Panjim crematorium

 The crematorium of the Hindus and the graveyard for Mohammedans were within four walls in Panjim. Dead bodies of men and women who believed themselves to be either Hindus or Muslimeen while they were alive were carried through the same grilled gate which led to either/or Hindu/Muslim side. A low wall about five feet high separated the world's two tallest faiths —smashan to the right hand and the qabristan to the left. The right wing was larger in area. There was an open courtyard with a high canopied pavilion under which were two raised platforms. There the bodies were cremated. The Muslims buried their dead. The space for the Hindu was more and the Muslim, less. The logic behind this arrangement was difficult to understand. Hindus cremated one body at a time, and after it turned to ashes, the ashes were collected and taken away, making the space available for the next dead person.  The Muslims however, buried their dead and kept them there to decompose in the grave. Therefore, logically, the mohammedan burial ground area should have been bigger. It wasn't. It may have been so because there were fewer Muslims and more Hindus living in Panjim. But what if there was an epidemic? Both the Hindus and Muslims would be dying at more or less the same rate? What then? Probably such once in a life time occurance made them consider getting rid of the dead in mass graves than fuss over religious rigmaroles. However undignified it may have been but it would be practical. Like those Jews killed in the third Reich and dumped in  mass graves at Babi Yar or Treblinka. This thought made religion seem more like an affectation. The religious fuss seems like mere indulgence of the living. 

The outer wall which fenced in the death- ritual-area stood at about fifteen feet, built with slate colored rough stone. The air around this structure, one felt, hummed an inaudible dirge. When you listened, you could hear city-birds like crows cawing, some vehicular noises from the main road further away and normal city sounds. When you didn't listen, you could hear the inaudible hum, 'the dirge'. The place had a peculiar solemnity to it. 

Built originally on the outskirts of the settlement, the city as she grew saturated away from the crematorium. The individual houses near it were, it was obvious, latter day addition to the city's population. You saw the distinct contrast between Panjim, the city with all her townish hustle bustle and this cold quiet courtyard. It was like the punctuation to the sentence of life: period! 

I had not attended any burial or cremation but I used to go there, alone, and sit on the crematorium wall, just looking to see if I could have some communication with my dead father. I was ten then when he died. Poor chap didn't have the time to say goodbye...

The only cremation I have ever attended is of my girlfriend's mother's. She had died suddenly in a surgical oversight by the doctors. In America or elsewhere the family of the dead would have risen above its grief and made the surgeon or the clinic cough up money. In India you are a relative even when you are not related: You forget your personal loss and forgive the professional SNAFUs just because he, the professional, happens to be of your biradari. Probably you are fed up with red tape and it is more convenient to let go. If the quality of professionalism suffers in India, it's due, I think, to these considerations.

 Biradari is strong throughout India. It plays a major role in politics, giving a peculiar mix of democracy to the world. Democracy is about numbers —it is about suppression of objective truth by the larger number of people who believe truth to be something else. Truth becomes a subjective preference in a democracy ultimately. Any popular fancy has more currency than a well argued "greater good". Oh, yes, they debate in the parliaments but those debates are mostly unintelligent and tactless rants, carried out with the singular objective of intimidating anothers rather than genuine inquiry into the root of an issue. Ideally you don't pass a bill in a parliament which is malafide, however, one can not be certain in the present times. 

On one of my emotionally charged visits to the crematorium I had seen on my way back home, two young dead chipmunks. The arrangement of their tiny bodies in the grass was so like a double murder by some serial killer on the run... I remember thinking then that animals don't have pretensions. They are born, they live and die without any song and dance.