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Those pyres at Nigambodh Ghat
Some cremation ghats of Delhi are very old, like the one at Nigambodh, which is said to date back to the time of the Pandavas. There used to be many such ghats along the Yamuna banks when the population was a fraction of what it is now and there were no electric crematoriums. During epidemics their number increased, with nearly every village disposing of the bodies of the victims near the river. Children who succumbed to smallpox were just thrown into the water -- Jal samadhi -- so also women who died in childbirth and snakebite cases.
It was but natural for the poorer people to do so, specially at a time when the Yamuna was full. That was during the monsoon months, otherwise too the river had more water than it does have now, what with the barrages in Haryana improving a lot of it. Anglers sometimes caught body parts in hooks and in nets. And occasionally when they netted a big fish, and opened its belly, they found human parts inside.
Melville de Mellow, Frank Anthony and Jum Sutherland were among the celebrated anglers of Delhi and they used to speak about such experiences during their sundowner. Earlier, the shikari Cyril Thomas would at times stumble upon the bodies of young ones at night while traversing the river bank. But you couldn't expect a man like him to be shocked by such things. Fearless as he was, Cyril cared two hoots for superstitious claptrap, making tea on a pyre at the cremation ghats and drinking it as calmly as though he was in his drawing room. Now such experiences are rare.
Going past the pyres at Nigambodh Ghat, up the steps and on to the Yamuna bank one sees the river flowing steadily on. When fed by the rains in the upper reaches it is not the dull stretch of water one finds it to be at the height of the summer, when melons are grown on its sandy bank. During the monsoon it is full enough to cover the little islands of vegetation in between its parted streams -- and the boat tethered on the bank is put to better use. Right now it is in use sometime because of the sudden release of water from the head works in Haryana, which has raised the river level by two metres and flooded the pontoon bridges.
A pyre burns a short distance from the boat. The time is 11 p.m. and there is an eerie silence all round, except for the barking of the dogs who accompany the bearded attendant of the burning ghat. Armed with a lathi, he goes from pyre to pyre prodding the fires. Shades of pauper Raja Harishchandra here, only this man is not dressed in rags. But his face is expressionless. Perhaps he has long ceased to wonder about such things as life and death.
An old man with white hair and a hoary beard sits on a bench gazing at the pyres. He lives here, without any family attachments now and quite reconciled to the poignant facts of life. A young man, a TB patient, squats on the ground near him, eating his meal from an old tin, reminding you of the legendary singer Saigal who also used to sit at burning ghats during his last illness. And not far away a sadhu goes into ecstasy.
Meanwhile, the pyres burn -- some under sheds and others in the open -- giving one a strange feeling. A dog noses into a pile of ashes. There is no one to chase it away. In the day pigeons, crows and doves are seen here, but now it is the birds of the night, flapping their wings as they find a perch here and there. One of them, maybe an owl, but you cannot be quite sure because of the shadows.
Nigambodh Ghat, besides being the oldest burning ghat in Delhi, is also the most commonly used one. You walk up to the river bank again. The pyre here is now a heap of ashes. The river waters continue to flow swiftly and the anchored boat is still there below a sky threatening some rain. Do invisible hands rock it? You never know, but the river waves certainly do.
The electric crematorium on Ring Road can hardly be anybody's idea of a queer place, yet unfortunately it is so. It is a secluded enough building without the hoary grimness of the Lahore burning ghat that willy-nilly drew Saigal on many an agonising night. Disposal of bodies at the ghats of Varanasi and elsewhere may be a 24-hour ritual, where the difference between life and death is pretty slim. But the crematorium is a modern-day convenience in which electricity takes the place of the burning logs.
This crematorium has been in the Capital for decades now. After its construction nobody was willing to preside over the inauguration. Perhaps things associated with death particularly haunt the living, and similar feelings may have been harboured by the VIPs. But Jawaharlal Nehru is said to have lost his temper when he learnt that the crematorium built with such dedication was lying unused. Did he threaten to inaugurate it himself? One doesn't quite know, but eventually Dr.Sushila Nayar was persuaded to do so.
So the crematorium took over some of the burden of Nigambodh Ghat. Even now, after all these years, most of the cremations there are either of the very poor or the very rich and, of course, police disposal of unclaimed bodies. Bodies there are those who prefer the crematorium for emotional reasons.
As one enters the place, a huge hall or auditorium comes into view. The functionaries are municipal employees with an air of detachment. The mourners sometimes sit on the chairs, with the queer feeling one has in the Cenotaph Chamber of the Taj -- that the Angel of Death is hovering around. In front are the bhattis. Their doors open and the body placed inside. The doors shut again and the mourners depart with a final namaste.
If one is late for the funeral one will find only the civic staff there. Ask them about the departed and they will point to the bhattis. One just stands and stares at the door behind which nature takes its course. It's like an oven, but what burns inside are human bodies. No wonder an efficient way of disposal, but it gives one the creeps all right -- the same as one gets while reading about people being vapourised into nothingness. That is science fiction. But here it is the ultimate reality.
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