Page 31 of Somewhere Only We Know

‘Nope. Best boss in the world.’ She gave me a mischievous look. ‘Me. Gives me all the time off I want to come to Nepal.’

Lila stopped the minibus outside the entrance and I gathered my things ready to get out.

‘I’m not happy about this,’ said Tiff, sliding open the door. ‘So I’m coming with you.’

‘I’ll be fine, but happy for you to be my tour guide,’ I conceded, secretly grateful for the company.

The temple was a huge place consisting of many separate buildings along the banks of the Bagmati river. The main building had an ornate copper roof topped with a gold spire. Through an open gateway we could see glimpses of a giant golden statue of a bull. Tiff pointed out places of interest as we followed the path down to the river. ‘This is one of the most important cremation sites in Kathmandu,’ she explained. ‘Hindus believe that it is a very special place, not only to be cremated but to die.’

‘Oh gosh,’ I said, sucking in a breath as we passed a group of mourners carrying their departed loved one on a stretcher. Ahead, I could see a row of stone platforms lining the riverbank, most of which were topped with smoking funeral pyres.

Tiff gave me a concerned look. ‘Happy to carry on?’

I nodded. There was a reverence to the atmosphere here, a sense of peace and acceptance, a far cry from the oppressive pain which had hung over Brontë’s cremation.

We continued walking in silence, watching young men washing the feet of the dead in the waters of the river, and sobbing women arranging garlands of marigolds over orange satin sheets, the outlines of the bodies visible beneath them. None of it was being done behind closed doors.

‘Still okay?’ asked Tiff, as I stumbled over a tree root.

‘Not really.’ I fixed my eyes on a place further along the riverbank where clouds of black smoke filled the air. A group of men lowered a wooden stretcher onto a plinth by the water.

We stood at a respectful distance as the family piled chaff onto the body and set fire to it. Flames engulfed the body and people began to wail. A few metres away, the fire on the next plinth was almost burned through; all the mourners had gone. A man worked his way along the riverbank with a broom, sweeping debris into the waters of the river.

I gasped. ‘Is that … is he …?’

Tiff nodded. ‘Sweeping the remains into the river? Yes.’

I was shocked. Apart from the small pot that I’d brought with me, Brontë’s ashes were safe at home. Wherever they were finally scattered, it would be somewhere precious to her, and I would make sure it was a moment to remember.

‘It’s so barbaric,’ I said croakily. ‘Our funerals are so tidy and organised, we dress our dead in their own clothes, even put make-up on them to make the sight of them more palatable.’

‘Death is part of life here,’ Tiff explained. ‘The human body has no meaning after death. The quicker it can be disposed of, the quicker the soul can reach the next stage of enlightenment, which is reincarnation.’

‘It seems very matter-of-fact,’ I argued.

She shook her head. ‘We might do it differently, but for Hindus this ritual is every bit as sacred as ours.’

I’d agonised over every detail of the service we’d held for Brontë. An image flashed into my mind of her pale weeping friends singing along to ‘A Thousand Years’ by Christina Perri, traumatised to have lost one of their own. Harry, on crutches, head bowed, flanked by his parents, hadn’t sung. He’d remained silent throughout, even disappearing at the end without joining the line of mourners who’d come to hug and kiss me, offering condolences. It was supposed to have been a celebration of her life. But really, what had there been to celebrate?

‘Shall we go?’ Tiff asked, noticing me shudder.

‘Yes please.’

An hour later we were back in the lobby of the guest house, having packed up our room. My transport to the Chitwan valley was on its way, and Tiff was waiting for Lila to take her to the airport.

The manager had offered us free drinks as an apology for the room mix-up, but all we wanted was water.

I rested my head against the back of my chair and heaved a sigh.

‘You okay?’ Tiff asked.

‘What am I doing here, Tiff?’ I said wearily. ‘I’m a knackered, middle-aged woman doing the gap-year trip of a twenty-three-year-old. I’m ridiculous. Why am I not doing something incredible like you?’

She gave me a half-smile. ‘You’re not ridiculous. You’ve suffered a traumatic event, through no fault of your own. What comes next can be a choice. For me, I can’t make the whole world a better place, but I’m trying to make it a better place for some. I work hard but I have the freedom to balance it with my passion project. You have freedom now too.’

My body tensed; I couldn’t bear it when people tried to persuade me that there was a positive side to losing my only child. ‘Don’t go there.’

‘Freedom is a wonderful thing, Maggie. You don’t value it yet, but you will.’