Pashupatinath

On monday, Kamal and i went to Pashuputinath, by the
Bishnumati
River. This is the place where all the Hindus in the
valley cremate
their dead, the portal to the afterlife. It is a very
sacred place,
and very powerful. There are many steps and terraces
and little
ancient stone temples, in which reside different
deities. Many Sadhus
(ascetic hindu Yogis) live here, lounging about,
sleeping in the sun,
sitting by fires, smoking their ganja, showing off for
tourists.
They all dress in orange and yellow, and paint their
faces, and rub
their bodies with bone charcoal from the funeral
pyres. I would look
them in the eyes, and they looked back with piercing
eyes, looking
deep inside me. They are different than i thought
they might be,
though, these holy men, more commercial than i
thought. They wanted
me to take their picture, then they asked for money.
I gave them
some american dollars, and some tobacco from my pouch,
and we sat and
hung out for a while. They are showmen. When a
tourist comes by
with a camera, they all strike a pose, doing a
headstand or putting
their foot behind their head. They all sat and joked
with the crowd
that gathered, and they packed a chillum and smoked
it, then popped
some pills from a little green packet, then they sat
and chanted for
a while, one of them playing on a little hand drum.

The smell of the place was distinctive, the smell of
human bodies
being incinerated into ash, the soul's earthly vehicle
returning to
whence it came, to the fire, water, air and earth. It
is a thick
odor that settles over the ancient place, ever-present
in the breath
of the yogis who live there. Kamal says aabout the
sadhus, "It is a
good life! No worries about government, the political,
the
development of country. Only waiting for dying."

We sat by the river and watched the monkeys play,
climbing the cliffs
by the river, and then jumping into the river with a
splash! We
walked downriver, past the Ghat, where a body was
being cremated. We
stopped there, and watched. They threw grass onb the
fire, soaked
with water from the river, creating a thick column of
smoke for the
soul to ride to heaven. Kamal says:" Mark, you know,
some people
take picture for pocket, you know? But this, this is
for you. You
keep this. This is a life, you know?"

We walked together over the bridge, past the people,
and up the
street a quiet street with no cars, and a quiet
serenity filled me,
as we walked up the street together, under the trees,
back to the
land of the living.





namaste.

mark