“I see,” Christine said. “Yes, that would be a terrible dilemma, wouldn’t it?”
“Indeed. Come, let us pay a visit to Mr Nemichandra, and ask him to instruct you in his philosophy, and perhaps we may find a way to discover what he knows about Mrs Darling’s death.”
So they climbed the stairs and knocked on the door of Mr Nemichandra’s room. Christine heard a slight scuffling inside, and then the door was opened by the monk, dressed in his usual white robe, a square of muslin hanging in front of his mouth. Mr Dubashi explained their purpose and, reluctantly Christine felt, Mr Nemichandra invited them into his room. He and Christine sat on wooden stools by the window overlooking the Ganges, with Mr Dubashi perched on the end of the bed, and Christine explained about the death of her mother, and her search for a way to come to terms with it.
Mr Nemichandra cleared his throat, making the muslin square flutter. “A Jain believes that death is an inevitable part of the cycle of existence, by which each soul passes from life to death to rebirth in a form according to its karma, as some new living being. We believe there is no god, only the endless cycle of nature, of birth, death and rebirth, which a soul can only escape through the complete shedding of its karmic bonds to attain divine consciousness. Therefore your mother’s soul has already been reborn and there is no purpose to your grieving for her in her old life. We must learn to give up all such bonds and concentrate on living a pure life without attachments for people or things or places in this world.”
Christine tried to absorb this stark view of life. She could see that it might have its appeal as a way to cope with the chaos and pain of the world, but still, she found it rather chilling, and knew she could never abandon her mother’s memory. She was about to say something along these lines when Mr Dubashi jumped in.
“Tell me, Mr Nemichandra,” he said, ‘is it not the case that a murderer – say the murderer of Mrs Darling – will be reborn as one of the hellish beings, and must suffer the torments of hell until he has paid for his crime?’
Mr Nemichandra turned to look at him, eyes narrowed. “Yes, it is so,” he said softly.
“Therefore, would it not be merciful to him to help him on his way to the next life as rapidly as possible, since it cannot be avoided and must be endured?”
Mr Nemichandra clearly didn’t like this ingenious argument, but as he pondered an answer Christine had a sudden feeling that Mr Dubashi had been right. She said, “Mr Nemichandra, you know who murdered Mrs Darling, don’t you?”
The monk stared at her, a look of shock on his face. “You must go now,” he said sharply. “I have nothing more to say.”
The coroner having released Mrs Darling’s body, it was arranged for her cremation to take place the next day as specified in her final instructions. That morning Christine rose before dawn as usual to join the pilgrims on the ghat below the guesthouse. Today she decided to take one of the boats that plied up and down the river, and joined three Indian women in bright saris in a boat rowed by an old man and a boy. They went upstream first, along the great wall of buildings that formed the edge of the city on the river’s left bank, passing the succession of ghats, the flights of steps that spilled down to the Ganges, some crowded with people and boats, some with just a few people sitting on the steps and bathing in the sacred river, and others with women washing laundry and spreading it out on the bank to dry. The far side of the river was quite different, a low bank of silt that vanished into the hazy morning light.
The boat turned at a place that the old man said was the Harishchandra Ghat, one of the two burning ghats, where bodies were brought to be cremated on the shores of the river. This one was open to people of all religions, he explained, while the other, Manikaran Ghat downstream, was for Hindus only. Christine looked at the stacks of timber piled up on the shore, and realized that this was the place where Mrs Darling’s body would be brought later in the day. She swallowed, wondering how she would deal with that, and the old man, seeing her expression, reached under his seat and offered her a bottle of water with a toothless smile.
They took up the oars again and pulled, gliding downstream more quickly, as far as the Manikaran Ghat, a darker place with many weirdly shaped temple domes wreathed in smoke, where they turned to go back to their starting point. As they approached the quay they became aware of a commotion at the foot of the ghat, below the flight of steps where Mrs Darling had been murdered. Men were shouting and gesticulating, and the boy leaped up on to the prow of the boat to try to see what was going on. Then they heard the howl of a siren and the boy pointed to the top of the ghat, where the crowd was parting for a group of men who came charging down the steps – three of them in uniform and one, who looked very like Sub-Inspector Gupta, in a dark suit. Christine blinked, feeling as if she were having a dream, replaying the scene of Mrs Darling’s death but now seen from a distance, from the river.
The old man said something to the boy and they began to pull strongly towards the shore, and as they came close they saw the police emerge through the mob at the water’s edge and go to one of the boats tied up there, where, accompanied by a great murmur from the crowd, they heaved a limp body up on to the stone steps. The old man steered his boat to a clear space further along and they all jumped out. It was impossible to get through the crush on the waterfront, and instead Christine climbed to the top of the ghat and watched from there as an ambulance arrived and two men carried a stretcher down. They returned after a while, followed by the man in a suit.
“Sub-Inspector Gupta!” Christine called, for it was he, and he turned and came to her.
“Christine! My goodness.”
“What’s happened?”
He took her to one side, shooing away the people nearby. “It is Mr Jeremy Darling, the murdered lady’s son. His body was found floating in the river by one of the boats.”
“He’s dead?”
“Very much so. He has a stab wound through the heart. Since the incident at the ashram we have been looking for him without success.”
“That’s terrible!”
“Indeed. I must make my report.” He hurried away.
According to Indian custom, cremation should occur within twenty-four hours of death, and Mrs Darling’s ceremony could not be delayed. Christine and Mr and Mrs Dubashi took tricycle rickshaws to the Harishchandra burning ghat at the appointed hour and made their way down to the shore where they recognized Sub-Inspector Gupta talking to Dorothy Yanamandra, business manager of the Atmapriksa Ashram, among a cluster of people. As they got close Christine recognized some of the young people from the ashram, and discovered that they were witnessing the Swami Bhatti having his beard and head ceremoniously shaved.
Mrs Yanamandra greeted her and explained, “Since Mrs Darling no longer has any family here for her cremation, following the tragic death of her dearly beloved son, the Swami has decided to represent her family and go through the rituals on their behalf.”
She pointed out a man who was supervising the arrangements. “He is a member of the Dome caste, who were given the sacred flame four and a half thousand years ago by Lord Shiva to light the first funeral pyre, and have been its guardians ever since. When the Swami has been shaved he will bathe in the Ganges to purify himself and will change into a pure white gown. Then he will go to the Dome temple nearby to buy the holy fire to light Mrs Darling’s pyre. Meanwhile his disciples from the ashram have been buying wood logs to build the pyre – three hundred kilos are required, at one hundred and fifty rupees a kilo, would you believe, not to mention some sandalwood at a thousand rupees a kilo, which is a necessary part of the rituals.” Mrs Yanamandra was tapping numbers into her iPhone. “Such a lot of cash, but we must do this properly for Mrs Darling. Anyway, the pyre is ready now, and Mrs Darling’s body has been placed on it, face up, and covered by a final layer. You do not look well, Christine. Do you need to sit down?”