ORIENTAL OBSEQUIES
_Burmese Burials_
THE Burmese are very philosophical. They have no belief in another life;
but they make the most of this one. They take everything very
easily—everything but death; they hate to die. That is natural on the
part of a people who enjoy life so thoroughly, and who live in such a
pleasant, sunny land. I have seen a Burmese funeral train in a gale of
merriment, but I have never seen a Burmese man or woman who was willing
to die. They are not afraid of death; but they are unutterably saddened
by it. The Burmese are a tender-hearted, affectionate race, and the most
affecting deathbed parting I ever saw was between a Burmese man and his
dying mother.
A Burmese village burns; the entire property—all the belongings of the
inhabitants, are destroyed. The men set to work and build a theatre on
the smouldering ruins; the women gather plantains from the nearest tree,
until their silk tameins are full; the pretty Burmese children climb the
trees and drop the yellow fruit down into their pretty mothers’ out-held
garments; the men complete the impromptu theatre while the women roast
the fruit. Then they eat, and wash their meal down with brook-water,
with laughter, and with song; then they bathe their hands and lips in
the nearest stream, which is sure not to be far away; then they have a
theatrical performance; and so console themselves for the loss of their
homes and their little earthly all. But, for the loss of a relative or a
close friend they are never consoled. They grieve quietly—which is very
un-Eastern—but they grieve persistently.
When a Burmese dies, messengers are at once sent to all his friends, no
matter how far off those friends live. And all the friends hasten to bid
farewell to the body, to arrange for the funeral, and to console—as
best they may—the bereaved family. All the expenses of a Burmese
funeral are met by voluntary gifts.
I have often thought the Burmese the cleanest people on earth; certainly
they are the cleanest people in the East. They wash their dead with
great care, and several times. The last water used is scented. The
Burmese do not believe in immortality, and yet, like all of us who are
disbelievers, in whatever part of the world we live, they fight their
own unbelief, and, when death touches their near and dear, they indulge
their hurt hearts with many a little ceremony inconsistent with their
scepticism. For instance, they place in the mouth of their dead a little
coin called “ferry hire.” They believe, or try to believe, that death is
a river, and that the waterman requires pay. How the superstitions of
the world repeat themselves! How the Greek imagination dominates the
imaginations of all the gentler peoples.
The body is placed on an uncovered bier, which is laid just out of the
house door. There it remains for three days; but it is never left alone.
Then the body is laid in the coffin. The priests, looking very like
copper-coloured Capuchins, come to conduct the dead to its last resting
place.
[Illustration: PAGODA NEAR MANDALAY. _Page 88._]
The funeral procession, unlike those of any other Eastern people, is
formed largely of vehicles. The Burmese carts are very odd, and are
fittingly picturesque adjuncts to the most graphically beautiful
landscape in Asia. The carts are drawn by great, handsome oxen. They
have two immense wheels, and an indescribable top. The back of the cart
is curved. The Burmese perch themselves on the seat of their native
vehicles in some mysterious way.
These carts form the first part of the funeral procession. They are
decorated with queer primitive flags and flat paper umbrellas. The
beautiful oxen are usually festooned with flowers; but when they are to
be included in a funeral procession, the flowers are taken off them.
This they often resent; for they are by no means devoid of vanity—these
huge gentle oxen of the East.
After the waggons walk the priests, not less than twenty or thirty. They
carry liver-shaped palm-leaf fans, and the umbrellas peculiar to their
priesthood. They carry rosaries, as do all Chinese priests. The Burmese,
who have many of the Mongolian features, always seemed to me to be the
Chinese grown beautiful.
After the priests walk or ride the mourners. They are dressed in white.
Then comes the funeral cart. It is shaped like a house-boat. It is
covered by a softly coloured silk canopy, and it bristles with umbrellas
and pennants.
The close of the funeral procession is of a nondescript character. It is
a catch-all for waggons, not _en regale_, for priests and friends
crowded out of the procession proper, and for stragglers. By the time
the procession reaches its destination, the irregular cortége behind the
funeral cart is very apt to be twice or thrice the length of the regular
cortége that precedes the carriage of the dead.
