Trinkets in the River: a Story about Death

     I was in one of the most sacred sites in Nepal, a small village south of Katmandu called Pashupati.  I had spent the morning wandering the hillside behind Pashupati’s most important temple complex into which non-Hindus were not allowed.  By looking at my map I could see that if I walked down the hill I was on, I would be able to look across the Pashupati River, which enclosed the temple complex in the back, and see most of the religious site’s structures.  The hills behind Pashupati are forested, and even as I approached the bottom of the hill I still could not see the temple.  As I continued downward, the gentle swish of water in the river passing gently away forever grew slowly louder in my ears, and I began straining to see through the trees.  Before I saw anything, I noticed a faint smell.  And not just any smell.  It was the most pleasant smell a lone American far from home could hope for.  It was a barbecue.  My stomach rumbled.  I assumed there was some kind of festival going on, and I hurried down the hill in hopes that any culinary festivities would be on my side of the river rather than on the forbidden side.  When I finally got to the river and could see across, I quickly set aside any thoughts of eating. 

     It is something that we may not like to think about, but a burning human body smells exactly like a steak house lobby.  The barbecue that I had anticipated turned out to be a religious rite instead.  On the far side of the river, on concrete steps called ghats that went down from the temple to the river, dead humans were being burned.  In retrospect, of course, I understand that the smell of burning human flesh causing my stomach to growl should have repulsed me, but that was utterly lost on me at the time.  Instead I just stared, only half believing, at what I saw. 

     The first thing I noticed was that human feet will not burn.  One of the bodies that had been set ablaze was no more than a pile of ashes.  The only way to tell it had ever been a living, breathing human being, was the fact that out of the bottom of that pile of ashes protruded a pair of charred, but intact, feet.  It looked as though the pile might get up and walk away, but it didn’t.  

     Instead a new pile of ashes walked up to the river and lay down.

     This particular pile of ashes that had reclined river-side was a small Indian man.  As he lay down on the ghat his shirt hiked up well past his stomach, and even from across the river I could count his ribs.  He wheezed as he lay there, and it occurred to me that this man was not well. 

     He rested on his back with his feet in the passing water, and I silently watched him.  There were three men and a woman who sat beside him and spoke to him from time to time.  Finally, the woman took his hand and whispered something to one of the men, and the man produced a white silk cloth from a bag.  The woman took the cloth and laid it over the sick man’s entire body.  The supple silk conformed perfectly to every feature.  Even covered, I could still see his ribs.  I could see the outline of his feet.  I could see his chin.  The man’s mouth had been open, and I noticed that the silk had fallen past his teeth and formed a graceful arc in the hollow there. No breath broke the silken arc across his mouth.  The woman began to weep. 

     I had just watched a man die.

     But that was not what has stayed with me through the years.  It was what happened next that produced a visceral reaction in me that I can still feel.  The woman and her helpers began to undress the man who was still under the silk blanket.  One of the men took out a knife and reached under the blanket.  He brought out the man’s shirt and pants and tossed both into the river.  The current carried the garments quickly downstream, but before they got very far I noticed a small splash in the corner of my vision.  I looked to see a small, dark shape moving through the water toward the discarded pants and shirt.  The shape grabbed the clothing and quickly swam back to shore.  A small boy emerged from the river and carried the clothing over to another small boy who had been waiting near the water’s edge.  They divided up the clothing and rapidly went through the pockets of the pants and shirt, making a small pile of the objects which they found.  They grinned and showed each other what they had collected, put the items in another pile of similar objects, and turned back to the river to wait for more booty to be thrown into the current.

     I felt sick.  And sad.

     Many people are surprised when I tell this story that of all the things that I had seen and done on this day, it was the two little river rats that disturbed me.  Most people are more horrified by the fact that I mistook the smell of burning human flesh for a barbecue, or they sympathize with the grieving woman whom I watched.  But not me.  I was troubled by the two little boys.  They seemed a kind of human vulture to me.  I went back to my hotel room feeling numb and not understanding why.

     I spent three more weeks in Nepal before I finally returned home to my wife and daughter.  As I embraced them in the airport, I finally began to understand.  The greatest tragedy of life is to leave nothing behind but trinkets in the river.  I will try to leave more.