The other day I was strolling along the riverside, here in Varanasi, when I came across a dead man. He was lounging on the steps of a bathing ghat, for all the world as if just taking an afternoon nap. But his skin had a deathly pallor and there was something missing: that strangest of elements which one cannot quite put a finger on, namely life.
The man was old and I had the feeling that his death had been timely, so there was no sadness in me. Instead though, there was a hint of that haunting feeling that it was my body sitting there. More rationally, I could say that one day it will be me. But that does not quite capture the immediacy of the feeling that comes when one is totally present with a being who has recently died. The timeless words of John Donne come back to me: “never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee...”
Here in Varanasi, death is a round-the-clock business, with the burning ghats ablaze at any time of day or night. Just after dark is the most popular time though, with the pyres stacked high one beside the next. People who did not know each other in life become close neighbours for their fiery finale. By the light of this inferno, the forms of those yet living can be made out, standing around, looking on, as the departed go up in smoke.
And with that smoke, a fine ash is carried aloft, to rain down on all and sundry, reminding us once again of our mortality.
