I do not like to take the easy way. I love to be lost. To explore again places that may seem familiar. So even on my fifty-first visit to the ancient temple of Pashupati, I find myself uncovering new mysteries and exploring hidden corners.
GMB Akash ·
Pashupati Temple, Kathmandu, Nepal
This place is very well-known to me. I have been here fifty times, and my camera has captured every memory from each of my visits. Yet even in its familiarity, there remains much to explore. And so once more, it is to the mystical temple of Pashupati — on the banks of the Bagmati River in Kathmandu — that I am headed for my fifty-first visit.
In one glance the place seems like it has taken a shower with morning glow. The magma-tinted light may never have been as vivid as it is now.
The magnetic aromas from a nearby shop and the many flowers waiting on stands are always a welcome sign for the tourists. In the side mirror of my taxi, I see buses full of the Indian community queuing behind us. The temple is dedicated to a manifestation of Shiva called Pashupati (Lord of the Animals) and attracts many thousands of devout pilgrims every year.
I do not like to take the easy way. I love to be lost. So on this visit, I did not enter the temple grounds in the usual way. Instead I went to the Dharmashila — a stone on the south side of the temple where sacred oaths are taken, and there are pillars with statues of Shah kings. Today many families have made space for themselves in the yard under the open air. They are tribal Indians who visit Pashupati once a year.
There were married women of all ages wearing anklets and a ring on the middle toe of their dark-toned feet. As I was taking a picture of a woman, I saw her burn the ‘roti’ that was in her pan. One of her hungry children grabbed it quickly before the other four siblings could take it.
They do not understand Hindi, Nepali or English. Their children yell and their tired faces reflect how far they have come. I left them to struggle with their rotis and looked for my next place.
Entering the temple, I could see once more the giant and impossible temple soaring above me. As I walked inside, I could hear the rhythmic chanting and the sounds of bells ringing in the distance.
Before I could even inhale the smoke and tart air a group of people suddenly appeared saying, “Hari, Hari.” They were part of a funeral, going down to the riverside. Drawn to their group, I started to follow.
The cries of the women echoed on the walls, and made the atmosphere heavier. Even the monkeys who were throwing papers at people stopped for a while. I saw a woman faint as she went to give water to her dead mother, whose body has been ritually placed.
Down by the river, there were three more of the deceased being prepared for their eternal ritual. It is tough to have the mental balance to take photographs in such moments. Having sympathy for the family while taking pictures at the same time is the toughest.
In this time of great grief nobody concerned themselves with me or my camera and I started taking pictures as if I was an invisible person. No one looked at me or asked me to leave, and so I continued to capture their tender and painful moments of farewell.
When I no more can bear the pain of the grieving relatives who keep crying out in anguish in an unknown language, I leave the temple.
After walking a while I meet my familiar priests. They are always the same year after year. Their posture, ornaments, and clothes always remain the same. As usual, the Hanuman with his mobile phone inside his box and the naked Sadhu are all in their customary places. One of them says loudly, with a smile, “Bangladeshi Akash, kaise hat?”
After a while the smell of a different fragrance comes along, so I start to follow it. With every visit I have discovered more mysteries of Pashupati Temple. ‘Pashu’ means living beings, and ‘Pati’ means master. Translated literally, Pashupati is the master of all living beings in the universe.
This time I went directly to the hindu cremation ghat. The same old fragrance welcomed me. Flames from fire, smoke and ashes were all around. Relatives of the dead were sitting inside and outside the temple.
One of the deceased was ready for the final ritual and, after having his head shaved and carefully placing the wood, his bereaved son set it alight. The man’s relatives were holding holy texts and kept chanting.
The sound of spitting fire and wood kept haunting me, the fire sending ashes all over my body. After two or three hours, only ashes remained.
As the steps were being prepared for another cremation I watched young children in the river below, collecting the charred wood that had been discarded after the ritual ceremony.
The kids mostly come from outside the Kathmandu Valley and live near the Pashupati Arya Ghat so that they can regularly collect the half-burnt wood to sell to nearby brick factories. After a while, one of the Dhakal asked me not to take pictures any more, so I put away my camera.
As the day drew to a close, the sun was going away, perhaps taking with it all the remaining souls. In the temple religious music was playing. In this holy place, in the midst of all this loss, some people keep seeking life.
