Resting On the Banks of the River of Death

KTM May 2024

We climb the dusty hill, made craggy with rivulets

From months of heavy rain, leaving their unique signature.

Litter scattered by months of heavy human hearts

The back path into the temple, the local trail.

Ever changing scents, pungent, acrid, sweet, earthy.

We arrive to a throng of vibrant human activity.

On this side they prepare for Arti, the divine puja.

A sea of sweaty skin jostling for a better view.

Fire-bending in veneration to the sacred.

Across the river, bodies are being dressed for the final transition.

Plumes of jumpier are burned ready to mask the less palatable which awaits.

As they set the corpse alight, a wave of disparate emotions

Fans out amongst the reverent crowd.

A single vision with a thousand conflicting reflections

Mine a flux of sadness, beauty, fascination, aversion,

Tinges of magic, sorrow, emptiness and elation.

Monkeys frolic on the rooftops of the temple

Oblivious to the pantomime below

Cows roam the narrow pathways

With a confidence born of centuries of respect

Atri begins, seething crowds lean in, to sing and chant.

But I'm transfix, on the inexplicable flames of flux.

Envisioning a soul transforming into light or perhaps rebirth in the cries of a new born. Perhaps into silent darkness or better yet, back into the pool of oneness which is pure love.

As sure as I sit here, it will be me one day. Engulfed in the flames of transition. The final mystery.

I let go of answers, of certainty. Seeking refuge in the freedom of not knowing. Of accepting.