When the train halts, the coffin is lifted carefully from the waggon. It
is placed upon the ground, on the spot designated by the priests. Then
water is poured over the coffin, while the priests chant. The Burmese
set great store by water. It is almost their only beverage; and water
must be an important item in the daily life of a people of such
exquisite neatness. They have a yearly Water Festival. It begins on New
Year’s Day, and continues for nearly a week. At daybreak on New Year’s
Day the Burmese go to the nearest of their wonderful pagodas. They throw
water upon it, and pray for a plentiful season. A jar of water is
presented, with great ceremony, to the head priest of the pagoda, and
with a prayer that any wickedness they may have committed during the
past year may be forgiven. Then they have a splendid romp. Most of the
Eastern peoples play like children; and the Burmese are the most
frolicsome race in the Orient. They drench each other with water; and he
who gets wettest confidently expects the most good luck for the ensuing
year. The missionaries say that this is a primitive expression of the
theory of the cleansing of sin by water. It reminded me of the New
Year’s customs of the Chinese. Every Chinaman, who possibly can, pays
all his debts on New Year’s Day. What a festival for the Chinese
tradespeople! It reminded me even more of a German habit. On New Year’s
Day German friends who have quarrelled forgive each other. No Burmese
feud can continue after the principals have drenched each other nicely
with water at the Water Festival. The analogy would be more perfect if
the Burmese were more quarrelsome or the Germans more peaceful. The
Burmese very rarely quarrel among themselves.
After the pouring of water upon the coffin, alms are given to all the
poor present. Then every one is given a dish of pickled tea (by the way,
pickled tea is rather nice—far nicer than pickled cabbage). Other
ceremonies follow—all of a quiet, dignified character. Then the body is
burned—usually in the coffin. The funeral procession slowly wends its
way back. The priests guard sacredly the smouldering pile. Three days
later the relatives return and gather up the ashes. Very occasionally
the ashes are put into urns; but as a rule they are buried.
That is a Burmese burial: the burial of human ashes.
[Illustration: BAND AT A BURMESE THEATRICAL PERFORMANCE. _Page
90._]
On the tenth day after the burial a great feast is held in honour of the
dead, and as an attempt at cheering the bereaved relatives. A Burmese
feast is a very pretty sight. The meal is usually spread on a very low
table, about which the diners sit—sit on the floor of course. Sometimes
the meal is eaten out of doors. Then the bowls of food are arranged on
the ground. The dishes are intertwined with strings of fragrant flowers.
The Burmese string the blossoms of the sweetest of their flowers on long
threads, and make slender, perfumed flower-ropes, which they wear about
their necks, twist among their hair, hang over their doorways, and with
which they decorate their tables.
Nothing could form a prettier picture than a number of Burmese in
festival dress. Their flower-twined heads, their lithe, graceful bodies,
deftly wrapped in delicately-hued silks, their sleeves of embroidered
net, and their jackets of flowered velvet or of brocaded silk, are
enhanced here and there by milky pearls, by curiously carved gold, by
quaintly wrought silver, by softly blue turquoise, and mystic
moonstones.
Rice is the mainstay of Eastern life. It forms the chief ingredient of
every Burmese meal. The Burmese make delicious curry, but they eat less
curry than the other Eastern races. They call their three principal
meals “morning rice,” “noon rice,” and “evening rice.” A Burmese feast
begins with “sea-swallows’ nests soup.” It is wonderfully nourishing.
The people of Burmah are professed vegetarians. But I have eaten both
fish and flesh when the guest of a Burmese lady, and I believe that both
are eaten by all the people, not excepting the priests. Certainly
elaborate meat and flesh dishes are conspicuous at a Burmese feast, and
on every Burmese table are big jars of pickled tea. They serve an
abundance of savoury yellow cakes and of fruit. They have a hot salad of
cooked vegetables, including “ladies fingers,” “bringel,” tomatoes, and
bamboo tips. There are only three courses in an ordinary funeral
feast—1. Soup. 2. Meats, rice, vegetables, etc. 3. Cakes and fruit.
Each viand is put on the table in one large bowl, out of which every one
present eats (as you or I should have done had we lived in the time of
Chaucer) with their fingers. While they eat, they drink a great deal of
water. After they have washed their hands and lips they smoke. All the
Burmese smoke—men, women, and children. I have seen a mother pacify a
child, who cried for the breast at an inopportune moment, by giving him
her cigar, and the baby made a rather successful attempt to puff it. The
Burmese cigars are very large, but they are extremely mild. They are
made of a large green native leaf. They are so gentle that I often
wondered why the Burmese were so fond of them. Perhaps it is well that
their cigars are so gentle and nicotinless, for the Burmese are the most
inveterate smokers in the world.