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Published: February 23rd 2011
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In the evening we attend a very ancient Agori Temple for puja. Having first gone to the wrong temple we are now late. Some of us join the proceedings anyhow and the Hindu worshippers are visibly surprised at our sudden influx. I hang back. I love this temple from the moment I catch sight of the entrance doorway made up of carved skulls. Our friend Ekant has arranged this visit for us and welcomes us there for post puja meditation in front of the fire shrine. Some thirteen masters became enlightened and have their samadhi here and as we sit I receive an etheric third eye transmission - wow! Ekant then leads us reverentially to the sacred water precinct. I was besieged by mosquitoes and I figured I'd already had my moment and called it a day. Back to my gaff on the ghats guarded by a solitary and solicitous monkey.
Next day we set off early for a puja at a Shiva Temple just above the burning ghats. This was also arranged for us by Ekant. The wonderful ceremony is ordinarily shared by Hindu family members. It was carried out by a priest and three assistants who chanted a
number of mantras throughout. I loved the way it all unfolded so naturally with a minimum of formality.
We were ushered into the square shaped central chamber housing the shiva lingam - a door for each of the four directions. The chanting began and we embarked on the ritual cleansing of the sacred symbol. Previous offerings were removed and we were each invited to anoint the lingam with milk and ghee before tying red cords around the base. We then went on to lay mala upon mala of orange and yellow calendula before pouring on vast quantities of milk, using ritual vessels made of brass which were filled and refilled over and over by the priest.
The whole of this puja proceeded in a clockwise motion around the shiva lingam from participant to participant in a tantric weaving and overlapping of hands. I was entranced by the sounds and sensations as seeds and spices were pressed into our hands, cloves, turmeric, chilli - bounty, beauty and reverence. Part way through Ekant appeared very casually and joined the ceremony, very easy in his jeans, and I saw such soft beauty and tenderness in his face.
After the seemingly unending outpouring of milk - (shakti never runs dry!) we were given our prasad containing a little cannabis. I ate mine and Sarita's too and went off about my day in a pleasant haze to experience the full-on glamour of this tirtha. Tirtha means birthplace. Another name for Varanasi is Kashi. Kashi is to Varanasi as Avalon is to Glastonbury. Says Osho, " Hindus say that Kashi - the city of Shiva - is not a part of this Earth, but a place apart; it is separate and indestructible.(...) Buddha went to Kashi...Kabir lived in Kashi, Kashi has seen tirthankaras, avataras and saints but all are no more. Except for Kashi, not one of them remains. The sacredness of all these people, their spiritual merit, their life currents, their collective fragrance has been absorbed by Kashi and still exists."
Naturally, Varanasi is all about the burning ghats; the whole point being to die here and be liberated. Buddha had his disciples meditate on the burning bodies. As a sutra from the Vigyan Bhairav Tantra states, 'See your body burning but not you' - the point being of course that we are not this mortal body, we are that which cannot be destroyed, indestructible great perfection. Om.
I am led by my companions up a hill above the wood piles. I slip on the mud and fall on my arse and several people rush to my aid. This could be a metaphor for my own mortality n'est-ce pas?
We reach a point from which we are able to look down on the four burning pyres. It is early evening and it is not clear to me whether the bodies are still burning; certainly the smell of burning flesh is unmistakeable and it seems to me that the air is impregnated with the energetic imprint of these people's lives in some way. Their stuff is in the air and this is both compelling and awful. But I want to be present with this. I want to be here. I am fascinated.
At the site of the pyre there is silence. At one time it was customary for the grieving womenfolk to throw themselves onto their husband's funeral pyre. This practice has now been banned, as has all displays of grief - a deathly hush remains. And then from above men rush in carrying the corpse aloft wrapped in shimmering, shiny golden cloth in marked contrast to the sober coffins of the West. Should death be dressed in black or celebrated in glitz? Neither option is better than the other of course but is undeniable that in India death is more a fact of life, something that has not to be hidden or disguised.
A propos, on the subject of death Goethe says,
" I regard both coming into being and passing out of being as autonomous acts of this principal monad, the real essence of which is quite unknown to us. But all monads are by nature so indestructible that they themselves do not cease or forfeit their activity at the moment of dissolution; on the contrary, at that very same moment they are continuing it afresh."
And in Barbara Brennan's 'Hands of Light', Heyoan states,
'What you call death is actually transition into light. The death that you imagine you will experience can be found within your wall(.....) As you expand your awareness, the wall between the world, the wall between spiritual reality and physical reality dissolves. Thus death dissolves, it is nothing but the releasing of the wall of illusion when you are ready to move on. And who you are is redefined as the greater reality. You are still your individual self; when you drop your body, you will maintain the essence of self(...) And when you leave your body, you may feel your self to be a point of gold light, but you will still feel your self.'
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