Robin Cook - Foreign Body

“That’s it,” Jawahar agreed. “We’ll see it better from the water. I’ll find us a boat. When I do, I’ll wave.” Jawahar headed down the steps toward the river.

“What do you think of Varanasi?” Arun questioned.

“Like I said, it’s interesting,” Laurie responded. “But it’s overwhelming to my Western sensibilities.”

“It’s like being in a number of centuries all at the same time,” Jack commented. He watched a nearby Indian snap open his mobile phone.

The boat ride had been a good idea. For several hours as night fell, they lazed up and down the coastline, mesmerized by the activity on all the ghats, but particularly drawn to the Manikarnika, with its ten to twelve funeral pyres. Silhouetted figures could be seen stoking the fires and sending forth explosions of sparks and smoke into the night sky. Along the waterline were huge stacks of firewood, some of it rare sandalwood.

Slightly elevated above the firewood was the pit where the pyres were built. Above the pit were steps leading up to a sheer masonry wall. Topping the wall was a cantilevered balcony as part of a large conical-towered temple complex. Beside the temple was a squalid palace topped by a nonfunctioning clock tower. Thanks to the fires and the frantic action, the scene projected an image akin to the apocalypse.

It was thirty-five minutes after ten that Laurie’s cell phone rang. She’d looked at the time before she handed the phone to Jawahar. She could see it was an Indian number.

Jawahar spoke in Hindi, and only very briefly. He handed the phone back to Laurie.

“Your bodies have arrived,” he reported. “The Brahmin has them in a small temple off that large balcony you can see from here. He said we have to come right away.”

“Let’s do it,” Laurie said.

As the boatman oared them in to shore, Jawahar told them they were going to disembark at the Scindia ghat, because females were not allowed at the water’s edge of Manikarnika ghat or at the level of the funeral pyres.

“Why on earth is that?” Laurie asked.

“To discourage wives from leaping onto husbands’ funeral pyres,” Jawahar said. “Traditional India didn’t make life easy for widows.”

When they landed, Jack and Laurie were fascinated by the huge Shiva temple tilted and half submerged in the Ganges. Along with Arun, they walked over to gaze at it while Jawahar settled up with the boatmen.

In order to get from Scindia ghat to Manikarnika ghat, they had to enter the old section of the city that abutted the ghats for their four-mile extent. As soon as they moved away from the open waterfront, the city became entirely medieval in character, composed of dark, claustrophobic, twisting, yard-wide cobblestone lanes. In contrast to the silky coolness of the Ganges shoreline, they were now engulfed in fetid heat and the smell of old urine and cow dung. It was also crowded with people, cows, and dogs. Laurie wanted to pull into herself like a snail to avoid touching anything. The smell was such that she wanted to mouth-breathe, but fear of infectious disease made her want to breathe through her nose. Seldom had she been so uncomfortable as she tripped after Jawahar, desperately trying to avoid stepping in excrement.

Every so often there would be sudden relief of the claustrophobia as they came upon an illuminated restaurant, an open shop, or a bhang stall lit with a single bare bulb. But mostly it was dark, hot, and smelly.

“Alright, here’s the stairway,” Jawahar said, coming to such a sudden halt in the darkness that Laurie, who was second, bumped into him. She apologized; he dismissed it.

“These stairs will lead up to that large balcony. I advise you to all stay together. We don’t want anyone to get lost.”

Laurie couldn’t imagine he’d think they might have the inclination to wander.

“There are various hostels up there,” Jawahar continued. “Each one supervised by a different Brahmin. They are for the dying. Don’t wander into them. There will be a few candles, but otherwise it will be dark. I’ve brought a flashlight, but we’ll only use it when you actually take your sample. Are we all clear?”

Jack and Arun said yes. Laurie stayed quiet. Her mouth and throat had become dry.

“Are you okay, Laurie?” Jack asked. They all could barely see one another.

“I guess,” Laurie managed, trying to scare up a bit of saliva to moisten her lips.

“Do you have the money?” Jawahar asked Jack.

“I got it,” Jack said, giving his front hip pocket a slap.

“One other thing,” Jawahar said. “Don’t talk to the Dom.”

“Who are the Dom?” Laurie asked.

“The Dom are the Untouchables who from time immemorial have worked the crematoria fires and handled the dead. They live here in the temple with the eternal fire of Shiva. They are dressed in white robes and shave their heads. Don’t talk to them. They take their jobs very seriously.”

Don’t worry, Laurie thought but didn’t say. I’m not talking to anybody.

Jawahar turned and mounted the stairs, which curved to the left and seemed interminable. When they emerged they were on a balcony with a rudimentary railing. Directly out was the broad expanse of the river, with a nearly full moon rising. Below were the raging fires of the funeral pyres filling the air with sparks, ash, dry heat, and smoke. The Dom could be seen as black figures wielding long sticks as they prodded the fires into miniature infernos. The burning bodies were clearly in evidence in each.

Lying about on the surface of the balcony were thirty or so bodies encased in white muslin shrouds. In the back of the balcony, in a wide concave orientation, were the dark openings of various temples. The center one glowed with the eternal fire of Shiva.

“Let me have the money,” Jawahar said, holding out his hand in the moonlight.

Jack complied.

“Everybody stay right here. I’ll be right back.”

“Good grief,” Laurie complained. “This is awful.”

“So, people actually come here and live in these caves to die?” Jack asked Arun.

“That was my understanding,” Arun said.

Jawahar reappeared. He’d gone into one of the two corner Indian cupolas. “The bodies in question are in that tiny temple next to the stairs we used to get up here,” he said. “The Brahmin told us to be quick and not draw attention to ourselves. The problem is that the Dom believe one of their major jobs is to protect the corpses.”

“That’s all we need,” Laurie murmured, as they all moved in the direction they’d come. She could feel herself start to tremble.

When they reached the temple, they ducked in one after the other. They waited until their eyes had adjusted as much as they were going to do. Besides the door opening, there was an unglazed window. Enough moonlight flooded in to see the two bodies side by side. They, too, were shrouded with white muslin.

“You have the syringes?” Jack asked Laurie. Laurie held them up. She’d taken them from her shoulder bag. Jack took one. “I’ll do one, you do the other. I don’t think we need the flashlight.”

They untied the cord holding closed what turned out to be muslin sacks. Arun helped Laurie while Jawahar helped Jack pull the sacks down enough to expose the suprapubic area. Directing the needles straight down just cephaled of the pubis, both syringes filled with urine.

“A piece of cake,” Jack said happily.

After securely capping both syringes, Laurie put them into her shoulder bag. Then everyone bent to the slightly more difficult task of getting the bodies back into the shrouds. Just as they were almost finished, the moonlight suddenly dimmed. Looking up, the group realized that the door was being blocked by two Dom. “What is going on in here?” the first demanded.