Stepping off the bus, I walked through a small village toward the Bagmati River, unsure of what to expect. My destination was Pashupatinath Temple, one of the most sacred Hindu sites in Nepal and the setting for open-air cremations on the riverbank. As I neared the water, the acrid smell of smoke grew overwhelming, prompting me to don a mask.
Across the river, I had a clear view of five or six ghats, the stepped platforms where cremations take place. Each ghat hosted a ritual in progress—some pyres were unlit, while others had already burned down to glowing embers. A mourner at one ghat poured buckets of river water over the ashes, washing them into the Bagmati.
Our guide explained the cremation rites in detail. Before the body is placed on the pyre, it is dipped into the river three times—a symbolic purification. Contrary to what I had anticipated, the bodies were entirely obscured under carefully arranged layers of wood and straw. The fire is lit by the chief mourner, traditionally the eldest son, who remains by the pyre with other close family members until only ashes remain. Afterward, mourners wash the remaining ashes and bone fragments into the river, and the chief mourner bathes in the same water, completing the rite.
As I observed, I learned of a fascinating, if somewhat macabre, side note: some bodies are cremated with jewelry or gold dental fillings. Since neither gold nor precious metals burn, this has given rise to a niche practice of gold-panning in the Bagmati. While watching the solemn rituals, I noticed several people crouched in the riverbed, sifting through gravel in search of these remnants.
Further along the riverbank, several holy men—sadhus—sat under shaded canopies, offering blessings to passersby. Our guide introduced us to a group of colorfully dressed sadhus, including one with impossibly long hair. After a small donation, they posed for photos with visitors, much to the delight of the group. I found myself ambivalent about this spectacle. While the sadhus’ vibrant presence was captivating, the constant stream of people clamoring for selfies struck me as a distraction from the solemn atmosphere of the cremation rites. Between the chaos of photo ops, I managed to capture a few candid images, hoping to preserve some of the scene’s authentic spirit.
On the walk back to the bus, I reflected on the experience. The rituals I had witnessed were deeply meaningful and rooted in centuries of tradition. Yet, they also underscored the environmental challenges facing Nepal. The holy Bagmati River, revered as sacred, is in a dire state. Cremated remains mingle with untreated sewage and household waste, turning the once-pristine waters into a polluted flow.
There has been talk of transitioning from wood pyres to electric cremation, a move that could help reduce deforestation and pollution. However, such a shift faces significant challenges. The added cost could push poorer families—already unable to afford wood cremations—toward less dignified practices, such as direct immersion of the body into the river.
Witnessing the rites at Pashupatinath Temple was a profound experience. It offered a window into the balance between tradition and modernity, spirituality and practicality, and reverence and environmental stewardship—a balance that Nepal continues to navigate with grace and resilience.
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