Malaami

I’d experienced many of the major Hindu rites—paasni, the first feeding of solid food when a baby turns six months old; bratabanda, the ceremony in which Brahmin and Chetri boys receive the sacred threads that mark them as men; and bibaaha, the marriage ritual binding husband and wife. I’ve attended three lak bhatti, when a household burns a hundred thousand threads as an offering for prosperity, two chauraasi, the ceremony for reaching 84 years, and twice celebrated all the major Hindu holidays. But, fortunately, I had never attended malaami, a funeral.

When I awoke on Tuesday morning, word had already spread through the village that Nadiram Oli had died in his sleep. He had heart disease, they said, and was actually quite sick, though few knew it. He was only in his early fifties, an active member of the village development committee, a farmer, and a family man, among other things. Around 11pm, his grandson had found him unresponsive on the floor and awoke the rest of the family. I had just spoken with him the previous day about how muddy the road got in the rain.

His body had already been brought down to the river by the time my host brother and I arrived at Nadiram’s house. The women of the village were clustered under the awning to keep out of the rain.

Following a Hindu man’s death in Nepal, his family must observe a number of prescribed practices. Nadiram’s wife will remove all symbols of her marriage—her nose ring, her golden necklace, and her plastic bangles. She will not perform the ritual offering of puja for the next year and will never again wear red tikaa on her forehead. For 45 days, she may not enter another’s home. Nadiram’s sons, in turn, will shave their heads. For the next thirteen days, they will wear only white, avoid touching all living things, and, along with their mother, go barefoot. During this time, they will eat only one meal a day, at noon, consisting only of rice, clarified butter, and occasionally unripe bananas. They may not eat food cooked or touched by others, nor may others cook or touch their food. They are not permitted to have seconds, and if they have leftovers, they must bury them. Daughters have fewer restrictions: unmarried daughters must simply avoid salt for thirteen days; married daughters for five. If a Nepali woman dies, the thirteen days of purification are observed, but this is where the similarity ends. The widower may watch the ceremony so long as he does not remarry. Traditionally, widows do not remarry after their husband’s death.

Carefully stepping through the muddied road, we made our way to the community forest to collect wood. Hindus burn their dead by rivers, which are held to be sacred, in order for the life to pass into the stage in the cycle of life. According to tradition, after dying one must pass through 84 cycles of life before again being reincarnated as a human.

When we had each found a branch, we joined the procession walking toward the river. Over a hundred people had gathered there, of various villages, castes, and ages. All, however, were men—women do not attend the cremation ceremony. My host brother had advised me not to greet those I met with the traditional “Namaste”, as this was not a happy time. The mood was somber, made solemner by the light rainfall that steadily grew to a downpour.

By the riverside was a platform of logs, upon which rested the body of the deceased, wrapped in cloth to shield it from the eyes of the living. To one side lay a pile of wood, by which a fire burned in spite of the falling rain. We looked on as Nadiram’s sons circled the unlit pyre, with flowers and leaves clasped in their hands, as a Hindu priest read a prayer.

 

After the youngest, who had traveled a distance and arrived late, had made his due rounds, the pyre was lit. One by one, each of those assembled took up a branch from the pile and placed it on the burning heap. Gradually, and with the help of some gasoline, fire overcame water. Then it was done, and we walked home through the relentless rain and mud.