Novel Thoughts

 I had another busy day. Not a particularly productive day, but a busy one. A day of meetings, and paperwork and more meetings. I saw the doppelganger of an old friend. I had to call him to see why he was in Melbourne. He wasn't. After a few minutes I'd ascertained it wasn't my friend. Not enough hair and his wife would never let him out of the house in Gazman trousers. Had a good chat to the non-doppelganger version at lunchtime. Got home. Fed the cat. Had a pretty heavy session at the gym. And now I'm here. 

But in the midst of this busy, yet unproductive day, I got to ponder the novel. 

And I've been taken back to Varanasi again and again and again. 

All of the news about what COVID is doing to India at the moment. The knowledge of the crematoriums are going gang busters, they're running out of wood, and the West seems up in arms at the horror of it all. 

But I've been taken back to Varanasi, and the Harishchandra Ghat. 

I'm not going to make any statements about the humanitarian crisis. There is enough of that in the news. 

But this has been a week of novel preparations and thoughs. 

One of the hard things about writing a novel which is ostensibly about death, is that you need to think your way out of things, get different perspective on things. 

And as I said, I keep going back to the Harishchandra Ghat, one of the burning Ghats, places of cremation. 

I remember spotting a young woman sitting at the edge of the ghat watching the fires. She sat on the edge near the back wall, because the burning ghats are a place for men, for the untouchables who do the work,and for the families saying goodbye. No cameras are allowed. This is a reverential place, where the pyres have burned for thousands of years. 

There are things you don't expect about a funeral pyre. They burn bright, very bright. There is no apparent smell, other than the smell of burning wood. You don't see anything other than the flames. I know that looking into the flames, I saw some feet, wrapped in a shroud, poking out. They were tapped into the flames by one of the attendants after a short time. 

The ghats don't feel like a sad place, although there are very sad people around. Part of me felt they were like a spiritual bus stop, where people get off and go. Another part of me was overwhelmed by the humanity of the place. It was in many ways, so ordinary. The fires are an everyday occurence. What flummoxed me more was going past early the next morning and seeing the now dead fires being swept into the Ganges, the free roaming cows milling around the ashes. I remember passing a procession as another body was brought down to the river bank to be dispatched. 

And I remember how terribly ordinary this all was. It's just life. It's not sanitised or hidden or tucked away. And part of me wished I could be like that woman, sitting watching the fires, taking it all in. I wish I could have done that. I wish I had the courage. If I ever go back, I will be prepared. 

It was an honour to see this part of life, and death. There is nothing horrific or distasteful or strange about these millenia old traditiions. It's a part of life.

It just is. 

And I'm wondering how I can work this into the novel. 

Today's Song: