On the Beauty of Death

The ghats can be roughly translated as the stairs that lead down to the holy river. As I set foot on Kedar Ghat through a narrow doorway, the river opens out in front of me. It’s a breathtaking view after my twenty-six years absence. The auto-rickshaw driver, Ahmed, points out Harishchandra Ghat to our right. The smoke from burning bodies floated off over the river on the early winter morning.

A man passing by comments with a knowing shake of his head, as though teaching us a lesson, “We all end up there one day.” I nod in response and look towards the river. Men are already waist-deep in the water, making their offerings of flowers and water and taking their ritual baths.

Benares or Kāshi as the city is also known, now has a different appeal to me as an adult. For children, as we were in the late 1980s, the ghats were a morning adventure where we were taken for a bath during the Kartik nahaan or where a 5.30 am boat ride revealed a gorgeous sunrise and a wide expanse of architecture that gave the city its special feeling.

Today, I walk down the long flight of steps to the river, look up and see the magnificence of the temple architecture and old palaces. One feels minute in the presence of centuries of history enshrined in old walls, and temples that resonate with the simple devotion of daily worshippers who endure long lines simply to have a quick look at the images of gods and goddesses inside.

One lady is sitting on the steps of a shrine in a courtyard of the Vishwanath temple looking through the bars that are three-quarter way blocked off. There is a space at the bottom. Her head is almost on the floor as she strains to catch a glimpse of the mūrti/image through the open space. A pujari/temple priest chases her. The priests are still getting the mūrti ready for viewers.

No one is supposed to be intruding on the dressing of the image. But the lady has gotten her satisfaction and she moves on.

To my left and right, the other ghats stretch along the river like open arms as if to embrace the river that flows peacefully along.

From the top of the stairs, I survey the river that defines this city and many Hindus in Trinidad.

A friend has asked me to bring back Ganges water.

The Ganges of Benares is the site of life and death. There are over eighty ghats dedicated to different activities even while ritual bathing and devotion is a common theme.

In a sense, one experiences the city’s life on these ghats, from the daily Ganga aarti on evenings, done with much pomp and festivity, accompanied by singing and chanting, to the burning of bodies and the washing of clothes, that all take place on ghats allocated to these activities.

One cannot visit Benares and sidestep the presence of death. On our drive from the airport, a car passes by with a body strapped to the roof. It is wrapped in bright orange cloth with gold tassels that gives it a festive air. The car bumps along the dirt roads of the villages we have to pass through. The body too takes a hard ride, bouncing up and down much to the amazement of my friend who has never seen a dead body in this situation.

“It’s so impersonal, unemotional.

I can’t see my family being treated that way, exposed to the world even though the body is covered. But I guess this is normal for them because the body has no life right?” The question is rhetorical.

My childhood in Benares has made me immune to this amazement.

I had misjudged the impact of memories until now. Death is a given, a part of a mathematical formula where life is the one you have to work out. Varanasi is commonly defined as the City of Light. That light includes death, just another rite of passage, and a release from the illusory world. But the legacies left behind serve as an impetus for some to build upon.

The deaths of calypsonian Brigo and guitarist Tony Voisin, this week, signify the continuous movement towards the end of eras of music.

These deaths coincide with a year that marks the centennial anniversary of the end of East Indian indentureship.

We are thus reminded further of the importance of recording the lives and legacies of our people for we often forget in our present, that there is a future. And the histories of nations are built through the legacies of both individuals and communities.