547 words
India - A Harmony of Contrasts
The feral dog has his head down. His yellow body strains as he tugs at the flesh. He stands in the Ganges among pink plastic bags, decaying straw statues of gods and other rotting debris. Crows, like death's messengers, darken and interrupt the flat grey sky.
Floating in our battered wooden boat, I turn to my guide, feeling compelled to verify what I already know.
"Yes", answers Mr. Sushil Kumar Roy, "that is a human body."
I am in Varanasi, India - the holiest of holies. If you are a Hindu, it is here that you want to die, or at least be cremated. Here is where you can stop the endless cycling of reincarnation and rebirth, and instead go directly to heaven. Stop the madness, as it were.
But not everyone can afford the wood required to burn their dead. It may be against the law to throw bodies in the river, but it is still done. "Mr. Roy, this river is so toxic...not only from Varanasi's 45,000 annual cremations, but from industrial effluent, toxins from over 200 leather-tanning plants and the raw sewage from all the cities along its banks", I say, quoting my guide book.
Mr. Roy speaks patiently, "Yes, ma'am. Your first statement is true. It is a polluted river."
"But", he goes on, "there are two truths. Equally as true, is that the Ganges is a living goddess. This is the other truth if you are a Hindu."
At this, my guide who has quoted T.S. Elliot, Socrates and the Bhagavad-Gita, slurps a handful of river water through his protruding teeth. He smiles, "I might not be healthy, but you cannot call me sick".
We drift on the goddess, past people smashing laundry, brushing teeth, bathing, scrubbing pots and wading in to drink praying-worshiping-handfuls of the divine. At the main crematorium, there are boats piled high with bent chunks of logs and others filled with tourists like me. Nine bodies are burning on the bank. Six shrouded corpses wait on the steps. There is no smell. I watch four men annoint a wrapped body into the river and then remove layers of shiny gold and red fabric. The female form is left in its white wrapping and placed on top of a stack of wood. Ghee (clarified butter) is poured over the body along with two kilos of guggul tree powder. This apparently aggravates the fire and prevents the smell.
I watch a young boy wading into the Ganges with two sticks held out in front of him. The sticks balance a smoking piece of body. It looks like a charred chunk of elbow. He flings the piece into the brown water. "That boy would be the oldest son", says Mr. Roy. "Whatever remains must be removed so that the next body starts on a clean site."
The sun sets through the charcoal haze of the city. Mr. Roy lights a tiny candle surrounded by marigolds and centered in a homemade paper dish.
"Release this candle", he says, "so your wish can be granted". I protect the flame from a slight breeze. My candle soon joins other dreams and yearnings being cast off from shadowy boats.
Together they become a flickering parade down a powerful and silent river.
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