The pyre was already laid and a man was busy soaking bundles of straw in the Bagmati River--the wet straw will help contain the fire and heat the pyre. I noticed a group of people walking down the stairs to the left, among them, supported by the sons, was the father, shrowded in orange robes, his face showing placcidly from beneath. They ascend the small platform and circle the pyre thrice--on the final round, the widow sobbing for for one last touch, supports her husband's feet clumsily, sweetly. Finally, the deceased is gently rested on the pyre. Many eyes are wiped. The sons strip to bare chests and wash briefly in the river, purifying themselves, and surround their father. The eldest has the fire, and leaning down together he lights the flame in his father's mouth. They stand a moment and begin carefully laying damp straw over the still body from head to the feet until he is fully covered, and just a thin whisp of ochre smoke rose from the head. The pyre is then set from beneath and slowly is enveloped in thick pungent smoke. It burns for some hours until nothing is left but ash, which is swept into the Bagmati unceremoniously and the platform is washed with river water for the next use.
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