Luisa, a young German woman, arrived at Swagat the evening Pa and I returned from Green Chwadi. A naturopath by training, she’d come to Nepal for a six week trek, after which she’ll begin her career. With two days before Luisa’s departure, Sugat suggested the two of us visit Pashupatinath, the most revered Hindu temple in Nepal and an easy walk from Swagat.
Setting out after breakfast, it wasn’t long before Pa, Luisa, and I left the main artery and entered the narrow street leading to the temple complex.
The street opened up and we fell in line with others,
many of whom had traveled a great distance to pay their respects to the god Shiva.
Within minutes, we were looking down on the sacred river Bagmati, smoke rising from cremation sites lining the river’s bank.
We spoke with Parmatma, a young man knowledgeable about the site and the practice taking place. A registered guide, we hired him to accompany us as there is much to see at Pashupatinath.
Small altars
with intricate carvings.
Families honoring loved ones on the anniversary of their death.
Structures of reverence, one leading to another, then another,
and the main Temple only Hindus can approach.
There are wise men revealing great truths,
and monkeys wondering what life is all about,
or perhaps they already know.
Arriving at the far bank of the Bagmati, Parmatma informed us that those who die at Pashupatinath are reborn as human, regardless of any misconduct during their prior lives.
He pointed to a large white building across the river,
“That’s the Hospice. In previous times a gifted man would feel the pulse of the dying, then inform loved ones of the time remaining.”
Parmatma drew our attention to a recently deceased being washed,
then dressed for the journey.
Soon after, relatives carried the body to a waiting platform
where it was placed for cremation.
A few minutes later, the final process began.
As the smoke rose,
Parmatma explained that when only ashes remain they are placed in the Bagmati which later meets the holy river Ganges.
As we observed, I shared that a few years ago I’d written a novel about the American poet Walt Whitman. The novel begins when he’s on his deathbed.
In a dream, Whitman is informed that he’s been given another year to live, provided the year begin in 21st century America at the time of Donald Trump. Late in the book Whitman is assigned a guide, the Egyptian goddess Isis, who takes him to death scenes around the world. One of those is at the banks of a sacred river.
As I told the story, a gentleman tapped me on the shoulder, introducing himself as Sajjad from Bangladesh. He’d overheard our conversation and wanted to know more about the book as he’s a Whitman fan.
We talked for a while about poetry and our mutual fondness for several poets. And we talked about America. A friend of Sajjad’s attended the University of Iowa and Sajjad’s sister lives in Chicago.
He then shared that six months ago he’d traveled to Pashupatinath with the intention of committing suicide. Sajjad received emergency care just in time.
“I’ve returned to Pashupatinath,” he said, “to remind myself of how precious life is.”
This morning, Pa and I reflected on our visit to Pashupatinath. I then read to Pa the account of Walt’s visit to the river:
We continued our journey at sunrise, following the trail from the day before. By noon, what had been a pleasant stream had grown to a wide, lazy river. No longer were we on the plains. The open grassland had given way to a dark forest. From time to time there were clearings. Villages sprung up, their inhabitants supported by crops from the adjacent fields. Pressing on, the villages grew larger and more numerous. The trail widened into a path and then a road. Increasingly we shared it with other travelers, on foot, riding in carts pulled by oxen, even atop massive elephants that owned the right-of-way when coming through. Frequently a beggar would approach, rewarded by Isis with a coin from a small purse that was seemingly bottomless. The river, too, had become a highway. Long, open crafts ferried passengers from one side to the other. Occasionally a larger, more ornate vessel floated by, carrying royal travelers to unknown destinations. With sunset came light from open cooking pits and small dwellings. On the bank of the river, however, fire was used for another purpose. There were pads, eight to ten feet square, constructed of numerous flat stones. Upon them were wood supports. Funeral pyres, I soon discovered. We passed a few as yet unoccupied. But it wasn’t long before we saw a large crowd gathered around one, flames licking it from its base to its highest timber and beyond. At the top was a body, wrapped in white cloth but nearly consumed by flames. Most observers were in deep mourning. As the fire died down, we could see that the flesh was no longer, leaving only charred, skeletal remains. Late in the night, when the bones had cooled but were still burning, a priestly figure pierced the skull with a bamboo poker, creating a hole to allow the release of the spirit. Soon, the pyre was reduced to embers. We reclined on the ground nearby, warmed by the remains as sleep overtook us.
I celebrate myself, and what I assume you shall assume, for every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you . . .
Walt Whitman
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