Life and death are entwined incredibly closely with one and other at Pashupati Temple, and maybe that is why it is so special.
GMB Akash ·
Pashupati Temple, Kathmandu, Nepal
This place is very well-known to me. I have been here fifty times, and my camera has captured every memory from each of my visits. Yet even in its familiarity, there remains much to explore. And so once more, it is to the mystical temple of Pashupati — on the banks of the Bagmati River in Kathmandu — that I am headed for my fifty-first visit.
In one glance the place seems like it has taken a shower with morning glow. The magma-tinted light may never have been as vivid as it is now.
The magnetic aromas from a nearby shop and the many flowers waiting on stands are always a welcome sign for the tourists. In the side mirror of my taxi, I see buses full of the Indian community queuing behind us. The temple is dedicated to a manifestation of Shiva called Pashupati (Lord of the Animals) and attracts many thousands of devout pilgrims every year.
I do not like to take the easy way. I love to be lost. So on this visit, I did not enter the temple grounds in the usual way. Instead I went to the Dharmashila — a stone on the south side of the temple where sacred oaths are taken, and there are pillars with statues of Shah kings. Today many families have made space for themselves in the yard under the open air. They are tribal Indians who visit Pashupati once a year.
There were married women of all ages wearing anklets and a ring on the middle toe of their dark-toned feet. As I was taking a picture of a woman, I saw her burn the ‘roti’ that was in her pan. One of her hungry children grabbed it quickly before the other four siblings could take it.
They do not understand Hindi, Nepali or English. Their children yell and their tired faces reflect how far they have come. I left them to struggle with their rotis and looked for my next place.
Entering the temple, I could see once more the giant and impossible temple soaring above me. As I walked inside, I could hear the rhythmic chanting and the sounds of bells ringing in the distance.
Before I could even inhale the smoke and tart air a group of people suddenly appeared saying, “Hari, Hari.” They were part of a funeral, going down to the riverside. Drawn to their group, I started to follow.
The cries of the women echoed on the walls, and made the atmosphere heavier. Even the monkeys who were throwing papers at people stopped for a while. I saw a woman faint as she went to give water to her dead mother, whose body has been ritually placed.
Down by the river, there were three more of the deceased being prepared for their eternal ritual. It is tough to have the mental balance to take photographs in such moments. Having sympathy for the family while taking pictures at the same time is the toughest.
In this time of great grief nobody concerned themselves with me or my camera and I started taking pictures as if I was an invisible person. No one looked at me or asked me to leave, and so I continued to capture their tender and painful moments of farewell.
When I no more can bear the pain of the grieving relatives who keep crying out in anguish in an unknown language, I leave the temple.
After walking a while I meet my familiar priests. They are always the same year after year. Their posture, ornaments, and clothes always remain the same. As usual, the Hanuman with his mobile phone inside his box and the naked Sadhu are all in their customary places. One of them says loudly, with a smile, “Bangladeshi Akash, kaise hat?”
After a while the smell of a different fragrance comes along, so I start to follow it. With every visit I have discovered more mysteries of Pashupati Temple. ‘Pashu’ means living beings, and ‘Pati’ means master. Translated literally, Pashupati is the master of all living beings in the universe.
This time I went directly to the hindu cremation ghat. The same old fragrance welcomed me. Flames from fire, smoke and ashes were all around. Relatives of the dead were sitting inside and outside the temple.
One of the deceased was ready for the final ritual and, after having his head shaved and carefully placing the wood, his bereaved son set it alight. The man’s relatives were holding holy texts and kept chanting.
The sound of spitting fire and wood kept haunting me, the fire sending ashes all over my body. After two or three hours, only ashes remained.
As the steps were being prepared for another cremation I watched young children in the river below, collecting the charred wood that had been discarded after the ritual ceremony.
The kids mostly come from outside the Kathmandu Valley and live near the Pashupati Arya Ghat so that they can regularly collect the half-burnt wood to sell to nearby brick factories. After a while, one of the Dhakal asked me not to take pictures any more, so I put away my camera.
As the day drew to a close, the sun was going away, perhaps taking with it all the remaining souls. In the temple religious music was playing. In this holy place, in the midst of all this loss, some people keep seeking life.
Life and death are entwined incredibly closely with one and other at Pashupati Temple, and maybe that is why it is so special.
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