and the women separate. The women gather around his mother and his wife. They fill one side of the room, and sit quietly. Some of the women cry, but surprisingly no one tries to comfort his mother. They just listen silently; they help her when she gets up. The young girls sit with the women. His nieces cry. At some point Hari’s middle daughter tells me tearfully she doesn’t know what to do. She looks at me. I cannot help. Saying I am sorry is not enough, or it feels totally inadequate.
There are almost no tears among the men. The young boys, the oldest is his son who is just 20, stay close to the men, and help where they can, but they look a bit lost. Later at the cremation ground, his young son will be the only person dressed in ceremonial white to light the fire. I get the impression that this is one life lesson that has to be learnt by imitation. A few men sit with the body opposite the women. His uncles, both the Sikhs and Hindu are joined by one Tibetan, a monk who lives in the village. He married but still shaves his head. All the men are older than this young father . He was not yet 50. He had been sick. He had been in the hospital, but still his death was sudden. I try to read the hidden signs of grief but I am lost. The women show much more emotion than we are comfortable with in the west. The men are far more restrained.
More men gather, but for the most part stay outside the room. More arrive. I notice that some of them begin to disappear into the forest that abuts the house. A steady line begins to shuttle back and forth carrying wood, large logs, and small brush. My guess is that up on the road a jeep has arrived to carry the wood to the cremation ground. Each village has their own. I have been to three cremations during my time here. The first was an ex-pat Brit. It was traditional; the Indians took over; we, his western friends, stood and watched. Then my cook's mother died. We went to a gnat more distant from the village, down a long steep path to the river.
After about 3 hours, his body is carried from the room to a wide area outside the house. Some of the men begin to prepare it for burning. There are elements to add, flowers, seed and a yellow scarf. A more colorful blanket is spread over his body, and he is carried to another jeep on a palette. If there are prayers I don’t hear or understand.
By the time I reach the cremation grounds the bottom of the pyre has been stacked tightly with kindling underneath.. Only men are allowed; a large number are doing the work of carrying and preparing the logs. The pandit actually seems more like a work foreman than a priest. The fire must burn for at least 5 hours so that the ash is fine enough to be carried to the Ganges, 11 hours away. Suddenly four or five women push in. They cry and shout. Again I am startled by the indifference of the men. After a few minutes the women are ushered out. Then his body, enclosed in a metal grate, is moved onto the huge stack of the wood that came from the forest next to my house. It feels intimate. More work assembling more heavy branches on his small body with care. Many hands. The priest has to make sure that the fire does its job and burns his body, and that the logs don’t fall and spill his ashes into the wind. They have to make it to Rishikesh. His assistant smokes a cigarette. It’s just a job.
It has taken a long time, but when his son lights the fire, it starts quickly. If the wood was green, it seems to burn hot. The men take off their shoes and put either green leaves, what’s left at the beginning of winter, or small pieces of wood, soaked in water, into the fire. We wash our hands and leave.
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