it feels clinical . Loved ones watch on , sometimes for hours , waiting for the cremation to end . In a world of social media younger family members scour their phones , looking for the perfect Instagram moment or to see what is being said on Facebook . The irony of the clash of world ’ s isn ’ t lost .
My morbid fascination has become one of deep respect as the cloaks of mystique are peeled back to reveal a religion and culture that pays respect not through mourning but rather a belief that the body is purely a vessel , and the spirit is regenerated to continue on . Death is not final , it ’ s a rebirth , a step to continuation .
Continuing to be transfixed I notice my travelling companions doing the same , I wonder if they have the same understanding or feeling ?
Monkey ’ s watch on , ever hopeful that something will be dropped as the travellers speak in hushed tones . There ’ s movement everywhere . Both sides of the river are brimming with activity , all different yet somehow familiar . I feel myself slipping into a mediative state , a feeling of content and relaxation . Dragged back , against my will , a tap on my shoulder indicates something new .
A man , age indeterminate , adorned in the garb of the sadhu says he will put his legs over his neck for a small donation . I can ’ t resist . He immediately takes immense pleasure in demonstrating his contortion yet is disappointed when I offer only 100 Rupees ( about 1 Australian dollar ). Prewarned I ’ d discovered that the sadhu , while proffering to be holy men of the highest order , make a living from fleecing the traveller
TRAVERSE 117