Tidbits

 It's a writing prompt sort of day, so I have Catherine Deveny's pre-recorded Write Here Write Now session playing in the background, providing me prompts. I'm not feeling overly inspired at the moment. 

What three things do you want to buy? 

The first things I would like to buy, as a collective, is the ingredients for French Onion Soup. It's winter. I love French Onion Soup and there is something about that thick soup, with croutons and lots of melted Gruyere cheese on top that is just the bomb. Unfortunately, I couldn't find any Gruyere at Coles. I suppose a trip to the cheese shop would make this happen. Or a decent sharp cheddar would do the trick.

Next things I would like to buy is a long holiday to somewhere. Whether that somewhere is Japan, or Vietnam and Cambodia, or heaven forbid a trip back to England and France, we will have to see. 

The last thing that I would like to buy is a pair of bright red brogues. I'm not sure where I would get them from. Is saw a great pair on the interwebs, but I have too many shoes as it is, so I didn't buy them. They were nice though. 

Ten ways you could write about fire:

1. My hatred of fireworks
2. When Dad set the sheds on fire. 
3. The power of candlelight.
4. Sitting in front of the television with a video of a fire playing at Christmas, in Australia
5. The smell of distant bushfires. 
6. Lighting up a cigarette with the other pariah-smokers
7. Incense sticks in a Hindu temple. 
8. The mystery held by the backyard incinerator when you were a kid
9. The firepit at modern places
10. The pyres at Harishandra Ghat in Varanasi. 

Write about one of these scenarios for five minutes. 

I had no idea what to expect. It was the part of the trip that unsettled me the most. A walk along the Harishandra Ghat in Varanasi, a place where the funeral pyres burn all day, every day, stoked by the bodies of locals and tended to by people referred to as untouchables. Fires which take these souls back to Nirvana. 

I had no expectations, other than I was going to overcome my fears, not that I could tell you why this was such a difficult experience. 

We were lead to the back of the ghat on our way to a boat, which would take us to a Sunset ritual.

"Avert your eyes," was the advice of a travelling companion. 

"I'm not sure if I want to. I'm not sure if I can," I told him as we approached the entrance to the ghat. We were passed by a group of men supporting a bier, a fabric draped body tied to its poles. 

"Shit just got real."

"Yes, it has. "

What struck me, as I passed the pyres, was the intense heat of the flames. You don't think about what it takes to burn a body to ash. They've been doing it here for hundreds of years, placing the corpses under mounds of dry wood, the more fragrant the wood, the more expensive the funeral. 

But there were no funeral smells. It was more like an open fire burning sandalwood, the fires making their own thermals, sending the smoke skyward. 

My companion and I looked into the flames from our respectful distance. I spotted what looked like a pair of feet sticking out from one pyre's coals. These were pushed back in by one of the attendants. 

And with that small act of final kindness, the spectacle of the fires made sense. 

This was life. The end of life. This was the making of the ashes. This is what will happen to us all. 

And it is okay. 

That will do. 

Today's song: