The river of death...

Growing up next to the ocean, I have always been drawn to water sources: oceans, lakes, rivers, waterfalls, etc. I find the rhythmic flow of water calming and soothing. Watching the constant eb and flow of the ocean evokes the feeling of all worries and troubles being carried away. At times of great trouble I have hurled stones into the waves, watching it disappear under the foam, as a prophetic act that I give the situation over to God. I associate water with God's grace and enjoy watching my troubles be engulfed by it. Once released from my captivating trance, I can walk away with all burdens lifted.

Like so many times before I found myself drawn to the water source in my vicinity as well: the Ganges of Varanasi. But this river did not have the calming effect on my spirit that I hoped for. Instead it carried the signature of death. Even the river banks were covered with the ashes of the dead. Around the clock the fires would be lit, ready to devour another body, with the hope that the soul will escape the cycle of reincarnation and go straight to heaven. Others are taken out and merely throne into the water with a rock, to sink to the bottom.

I walked along the river banks to get away from death and found more strange scenes: the water of death appeared to also be the water of life. At every ghat (stairs leading into the river) people were found bathing, swimming, or drinking the water. It all seemed so normal and for a moment I forgot the rows of burning dead I just passed to get here.

Wanting to know more I took a guided boat ride. It was then that I first heard the river being referred to as mother Ganges. A mother would not harm her children the guide said as he scooped up some water to drink. This happened after he pointed out one of the bodies that came loose and floated back up to the surface.

The mind-set seems simple: the river gives life and therefore life must be returned once it is over. Death seems so part of life here. It is not feared. It is not silently avoided in conversation. It is pointed out: 'would you like to see the burning bodies?' As I walked the narrow alleys back to my hotel, I passed more parades of bodies on their way to the burning ghat (stairs). Bodies lifted high, covered in bright orange and yellow garments and flowers, a line of men chanting as they go.  

I do not understand this mentality. I do not understand these customs. I do not understand this belief system.

With all the ash in the air, and light being scattered, a red sun slowly melts away in the distance.

At night the ominous bells start sounding while the smoke continuous to rise from the river banks. As I peered into the darkness with the red glow of burning bodies just a stone throw away, my stomach made a turn: It feels like I am standing at the gates of hell. Gates that are always open, ready to welcome the thousands of souls that are brought to mother Ganges. The smell of death and flames all around. No light, No joy, No peace. Just chanting, burning and those ominous bells.....

But as darkness is expelled by light, so morning breaks through at dawn. This time I walked further down the river bank and found the tree of hope. Beneath its inviting branches believers gather, pray and share stories of encouragement, love and hope for the city. Empowered by the light, these believers have come to fight on the frontlines. Their most powerful weapon? Love...