Post by parvati patil macmillan on Nov 1, 2021 21:15:58 GMT -7
TW/CW: Death
May 15, 2027
Varanasi, India
Varanasi, India
The haze of smoke from the funeral pyres wafted through the air in a way that would have been suffocating anywhere else, lingering in the nostrils and choking down one's throat. It mixed with the odor of what could only be described as decay and mingled with that of excrement. Stagnant water from the the river, the supposed focal point of it all, added to the olfactory assault on the uneven path to the ghat.
The Ganges, too, was why she had come to this city. There was no denying its sacredness in Hinduism, yet something felt blasphemous to Parvati about how murky its water was in reality. Maybe what was meant to be so purifying about it was that it was impossible to think about anything else but the present, she considered. That was a possibility, for she had seen nothing quite like it. The colors of the fabric that hung from the clotheslines above and off the frames of the masses of people were vivid, most of them looking as though they had been plucked from a palette of paint. Saffron, yellow, red… Frail old men in lungis as bright as their henna-dyed grey hair and women with sindoor applied along the parting of their hair gradually blended into one. Even the shrouded bodies that were en route to their cremation and those who carried them seemed to blur as she made her way down the steps to the river, or was that because of the sweat that plastered her hair to the sides of her face?
As early in the day as it was, the heat was oppressive, and the clamoring of vendors, people, and animals became little more than a ringing in Parvati's ears. The cotton kurta she was wearing did little to assist in keeping her cool, and she knew that she would have shuddered to see what she looked like in a mirror, beginning to understand why so many of the other women appeared to have opted for saris that clung to their wet figures as they emerged from the river. She could almost taste the salt of sweat in her mouth, though at least she had reached the point that the smells had all but faded from her consciousness.
When she reached the water itself, it was as if someone had flipped a switch. This was why she had come all the way to India a year to the day of her daughter's death in a place where the people must have taken her for a widow for the lack of vermilion in her part and the same white outfit that she had gravitated towards in those initial terrible weeks after the fire. The smoke from the pyres recalled memories that she had wished to Obliviate forever, yet Parvati had never been able to bring herself to do it. Four generations of women in her family had had the majesty of coexisting for a brief time, a fortune so few would ever know. This was why people brought back holy water from the Ganges, itself personified as the goddess Ganga. Parvati couldn't say that she would achieve moksha, but as she eased herself down to wade in the river, she had a faint inkling of what it might be like.
The Ganges, too, was why she had come to this city. There was no denying its sacredness in Hinduism, yet something felt blasphemous to Parvati about how murky its water was in reality. Maybe what was meant to be so purifying about it was that it was impossible to think about anything else but the present, she considered. That was a possibility, for she had seen nothing quite like it. The colors of the fabric that hung from the clotheslines above and off the frames of the masses of people were vivid, most of them looking as though they had been plucked from a palette of paint. Saffron, yellow, red… Frail old men in lungis as bright as their henna-dyed grey hair and women with sindoor applied along the parting of their hair gradually blended into one. Even the shrouded bodies that were en route to their cremation and those who carried them seemed to blur as she made her way down the steps to the river, or was that because of the sweat that plastered her hair to the sides of her face?
As early in the day as it was, the heat was oppressive, and the clamoring of vendors, people, and animals became little more than a ringing in Parvati's ears. The cotton kurta she was wearing did little to assist in keeping her cool, and she knew that she would have shuddered to see what she looked like in a mirror, beginning to understand why so many of the other women appeared to have opted for saris that clung to their wet figures as they emerged from the river. She could almost taste the salt of sweat in her mouth, though at least she had reached the point that the smells had all but faded from her consciousness.
When she reached the water itself, it was as if someone had flipped a switch. This was why she had come all the way to India a year to the day of her daughter's death in a place where the people must have taken her for a widow for the lack of vermilion in her part and the same white outfit that she had gravitated towards in those initial terrible weeks after the fire. The smoke from the pyres recalled memories that she had wished to Obliviate forever, yet Parvati had never been able to bring herself to do it. Four generations of women in her family had had the majesty of coexisting for a brief time, a fortune so few would ever know. This was why people brought back holy water from the Ganges, itself personified as the goddess Ganga. Parvati couldn't say that she would achieve moksha, but as she eased herself down to wade in the river, she had a faint inkling of what it might be like.
