I walked along the river and the river was on fire.
People laughed and were already starting to get drunk even though it was only
six-o-clock. Like seriously? Morons. They’d probably be smashed within the
hour, maybe two max. The white tents sold handicrafts and food. The smell of
buttery popcorn floated on the breeze and music wafted above the crowd and wove
through them. Gondolas moved slowly and silently through the river like ghosts,
people added more wood to the fires as necessary; simultaneously the main
attraction and part of the background. I went down the big stone steps, every
city should have big stone steps like these, to be closer to the fire. I could
feel the heat on my face, and the warm orange glow.
The heat of
the fire was intense and it smelled like butter and popcorn. It reminded me of
the smell when you first walk into a theater. I thought I might become sick, so
I tried to not think about it. It shouldn’t smell good. Why do they use
something they cooked with to burn a body? I was glad I couldn’t see her
through the wood. Her pink dress, her arms covered in mehndi, her nose plugged
up with wax which simultaneously bothered and scared the hell out of me. I
wanted to tell the people to stop pouring Ghee over the roaring fire pit. I
thought about snatching the spoons out of their hands and throwing them on the
ground. The long-blackened spoons told me they had been used countless times
before, and would be used countless times afterward. It was disgusting. The
wind picked up and blew dust and smoke into my eyes. I turned away from the
fire.
A light breeze blew, and I wanted it to stop. I was happy
it wasn’t cold for this time of year and I wanted it to stay that way for a
little while longer. The cold wind wasn’t helping. I smelled the harsh
bitterness of cigarette smoke drift my way. The acidic scent filled my lungs
and I coughed violently. My lungs rattled against my ribcage. I hate people
that smoke. Don’t they know that they are killing themselves from the inside
out? I imagined being in a place where smoking was illegal that would be great,
and less cars too that way ambulances can get anywhere within five minutes. I
turned away from the fire and went back up the big stone steps away from the
smokers and to get a better view, but mostly for the smokers. I squished myself
between people in order to see. Below, the lady’s cigarettes glowed orange and
dropped embers like the falling leaves. Gondolas drifted in between the fires,
and a small speaker played music. Guitar strings reminded me of melodies played
in Italian plazas and I immediately craved gelato. Being in Italy sounded like
a great idea at the moment. I could eat fresh pizza with tangy sauce and hang
out in a plaza with a fountain that had way too many coins in it and of course,
a single guitar player. I stared at the fires. I loved coming here to see the
art, and the people, and the fire on the water. I watched the person, in the
boats that they used in Venice, put more wood, and sparks swirled in the air
like snow.
I imagined
being in a snowstorm instead of this terrible heat. My watery eyes might look
like I started to cry. That wouldn’t be a bad thing because this was a funeral,
but I didn’t want to. The wind picked up again from a different direction and I
thought about our house in the forest and how we dodged smoke from the
campfire. This was the same thing. Right? I was here not there, so focus on the
present. I watched the smoke rise higher into the darkening sky. Sparks flew in our direction and I imagined
what would happen if we were in the forest and not here. Not here. Not here, is
this over? do we have to stay the whole time? We would have a small fire, and
we could roast marshmallows and make s'mores and be happy, instead of being in
this heart-wrenching place. My eyes turned back to the fire as if it were
required that I look at it. It was huge and I watched as the flames licked the
sky and black smoke spewed out of the tongues like bad words. - I liked the
way the fire bathed everyone in a deep orange glow. There was something
comforting and nice about it. It smelled like a campfire, like nice burning
wood, like pine trees - and I pictured s’mores over it. It didn’t
help, and I thought that if someone could read my thoughts right now, they’d
find them disgusting. Who thinks about s’mores at her grandmother’s funeral?
Sparks swirled in the air like fireflies, and I worried that our clothes might
catch on fire too. We’d all become living funeral pyres. We’d be burned alive
from the outside-in by our own grief until all that’s left of us would be ash.
No, that’s wrong. Shut up. I stared at the terrible fire.
Fire freaks me out, that’s why I like the festival, because I don’t have to worry about things lighting on fire. It seems like I’m the only who does. Internally, I shake my head. Thinking about these things doesn’t help. But sometimes people think about these things, right? Things like death, and funerals, but I remember that fire can also mean life and not just death. That the sun is also made out of fire, and that without the sun, without fire, we’d probably all die. The earth would become covered in ice and it would become dark. I hugged the sweater closer to myself. The orange and pink sky from earlier had almost disappeared. Now there was just a dark blue with the light clinging on to it like some last hope. Another cold breeze swept through the crowd and I wondered if other people were getting cold too. I wanted to stand next to the fire. I wanted to get away from the fire. The heat, and dust, and people, and dryness. The stale air, I was probably breathing in dead people, the heat, I was glad I couldn’t smell burning hair, the intense heat, - I’m getting cold.
I decided to walk back to the car. - The smoke from the funeral fire followed us like a shadow. It burned it
the background while everyone stood in a line and paid respects to us like we
were either holy saints or charity cases, there was no in-between. People that
I had no idea existed gave their sympathies and I wonder if they only met her
once or if they were another distant cousin that I knew nothing about. Their
eyes lingered on us as if they didn’t realize who we were and maybe they
didn’t. It irked me that that was the case. Why come if you didn’t know us that
well? For fun? I could see Father was about to lose it. His voice was barely
constrained shout when he asked the servants to get water. The anger that
radiated off of him could match the heat of the flames that was currently burning
his mother’s body. They scrambled and immediately brought cases of water and I
took one gratefully. The smoke had grabbed my throat and I was filled with the
airy dryness of a desert. As I gulped the water down, I wondered if I’d ever
get rid of the flames.