The Broken and Burnt Moksha of Varanasi

The fires are of course more ominous at night. We troll past them on the river as slowly as we can trying to observe as much as we can. Three fires are burning simultaneously, reducing the deceased bodies of Hindus to ash that will then be spread in the Ganges River. It is believed that by having their remains spread in these waters they will reach moksha; the release from the cycle of rebirth that all Hindus believe humanity is subject to. Here in Varanasi all of life centers around the Ganges; the personification of the Mother goddess Ganga and believed to have been created by the letting down of Shiva’s hair. Walking around the ghats earlier in the day my expedition team and I had been completely surrounded by devotees bathing in the river downstream from where the ashes were being spread. People waded in the banks filling up bottles of water to bring back to their families at home. I look up from the boat to see that where we had stood in the upper crematorium earlier in the day was now completely enveloped with flames as bodies were now being burned. Hours before we had stepped over smoldering embers there to attain the best view possible of the ghat below. We watched as a sadhu, a monk-like ascetic, covered himself in the ashes of the dead to turn his skin pale white. He then took his place next to a fire to pray and meditate. Now from the water we watched as more people surrounded the flames. Some of them are family of the departed, some of them belong to the Dom caste which is tasked with the job of seeing to it that the bodies are properly cremated. All of us though have our attention fixed on what makes this one of the darkest places on planet earth- the broken and burnt moksha of Varanasi.

The presence of the members of the Dom caste, a group considered to be the lowest of the “untouchable” Dalits, is a subtle reminder of the stratification that defines many aspects of life in India. The caste system, an ancient social hierarchy first found in the oldest of Hindu scriptures, places Hindus in one of four groups. Outside of these four castes are those who are deemed so lowly as to not afford a place in society and therefore have been relegated to stewarding the parts of society no one else wants. This is how these Doms find themselves as the keepers of the fire that cremate India’s elite. They work 24/7 to provide a fitting end to those who are on the other end of the social structure. To be cremated in Varanasi is the highest honor for devoted Hindus and therefore it is most often reserved for those individuals who can afford the high prices of wood and travel and priestly services. These honored bodies are brought to their seemingly liberated end by those who are deemed to be in the societal position they find themselves due to the bad karma of their past lives that afforded them the life they currently lives. The freedom of moksha is not something that is often on the minds of low caste Hindus as many believe they must continue in samsara, the cycle of rebirth, continually progressing their atman (self) up this social system. They hope, in time to come, they might live a life and die a death that is fitting that release but until then, in the case of the Doms, they continue to work and enable others the honor they hope to obtain themselves.This hope though is a feeble and dependent one that is built upon earthly and physical means.

The suffering that took place in India during the Covid-19 pandemic was well known around the world. What many were blind to was the ramifications spiritually of this horrible wave of death. All around the country there were shortages of hardwoods able to be heated to temperatures appropriate for cremation as the number of the dead increased daily. Due to the demand, prices of wood skyrocketed making cremation in Varanasi even more elite and inaccessible. Many simply chose to forsake the preferred means and attempted cremation with what wood was available, leading to partially cremated bodies being disposed of in the Ganges. An already nightmarish season of illness and death was then plagued by the incomplete hope of seeing loved ones perish and not be assured of anything; left wondering what impact this might have on their standing in the supposed life to come. The hope for moksha instead became a desperate hope for the wood by which to attain it and as our boat floats beyond the light of the cremation ghats I wonder if anyone here is willing to admit that this is truly no hope at all.

We find a spot at Dashashwamedh Ghat, the place where a fire ritual is performed each night in front of hundreds of onlookers. We need no anchor as we are quickly surrounded by other boats jockeying for position. Gridlocked in our place we settle in and wait for the ritual to start as the noise of idol worship increases around us. All of the fires lit, bells rung, and mantras repeated are all aimed at giving pooja (offering) to Ganga. I lay on my back and look up at the night sky as I can hear the worshipful sound of seemingly every other boat near ours accompanied by the soft prayers and songs of my friends. Whereas I can normally walk through temples and various cult locations at my own pace and move along when I have had my fill we are now forced to do the hard work of sitting still and watching the darkness receive glory. As the cacophony around us grows so too does our quiet battle in our gridlocked boat. The priests begin to wave the large candelabras in synchronized motions as most of the onlookers repeat songs and chants of their own as they too participate in the offering of prayers to the river. As the ritual comes towards its end the boats around us begin to move and depart early. We take our chance and begin to move towards the ghat where our evening adventures began. As we pull away from the ghat the river begins to fill with a new offering- the plastic and paper cups that held the devotees’ chai moments before. They float next to the small flowers that had been reverently given to the Ganga during the ritual. Our boat carves a path through the litter and lotuses and the moment is not lost on us. I look at my team and see looks of sorrow and confusion in their eyes at the dissonance we were seeing.

What kind of deity can be praised one moment and polluted the next? As millions come to Varanasi to leave behind the physical world, they leave their mark like a scar on the face of the god they have come to swim in; the god they have come to die in. Through physical and spiritual exhaustion I spend the rest of my night praying that those who strive for so long to reach the broken hope I have seen today find a hope that cannot be polluted by man, or deterred by man’s sickness. I add my intercession to the ocean of Christians who have come before me in this part of the world pleading that those within the bonds of Hinduism might see that no matter the privilege or disenfranchisement experienced here in this life there is only righteous judgment to come in the next and eternal life comes not through muddy water but through living water. As I close my eyes to fall asleep, I can see the fires as I slowly troll past them again. I can see the faces of those who have lost loved ones and I wonder if any of them are asking if this is truly all the hope there is for them. I wish I could tell them that it isn’t.