At his father’s cremation on the bank of river Ganga, watching the cosmic dance of life and death helped soothe the author’s grief.
In the early morning of June 3, 1964, my father passed away after being in a coma for three days. The experience was so surreal that my mind struggled to comprehend it. I just went numb. My mind was utterly blank, detached. Instead of surging emotions, I felt a void.
Perhaps this numbness crafted by my psyche served as a temporary buffer, shielding me from the full weight of my emotions until I was ready to confront them. Or maybe it was my mind’s way of gradually processing the trauma. It could have been a coping mechanism, a means for my mind to protect itself from being overwhelmed by the intensity of grief.
When we took my father to the cremation ground on the bank of the Ganga, I went through the motions on autopilot, unable to fully engage. As we approached the pyre for the final farewell, the air was thick with solemnity.
After the pyre was lit, a kirtan was conducted under a tent about twenty yards away from the flames consuming my father’s mortal form. The gentle gurgling of the flowing waters of the Ganga and the crackling of the pyre fire served as the backdrop to the recurring refrain of the kirtan— jot mili sang jot (individual light merged with the infinite light). This profound line seemed to bridge the gap between the living and the departed, offering a sense of continuity and peace.
After the pyre was lit, a kirtan was conducted under a tent nearby. The gentle gurgling of the Ganga waters and the crackling of the pyre fire served as the backdrop to the recurring refrain of the kirtan—jot mili sang jot (individual light merged with the infinite light). This profound line seemed to bridge the gap between the living and the departed, offering a sense of continuity and peace.
Amid the haze of mourning, the melody of the kirtan had an uncanny effect on me, evoking a peculiar sense of connection to my ancestry. I found myself mentally reciting the names of my forefathers—Lal Singh, my father; Ram Singh, my grandfather; Ladha Mall, my great-grandfather; Guranditta Mall, my great-great-grandfather; and Deviditta Mall, my great-great-great-grandfather.
Simultaneously, these names scrolled across the screen of my mind’s eye like credits in a movie, each one a link in the chain of my lineage. It was as if I was journeying through the corridors of life’s continuum, where the veil between life and death grew thin. Life carried on through generations, even as individuals passed away. The chanting of jot mili sang jot signified the continuation of my father’s essence in a larger existence.
As I grappled with the sheer enormity of it all, the world around me felt muffled, unreal, and dreamlike. At some point, I found myself getting up and walking towards the burning pyre, the echo of my ancestors’ names still buzzing in my mind. I stood there for a few minutes, enveloped in the searing heat of the flames. From there, I moved to the edge of the Ganga, gazing wide-eyed at its ceaselessly flowing waters, symbolizing eternity.
An intuitive understanding washed over me as I returned to the kirtan site. Life and death were not opposing forces but conjoined twins in the grand design of existence. In that moment, I grasped the universal truth that life thrived on change. Just as day transitioned into night and seasons changed over time, life also followed the rhythm of birth and death. Death was simply a part of this cycle, a necessary counterpart to life, a moment of silence following the music. It paved the way for new beginnings and allowed new life to spring from the decay of the old.
As these thoughts swirled in my mind, a van arrived with yet another body for cremation, emphasising the inevitability of death—our shared vulnerability. It was a universal law that governed all living beings. The realisation dawned on me that death was not to be feared but embraced as an integral part of the human experience, marking its culmination.
Spending time on the cremation ground was like watching a cosmic dance of life and death, a grand spectacle, played out on the stage of eternity, echoing a timeless melody. It had a calming effect on me, and I turned into a tranquil center amid the whirlwind of grief surrounding me.
Lead illustration created with AI: Vedant Chopra
This article is an excerpt from P.S. Wasu’s forthcoming book, ‘The Wisdom of Being Flawed and Fragmented: Random Reminiscences.’
