Ashes in the River

Mother died; she had prayed to go when life was reduced to one painful day after another of lying in bed, dependent on others for the simplest bodily functions. Her only joy was in watching the clock and waiting to see what there was to eat, but even that ended when she could not swallow any more and went into ICU to have pulp pumped in tastelessly with a tube. Death became freedom from imprisonment in a spent body.

After the cremation, we immersed one part of her ashes within the stipulated sixteen days in the Indrayani river at Alandi, near Pune, a holy spot for post-cremation ceremonies where Sant Gyaneshwar took samadhi. The river, which is only a sluggish trickle in summer, was full after the monsoon rains and accepted her remains into its watery expanse.

One of my sisters, who had spent the most years looking after Mother could not be present. When she was ready, we prepared to go to the renowned Thirunaavaya in Kerala to do the asthi ozhukkal or “floating away of the ashes” ceremony. Unfortunately, she fell ill and dropped out at the last minute. We left for Mumbai airport, regretting her absence, carrying the pitifully small bundle of the earthen urn containing what was left of Mother. The first worry was if the Airport Security would allow the urn as hand baggage but my brother-in-law convinced the men on duty and the ashes were not subjected to any indignity.

As always, Kerala from the air was like a carpet of green palm-tree tops edged with silver and gold beaches, lapped by the glittering sea. We landed at Kozhikode and sped away to Hotel Alagapuri. During tea at their garden café, we desperately cracked jokes to keep our spirits up while eating the famous banana fritters, one of my mother’s favourite snacks. I remembered coming home ravenous from school as a ten-year-old, changing from my grubby uniform and gorging on them, while Mother’s strident voice asked if I had washed my invariably dirty hands!!

The next morning we set off before dawn for Thirunaavaya and reached the river bank near the Navaa Mukunda Krishna temple. Several family groups were already doing their rites. Descending to the last of the granite steps, we submerged completely in the cold, clean, greenish waters of the Bharatha puzha (river). As I bent to sink in, a pot drifted very close by my face and I almost buried my nose in the ashes and charred bones of some other dead person. They looked exactly the same as my mother’s remains and I remember thinking that at that stage all the differences are really wiped out. Pieces of discarded banana leaves and flower garlands thrown in the river wrapped themselves eerily around my arms and ankles. I firmly told myself they were clean and natural, not plastic bags or other dirty garbage.

The man who conducted the rites had a clear voice with resonant Sanskrit pronunciation, and commanded enough English to instruct the children with us who were not very fluent in Malayalam. What pleased me in particular was that he invited my father’s soul in along with Mother’s and I imagined that they hovered happily over us then.

The final stage was very moving with of all of us touching the opened urn and praying for her atma before putting it on the surface of the river. The ashes should float away and be sucked down by the river itself, our instructor (a non-brahmin, by the way) explained. This must have happened further down-river because the powerfully flowing river took the urn away in a twinkling, twirling it on the surface till we could see it no more. My brother in law remarked sadly that the last of what we had of Mother had also gone away. I remember consoling myself that she was fortunate to have returned to her own home district where she and her ancestors had lived, to the lap of Nature in all its beauty.

And what a display Mother Nature put up on that day! The brimful Bharatha puzha (also called the Nila) flowed swiftly to carry all the ashes and ceremonial debris away. The “thulaam” (October/November) rains had been good this year and there was ample water in a river which has been known to dry up and disappoint mourners at other times. The dawn broke over us like a bright, warm benison on our damp shivering bodies. On the opposite bank far away, no people or buildings as far as the eye could see; tall grass plants marched over the sand like an army holding vertical spears of fluffy white flowers which the slanting morning rays turned to silver pennants. Many of my mother’s beloved Malayalam films are said to have been shot there and since she was an unabashed enjoyer of movies, I think she would have approved!!

After praying at the picturesque Nava Mukunda temple, we went on to the small, peacefully somnolent Devi temple at Edapaal which our family had patronized, then to Guruvayoor’s famous Krishna temple and our father’s family temple at Peruvembe village near Palakkad.

Whether one believes in these rituals or not is not a priority or the main issue; there is a great satisfaction and sense of closure in following them for a person like my mother who believed unswervingly in them all. Her older brother had not felt like her and specifically left a will saying he did not want any rituals for himself….same family, same upbringing, divergent beliefs.

We returned to Mumbai, deeply happy and at peace, feeling we had completed the task of looking after our mother in her old age, death and thereafter.