Up in smoke

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Later on we would witness many other cremations, in Varanasi and Kathmandu, but the first cremation that we saw was in Dwarka, a seaside town in the state of Gujarat. Although only a small town, Dwarka is an important Hindu pilgrimage site, and many pilgrims go there to visit the temples and bathe in the river. At the same time, Dwarka is a minor seaside resort, with an unusual lighthouse, camel rides on the beach, and tea stalls and souvenir stands on the small headland overlooking the beach. And it was on this same headland that we came across the cremation site, a patch of ground no bigger than a tennis court, sandwiched between the clifftop and some rather nondescript buildings of uncertain function.

The first clue that we had that this was a cremation site was when we spotted four metal structures, rather like old-fashioned iron bedsteads, which stood there on the site. The structures were blackened by fire, and the first notion that came into my head was that this was a barbeque picnic spot. Perhaps not such an absurd notion, given that this was a seaside resort, and with the picturesque location overlooking the sea, and with all the tea stalls, souvenir stands, and camels that were only a few metres away. But then we saw the large piles of wood situated next to the bedsteads, and it began to dawn on us that this was something different. Then we saw the funeral procession approaching, and the penny finally dropped.

The procession consisted of about twenty men, mainly in western-style dress, with a few in traditional clothes, but all informally dressed. Four of them carried on their shoulders a kind of stretcher, upon which lay a corpse wrapped in red cloth. A couple of months earlier we had witnessed a Hindu wedding at which the bride wore red, and instinctively I knew that the body was that of a woman. If so, she was the only woman present at the cremation. Later on, we asked several people why women were excluded from this ceremony. We were told that women were too emotional, that they wailed and cried and flung their arms about, and that this would be unacceptably disturbing to the departing soul, who deserved a more restrained and sedate send-off. A plausible explanation, perhaps, another plausible explanation to add to the long list of plausible explanations that we had heard in India about why women were excluded from so many key roles and public events. Anyway, there was certainly no wailing or gnashing of teeth from the men in the procession, indeed no expression of emotion whatever, although presumably some of the men might be the father, husband, brothers, or sons of the deceased.

The corpse was placed on one of the bedsteads, after first being carried slowly five times around it. Several of the men busied themselves with stacking wood around the bedstead. We noticed that three of the men seemed to be mainly concerned with this activity, and we guessed that they were probably the local cremation experts, entrusted with the task of ensuring that no embarrassing bits of corpse were left over at the end of the conflagration. One of the three, an old man in a turban, seemed to be in charge. The wood to be used was weighed on a large pair of scales, for this would all have to be paid for by the relatives of the deceased. Much later, at Varanasi, we learnt about the use of different types of wood, and about how sandalwood was considered the most luxurious, and was also by far the most expensive. Also at Varanasi we learnt about the many disgraceful ways in which persistent local con-artists would attempt to con money from unsuspecting tourists around the cremation sites, but that is another story. At Dwarka we were left entirely in peace to observe the proceedings from a respectful distance, together with a small herd of cows that had gathered at the same spot.

Compared to a christian funeral ceremony, not much seemed to happen. There was no music, no singing, no speeches, and very little formal ritual. In addition to the old man in the turban and his two assistants, a young man in a striped shirt seemed to be the most closely involved in the proceedings, and we guessed that he was the lead mourner, perhaps the eldest son of the deceased. At one stage he walked slowly five times around the corpse and then touched its feet in a gesture of respect. Finally the fire was lit. The procedure of stacking the wood had taken a surprisingly long time, and now the fire too was surprisingly slow in taking hold. The whole ceremony, if one can call it that, occurred over a very long period of time. The men who had arrived in the procession sat on their haunches in small groups a few metres from the bedstead, smoked cigarettes, chatted, or just stared into space. As the fire gained in intensity, these men were gradually driven back by the smoke, and finally wandered off, perhaps to report back to their womenfolk about how stiff their upper lips had been throughout the proceedings. Eventually even the man in the striped shirt seemed to lose interest and also wandered off, leaving the old man in the turban in sole charge, although the fire had clearly a long time to burn.

As I stared into the flames, my mind began to wander aimlessly on the subject of cremation. Why in the West, although pre-christian pagan societies had used cremation, had christian civilisation favoured burial - at least until comparatively recently, when Victorian cemetaries got so overcrowded? Something to do with keeping the body intact ready for resurrection? Yet in my flesh shall I see God. As though worms and maggots did not exist. Heretics could be burnt though, preferably alive - no resurrection for them! Suddenly I realised that I had never actually seen a cremation before. I thought of my father's coffin sliding gracefully away on metal rollers, solemn music playing, disappearing slowly behind discreet curtains to a mysterious fate. No, I had only ever seen cremations acted out, in movies or on the opera stage. Pagans and heretics mainly.

Kirk Douglas (or was it Tony Curtis?) in that old classic movie The Vikings, his funeral pyre on a longboat pushed out to sea, disappearing into the sunset. Joan of Arc in some Hollywood biopic, poor demented peasant saint, victim of power politics beyond her comprehension, her innocent virgin eyes turned heavenward as the smoke and flames lapped around her, perhaps with a white dove soaring upwards. Then there was poor old Oliver Reed in The Devils, his face exploding in flames as he yelled expletives at the stupid townsfolk of Loudun, blissfully unaware of their own imminent demise.

But, of course, for the mother of all cremations, the bonfire to end all bonfires, you have to go to the opera house, you have to go to Wagner, and what could be better than Gotterdammerung? Brunnhilde on horseback mounts the blazing funeral pyre of Siegfried, her voice rising powerfully to one last orgasmic climax (it's never over till the fat lady sings, remember) as the timeless themes of love and power battle it out in the orchestra - while in the background, Valhalla too catches fire - Wotan and all the gods, the Valkyries, all the undead heroes rescued from countless battlefields, the whole kit and kaboodle goes up in smoke - while the banks of the Rhine burst, the Rhine floods the stage, and the Rhinemaidens finally retrieve the golden ring, the magic ring of power, so that the cycle is closed, so that the world ends, so that the whole epic drama can start all over again. The world ends and we begin again - NOW THAT'S WHAT I CALL A REAL CREMATION!!!

My bizarre meditation on the subject of cremation was abruptly interrupted by the intrusive sound of the old man in the turban raking over the ashes. I then became aware of other sounds in the distance: waves breaking softly on the sandy beach, the disgruntled lowing of the spectator cows, the shouts and laughter of children enjoying a camel ride on the beach. The last flames from the ashes shot up into the darkening blue sky of late afternoon. The last clouds of smoke drifted slowly, very slowly, out over the calm flat blue surface of the sea, towards the setting sun. The distant horizon was very sharp below the sunset, blue against gold, and there, close to the horizon, the black silhouettes of three small fishing boats were just discernable. Later, these boats would return to the harbour with their catch; the women from the town would come down and haggle over the price of the fish; and later still, in countless homes thoughout the town, families would sit down to their evening meal of fish, and there would be chatter and banter and laughter around the dinner tables. It would be a day like any other. The world ends and we begin again.

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