Burning Corpse Temple - Some Insights on Life and Death
On an afternoon scented with incense, I sit on the west bank of the Bagmati River, like a beetle slipping into a crevice in Kafka's writing, witnessing the river push the molting daily rituals of life and death before my eyes. The bodies wrapped in white silk roll in the water like crumpled and then flattened philosophical manuscripts, swirling with all the unspoken answers.
Five years ago, the flesh-and-blood sky burial at the Jikongti Temple was merely a prologue; the snow-capped vultures carve death into the high-pitched notes of an eagle flute. Yet now, the smoke of the pyre resembles a silent sage simulating on a sand table: people wash the feet of the deceased, splashing water into the river, landing on wooden trays carrying sacrificial yellow flowers, akin to the accidental rhymes deliberately arranged by fate. When the eldest son ignites the fuse in his deceased father's mouth with a spark, I suddenly comprehend - the so-called family legacy is nothing but the fire-stealers of Prometheus, playing a game of passing the drum in the folds of time.
The flames seek a balance between the hellish jest and the heavenly pastoral, returning the human form to an inorganic state. Those caramel-colored bone fragments slide from the woodpile, carrying the strokes deleted from the Creator's draft box. As the nearly burnt-out remains are pushed into the murky heart of the river, the ripples mix the shattered morning star with the submerged ashes into a whirlpool, as if it were the last evening prayer before a collapsing nebula.
On the opposite bank, someone walks down the stone steps holding a baby, the scent of charred remains blending with the fragrance of new life on the river's surface. I suddenly recall my childhood when I mistakenly entered a ceramic workshop, watching the artisan smash defective pieces with mottled glazes to remake them. Those embers that fell into the Bagmati River are unsealed bone shards, like unformed reincarnation embryos, perhaps next spring they will climb the branches of the flame tree, cycling through deep green to orange-red hues.
Looking around, the crowd does not bear the sorrow of losing loved ones with a heavy heart, but rather participates in the sacrificial activities, chanting hymns I cannot understand. For them, death is merely the beginning of rebirth, the transcendence of the cycle of life, the nirvana rebirth supported by karma, solemn and sacred! As the poet Whitman said: "I leave myself to the land, from which the wild grass I love can grow." Embracing death is not frightening; what is frightening is the unfulfilled karma and the fall into the cycle of reincarnation!
As dusk falls, the sounds of night rituals and the cracking of firewood on the pyre reflect each other. The prayer wheels in the monks' hands and the rising currents in the smoke reach a consensus, carrying different forms of organic matter to escape into various dimensions. I reach into my pocket to sprinkle marigold petals into the heart of the river, only to find them faded to a pale color in my palm - all things will ultimately return to the void, so why not be a little bolder, a little more carefree!
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