Death and Dying in Varanasi, India

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JANUARY 24, 2013

“Everything dies. Baby that’s a fact.   

Maybe everything that dies will some day come back.”

- Atlantic City by Bruce Springstein

Lots of thoughts about death and dying this week.  My cousin passed away on Monday.  He is the first in the family from my generation to die.  The experience here today brought to light the differences between how we treat death in the West and the East.

I imagined what the scene back home at Don’s funeral must have been like.  No doubt, sobs and hysterics came in alternating waves with delusional comments about how good he looked in the coffin.  I’ve never really understood funerals.  While the need for emotional closure is certainly important, I don’t know why a $20,000 box and make up job needs to be part of that.  Personally, I don’t want people to remember the pale emaciated version of me. And if I’m buried in a suit and tie I swear I’ll be back to haunt the person responsible for it.

I dare you to tell me that they aren't adorable.

The city of Varanasi was a three hour drive from our retreat center and a world away.  Gone were the prepared meals and open space of our camp, safely protected by barbed wire and armed guards.  We had returned to India.

Yup.  Body burning in the background.

It is said that anyone who dies in Varanasi goes to heaven.  People from all over India travel there to live out their last days.  On the shores, funeral pyres burn throughout the day. 

In town, we visited temples and walked through the famed alleyways.  No more than ten feet wide in most places, anything goes.  Cows, motorcycles, bicycles and foot traffic shared the same space.  It was chaotic India at its best. 

Our group hired a boat to travel around the river.  No more than five minutes after the guide explained to us the five groups of people who are not burned on shore a boat launched behind us with their child on the bow.  Children, along with religious men, lepers, and snake bite victims, are instead tied to a large rock and dropped in the river. The rites had been performed on shore and there was nothing left to do on the water besides get rid of the used vessel that once contained their son’s soul.  

The rest of the family on the boat didn’t so much as rise from their seats as the father walked to the front of the boat and pushed his son’s body overboard with an unceremonious shove.

I say a prayer for Don and light a candle, floating it down river in hopes that Mother Ganga will help see him home.