It’s 9pm on Manikarnika Ghat in Varanasi, India’s “city of death,” and Jamie and I are the only women here. To the left of us, funeral pyres burn bodies of the deceased and grieving men wander about as their friend is taken by flames, ultimately reduced to ashes. To the right of us, flows the Ganga river. It is said that the Ganga once existed in the heavens and was sent to Earth by Lord Bhagiratha. Had it not been for Lord Shiva channeling the river through a lock of his hair onto Earth, it’s power would have flooded the world. Varanasi is known as the abode of Lord Shiva, one of the most important Hindu Gods, along with his wife Parvati. Their presence here is what makes this land so sacred. 

Hindus believe that dying in Varanasi means your soul escapes the cycle of reincarnation, a cycle of suffering, and reaches Nirvana – rejoining with source in complete enlightenment. In efforts to reach Nirvana at the end of this lifetime rather than any other, those approaching death (the sick and elderly) travel from near and far in hopes of passing away in this sacred city. But death is tricky in that no one never knows when it will come, and many people come too early and spend the rest of their lives patiently awaiting death in a city that is not their home.

Everyday, Ganga river banks become a beautiful expression of the cycle of life. Families wash themselves in the sacred waters and do dishes and laundry along the riverbanks, children splash water at each other and play. Sadhus sit in deep meditation facing the river. Amongst all of this, funeral processions make their way to the river banks and dip bodies of deceased loved ones into the river to be blessed before their cremation. Life and death coexist here in perfect harmony, as has been the case for five thousand years.

Manikarnika Ghat is one of Varanasi’s main cremation grounds with tens of funeral pyres burning at a time. Jamie and I stand out here as Westerners. Soon after arriving, a man approaches us and offers to give us a free tour. He asked only for us to make a donation to the ghat at the end of the tour, to help provide funeral pyre wood for families that cannot afford it. We agree. As the three of us approach the grounds where the majority of pyres burn, we begin to gather a crowd. As two light-haired, light-skinned young women, it is not unusual for us to be stared at in India. But right now, standing just on the edge of the plot of land where funeral pyres burn, at least ten men stand around us staring intently. It is hard to understand what emotions lie behind these faces- curiosity or disdain… perhaps a bit of both. Our guide explains that Hindu women are not allowed to attend these funerals because historically widowed women faced such bleak futures that they would throw themselves into the funeral pyre of their beloved, ending their own life. It became so common that for many generations now, women have been banned from attending these funerals entirely. Western women are allowed to tour the grounds, and they often do. But Jamie and I are here at an unusual time of night and there don’t seem to be any other foreigners here, or women. We stand out.

On the bank of the Ganga, bodies sit on wooden planks, wrapped tightly in orange scarves and strings of orange flowers. They’ve been submerged in the waters of the Ganga for purification and must dry for half an hour before they are moved to a funeral pyre and set ablaze. Men sit waiting around the grounds. There isn’t much talking. The conversations that I do notice are hushed and brief and nobody cries. Our guide explains that crying is not permitted during the funeral for fear it may keep the spirit of the deceased attached to Earth. He shares that women have trouble abiding by this rule, another reason they are not allowed to attend funerals. 

There are three levels to the funeral pyres that burn in Manikarnika Ghat. The first level is closest to the river bank. The second level is also on the ground, but at a higher elevation than the first level. The third level rests well off the ground, atop several flights of stairs. This level is reserved for the highest caste and highest paying customer. There is clear distinction between these three levels of cremation grounds. The lower two levels are certainly less aesthetically appealing. The third level is more private and better maintained, clearly the most desirable choice. Rules surrounding which caste is cremated where are strictly followed when possible. However, during the rainy season the banks of the Ganga flood and all cremations are carried out on the top level, regardless of caste.

In Hinduism, burning bodies is a ritual of purification and there are certain bodies that do not require the process because they remained pure until death. Holy men are revered as having attained spiritual enlightenment, and children and pregnant women are considered pure souls. Instead of going through the cremation process, these bodies are sunk in the Ganga river. Additionally, those who die by snake bite are thought to have attained eternal life in another world. They, too, cannot be cremated; should their spirit ever choose to return to this world, it needs a vessel. 

Jamie and I take this information in as we stand on slanted ground between the first and second level of funeral pyres. Men in white robes with shaved heads sit nearby, and cows and goats scavenge the outskirts of the fires in search of food in the form of orange flowers that have fallen off bodies. Our guide leads us through a pathway that lies between the first and second levels of pyres and we are surrounded on all sides by a fiery blaze. The heat is overwhelming, and smoke is thick in the air. It hurts to breathe and open my eyes so I squint as hard as I possibly can and take short shallow breaths. All I can focus on is where my next footstep is. The air is too hot in my throat and my lungs. My vision starts to fade just as we make it through the pyres and have reached the other side. I take a deep breath and blink sight back into my eyes. We take a moment to look back at the space we just passed through. At least ten pyres burn in this area, each separated by a few feet before the next. Colorful scarves and flowers decorate the ashy ground between each pyre. Some pyres burn strong and large, they must’ve been recently lit. Others burn at a slower and smaller pace. If you look closely you can make out body parts in the flames. I see a pair of feet resting in the flames of one of the pyres. No one spends much time in this area due to the high intensity of the heat and smoke. Occasionally, men pass through on the same path we did or quickly run in to tend fires, but no one stays for long before retreating to the relief of fresh air.

We continue on. As we make our way up several flights of stairs to the highest level, we pass a room full of people chanting, ringing bells, and clapping. They are worshiping their Gods and honoring those they’ve lost. The room is small and crowded, I can tell people are packed together tightly. Incense burns around a statue and smoke billows out the window perfuming the air. Further up the stairs, one man shaves another man’s head who is dressed in white robes. We learn that during the funeral, the male family member closest to the deceased is to light the pyre. Before lighting, he must bathe himself in the Ganga, dress in white, and shave his head, as has been the tradition for hundreds of generations before him. Just as we reach the third and final level of pyres, we pass a landing where a large black cow lays, chewing on something. I wonder how it got up here, and how it will get down. 

Finally, we reach the top level. Fewer pyres burn up here and the heat is strong, but not unbearable. Groups of men mourn their lost loved one and stand in silence. There is something peaceful about being up here. The fire takes these bodies gently. 

Tradition, faith, and devotion run strong in Varanasi. The death rituals that are practiced today have been practiced every day for the past five thousand years. Every funeral pyre over the course of this time period has been lit with the same flame that has been carefully looked after and passed down through all these generations, never let out.

As we stand on Marnikarnika Ghat, thousands of years of humanity envelop us. Time holds new meaning, and the concept of forever has never felt so close. Through ritual, Hindus remain deeply connected with their ancestors and the time from which they came. There is something poetic and profound in it. As a Westerner, I can’t help but feel some envy. We do not honor things the same way in the world I come from.