Sushma Joshi

The Kali temple in Silom, Bangkok, is a ten minute walk from the Burmese embassy. The inside of the temple is always busy—devout Chinese women rattling bamboo sticks for divination purposes, and Thai transvestites offering coconuts and bananas in exchange for the Goddess’s blessing. On one side is a statue of the nine planets, or Navagraha—both the Thais and the Burmese are ardent adherents of astrology. The Om Shakti Om chant is perpetually on, leading to a hypnotic trance as soon as I enter. It is no surprise therefore when I find out that the one shop in that lane selling Hindu ceremonial offerings is owned by a Gorkhali-Burmese man. The shop is full of statues, mantra booklets, red and yellow cloth to offer to the Goddess, a television on full blast offering Al-Jazeera news of revolutions, posters of Hindu gods and goddesses, a dais with large photos of the Thai king and queen, and a football brass trophy.

I introduce myself to the owner, Krishna Guragain. Guragain mentions that he is also the chairperson of a sub-committee within the Akhil Gorkhali Hindu Sangh, an affiliate of the Burmese-Nepali umbrella network in Thailand. This specific sub-committee deals with the issues of life and death, literally. The committee ensures members of the Gorkhali-Nepali community get a proper cremation—no matter what their income level. In fact, he mentions, he has just received information that people are gathering for a cremation at this very moment at the Vishnu temple.

Guragain gives me directions on how to get to the crematorium. This is the only crematorium for Hindus in this city. It is located inside the grand Vishnu temple, a ten minute drive in a scooter through the insane traffic of Silom. My scooter driver holds himself steady as a rock as he coasts pasts SUVs and giant trucks, with half an inch of space to spare. I hope I am not headed to the crematorium, literally, as I hang on to the back and pray. We do get there in one piece, however. The scooter-driver coasts in and asks: you go back? The temple looks large and abandoned, in the middle of an isolated stretch of road. So I say to him, with what I hope is not unnecessary enthusiasm: yes, wait. I go back.

On the marbled threshold, an Indian caretaker sits with two Gorkhali men. No, they say, shaking their head, there is no cremation planned, and no family members have gathered. A little bemused by this confusing information (was Guragain mistaken?), I asked if I could get a tour of the compound.

The young Gorkhali man, whose name is Hari Poudel, says he has joined the temple recently as caretaker, and he doesn’t know a whole lot, but he will show me around.

I ask if wood is still used. “The system uses electricity,” says the Indian caretaker—“there is no longer any wood in Bangkok to use for this purpose.”

We walk over to the large gates, and then inside the newly-built crematorium. Clearly a great deal of expense has gone into creating this clean, well built and spacious compound. A giant peepul tree lends shade near the gate. Two men sleep in the afternoon heat.

“These pandits do the work of the cremating,” explained Hari Poudel, pointing to the sleeping men. “We just clean the temple.” There are sometimes two to three corpses to cremate, Hari Poudel explains. The cremation is done on a donation basis. Nobody is turned away.

I marveled at the cleanliness and the quietitude of the space. No sewage-ridden river flowing past here, no muck of half cremated bodies, no appalling filth. Of course, there is a reason for the filth, say the most philosophical of Hindus. The filth is a reminder of the decay inherent in the human body, and the contemplation of this elevates the mind away from the mundane to the transcendental realm. And yet, the squeamish, hygienic part of me cannot help wondering if a few crematoriums should be installed in Nepal as well. Since Nepal is rapidly acquiring a reputation as a basket case unable to do anything on its own, perhaps we could cement this reputation by asking the diasporic group of Gorkhalis of Burma and Thailand to help in this most essential of matters.

I asked if there were any other Gorkhali workers. Hari Poudel said that a Gorkhali worker had been recently fired for immoral activities. Mystified, I asked him what kind of immoral activities the man had been up to. “Well,” he said after a few awkward moments, “the temple is a sacred space and he was bringing women folks and doing all kinds of disrespectful things.” “I see,” I say, wondering about what else went on in the giant and empty temple. As in Kashi, it was clear that this space didn’t just deal with the end of life—it had the potential to harbor many other activities in-between. Giant gatherings took place in Dashain, Deepavali, Shivaratri and other festive occasions, he said. Also the temple was used for marriages and other rites of passages.

Back in the shop, I mentioned to Guragain that the cremation did not occur, but he was busy chatting on the phone and couldn’t explain the mystery. He did, however, point out that the line of men who filed past had come from the Burmese border of Mae Sae, and they would soon head back with their giant luggage tied with Chinese plastic wraps. He also shared, enthusiastically, that the football trophy on the dais above him was won at a match played between rival Gorkhali-Burmese football teams. This little shop, it seemed, dealt with more than issues of the Divine: It was clear that trade and football, alongside life and death, got equal attention.

Joshi is writing a book about people of Nepali origins in Burma and Thailand with support from the Asian Scholarship Foundation

Published on: 26 June 2011 | The Kathmandu Post