Up in Flames

The following material may be unsuitable for sensitive people (such as I). Reader descretion advised. I will attempt to describe these events without evaluation--no judgement as to whether this custom is good or bad, just reporting what we saw.

This is a free day; we're on our own. Over breakfast with Buzz and Paula, as John and I discuss going to Pashupatinath, Paula asks if she can join us. We depart via taxi around 8:30.
Pashupatinath is the most important temple in Nepal. All Hindus desire to make a pilgrimmage to this site at least once, as it is the birthplace of Shiva, god of destruction and fertility. Situated on the banks of the Baghur (?) River, which flows directly into the Ganges, it is the most desirable place for a Hindu to be buried. Thus cremations are held there continuously.

We arrive at the beginning of a cremation ceremony. Standing on a walkway above the pyre (a stone platform by the side of the river), we are 12 feet above and no more than 10 feet away from the ceremony. A body is lying atop a carefully lattticed stack of logs, clothed in brightly colored garments. The garments are sheer enough that the person's ankles and feet can clearly be distinguished.
The eldest son, dressed in a white toga, bare from the waist up, circles the body three times, sprinkling small amounts of water around the edge. He is assisted by either other male family members or some kind of funeral directors, we can't tell. He is obviously deeply distressed. Though they are out of sight, we can hear other family members crying below.
Circling the bod again three times, the son comes to the head, which has been uncovered. A piece of sandlewood about the size of a silver dollar is placed in the deceased's open mouth. There are several small orbs of wax around the mouth. Then the son lights the sandlewood! (It is ritually very significant that the fire begins at the mouth.) As the flames build, he quickly rushes to the deceased's feet and falls to his knees, weeping. The three of us, strangers and observers, are holding back tears ourselves. We watch in horror as the deceased's face and hair blaze!
After a minute or so, the face is covered. Bright scarves that have lain on top of the deceased's clothing are removed and tossed into the river. Then straw-like kindling is put on the top, covering everything, and the fire is kindled beneath. A pot of incense smokes at the corner of the platform, covering the air in a thick haze of smoke that joins the smoke of the funeral fire. It will take four hours for the cremation to be completed, and the family remains for the entire duration. At the end, the ashes are swept into the river, to be carried to the Ganges. (BTW, people of Kathmandu do not eat fish that are caught locally.) Another cremation is well underway two platforms down from us.
As our guide, whom we have employed upon arrival, leads us away, we are silent, almost unable to breathe. Prabin, our guide, is a university student of anthropology, with perfect English. He is Hindu, so can describe the meaning of what we are seeing with sensitivity and respect.
Temple, monkey temple, ancient temple. The famous Milk Babba, who is 75 years old and has consumed nothing but cow's milk since he was 24. (Remember cows are sacred here.) Caves of Hindu holy hermits. Yada, yada, yada--we are still walking in a daze.
Then, on a walkway overlooking the entire scene, Prabin reveals that as late as the 1920's, when a man died, his living wife lay on the pyre as it burned, ending her life as well! (I'll re-check the fine print, but I don't think that was in Debbie's and my pre-nup!)
Then we arrive at a hospital begun by Mother Theresa in 1980. The "hospital" receives elderly who are ill and have no family remaining to care for them. It is a filthy brick-floored yard, with cubicles in the walls surrounding the yard. People with horrible deformities sit or walk around. A woman walks, bent double at the waist; a man with legs bent double at his knees, his heels touching his buttocks, sandles strapped to his hands, ambles along. Prabin says that missionary doctors come several times a week to provide free medical care, but no such care is evident while we are there. I'm saying, these people have never heard of a "call button", much less complained when one is not answered.
When we arrive back at our guest house, we are stunned to learn that it is only 10:30 am. All of us are emotionally spent, completely exhausted. We drink. Conceeding that it isn't even lunchtime, the three of us split one beer in silence.
Can we PLEASE leave this town and go to the mountains???