ORIENTAL OBSEQUIES
_The Parsi Towers of Silence_
OUR company had divided and respectively gone where all bad actors and
where all good actors go,—to Australia and to London.
We lingered on in India for a few months. We were going through the
cantonments of the Punjab before we sailed for home. We had engaged two
other professionals and had made out programmes that reminded me of our
Canton Recital. My husband had me down for a recitation in almost every
programme; but when the time came I very rarely did recite.
We were in Bombay for some weeks before we started on our little final
tour.
It was in Bombay, on a bright Sabbath day, that I first saw a Tower of
Silence. We drove from the sunny Apollo Bundar, through the cool, green
park, past the statue of the Queen—the most beautiful statue of Queen
Victoria that has ever been executed.
I must own that I felt a little frightened. I had heard so much from
Anglo-Indians about the horrors of the Parsi method of entombment that,
in spite of my, perhaps, morbid desire to see and understand all the
characteristic phases of Eastern life, I was almost nervous as we drove
to the outer gate of the beautiful gardens that enclose the last
resting-place of the Parsis who die in Bombay.
The dokhma—to give the correct name to the round Parsi sepulchres, that
we, in our easy Anglo-Indian fashion call Towers of Silence—the dokhma
is always placed on high ground. The sanitary reasons for this are
obvious. In Bombay there are three Towers. They were built at different
periods and mark the increase in Bombay of Parsi affluence, and of Parsi
numbers. The oldest and smallest was built soon after the followers of
Zoroaster had fled from Persia to Ind.
These Parsi mortuaries were in every way different from what I had
imagined them; but, after seeing what they really are, my utmost
philosophy revolts and sickens at the thought of the poor dead body,
torn, as it is, by the claws and beaks of the human-flesh-fed vultures.
But that the Parsi disposition of the dead is anything but healthy, I
dispute; and the surroundings and situation of the Bombay dokhmas are
dignified and beautiful in the extreme. When our carriage stopped we
walked up a gradual rise, gravel-paved and tree edged, to a vine-covered
lodge. Here we were eagerly seized upon by one of the half-dozen
gatekeepers, who are glad to act as guides to curious strangers. We went
on and up, passing groups of graceful, luxuriant trees, and beds of
brilliant, ill-assorted flowers. Our guide took us into a little house,
in which is kept a model of the dokhma. From this you learn what the
inner construction of every Parsi dokhma is; for into no dokhma are you
allowed to look. On the bottom of the Tower is a thick flooring of lime.
A few feet above is the grating upon which the bodies are laid. This
grating is divided into three tiers; not above each other, but inside
each other. Each tier is divided into the same number of sections. These
sections are formed by iron rays that spring from the centre of the
Tower to its outer circumference or wall; hence, the compartments of the
inner tier are smaller than those of the centre tier, those of the
centre tier smaller than those of the outer. The outer tier is reserved
for the bodies of men, the inner tier for the bodies of children, and on
the centre tier the swooping vultures find the bodies of the Parsi
women.
Only the attendants of the dokhma are allowed to enter it with the dead.
They pass quickly up a narrow aisle that runs from the doorway, and
place the dead upon the appointed place; they tear the sheets rapidly
from the body; for the vultures are waiting, and they do not wait
tamely. Only one article is left upon the corpse: the kusti. The
attendants hurry away, and the vultures, with horrid cries, rush down
upon their prey.
The kusti is one of the two badges of the followers of Zoroaster. It is
a woollen cord, and is hollow. Only the women of the priest caste are
allowed to weave it. It must be woven of seventy-two threads and be
about a sixteenth of an inch in diameter. It is first woven as a
continuous cord, and has, of course, no ends. About a foot of the warp
is left unwoven; then it is passed on to a priest. He cuts the unwoven
bit in the centre. This makes two ends of loose threads. These he braids
to within an inch of their extremities; then he divides each braid into
three little braids. All the time he repeats prescribed prayers in Zend,
not one word of which he understands. The Parsi prayers are handed down
from generation to generation, learned mechanically, and it is very
exceptional for even a high priest to understand them.
The kusti is tied loosely about the waist, early in the Parsi life—at
or before puberty, I believe. It denotes chastity, which is the chief
requirement of the Parsi religion. The kusti is the last garment to
leave the Parsi’s body. It is torn off by the devouring vultures.
The vultures are kept and bred, by the attendants of the dokhmas, for
the purpose of cleaning the flesh from off the bones of the Parsi dead.
They are only a few hours, at the longest, in executing their gruesome
task. The dokhma is roofless. When the rain falls, it washes the dust of
the crumbling bones down to the lime flooring. From there it gradually
drains away, and is absorbed again into the economy of nature, in a way
absolutely harmless to the living.
A few yards from the Tower of Silence is a white stone. It is kept
clean, and shines up from the green grass. Nearer the dokhma than this
stone no one may go, save the dead and the professional attendants. It
is the Stone of Parting, the Stone of Good-bye, of Everlasting Farewell.
Beyond it, the dead must go from those who have loved him, those he has
loved; go alone, into the place of death, and into the something after
death, which, in Parsi usage, seems to us worse than death itself.
I stood by that white stone one day, with one of the most remarkable men
in the East—a Parsi. The birds shrieked angrily as they sat upon the
towers. The old attendant said stoically, “We have had no funeral since
early yesterday, they are getting——” I drew back that I might not hear
the horrid end of his sentence. Then I said to my companion—a
liberal-minded man, with whom we had often discussed involved social
issues—“Do you not dislike it?”—“No,” was his reply, “my wife was laid
there twenty years ago; and I shall lie there in a few years. It is our
Parsi custom.”
When a Parsi dies, the body is at once washed, clothed in garments that
are clean, white, and old, carried into a room on the lowest floor of
the house, and laid on slabs of stone. An iron bier is brought in. The
Parsi women sit on carpets, near the dead. The Parsi men sit, in long
rows, on benches, outside the house. The priests recite prayers. After
they have recited the first seven chapters of the Izashne (a Parsi
religious book) the dead is placed upon the bier. Then a dog is brought
in and made to look at the body! Then the prayers are continued. The
body is carried from the house amid gesticulations of deep respect. A
procession is formed and the remains are followed to the dokhma by
relatives, friends, and professional attendants, all dressed in old,
clean, white clothes. Prayers are again recited at the “Good-bye Stone,”
and while the body is being placed in the Tower.
On the third day after the death, all the friends of the dead gather, in
the afternoon, at the house of the nearest surviving relative. From
thence they go to the Fire Temple, where a commemorative service is
held. These services recur at stated intervals; and at the end of the
Parsi year are several holidays, sacred to the dead.
I have mentioned the Fire Temple; but the Parsis are not fire
worshippers, though it is a common error to call them so.
One of the most eminent of modern Parsis has explained so well the exact
attitude concerning the introduction of fire in the religious
observances of the devout Parsi, that I quote from him.
“The Parsis are called by others ‘Fire Worshippers,’ and they defend
themselves by saying that they do not worship the fire, but regard it
and other great natural phenomena and objects as emblems of the divine
power. To me it appears that the imputation, on the one hand, is wrong;
and the defence, on the other hand, a little over-shot. Though the Parsi
‘remembers, praises, loves, or regards holy’ whatever is beautiful, or
wonderful, or harmless, or useful in Nature, he never asks from an
unintelligent material object assistance or benefit; he is, therefore,
no idolater or worshipper of matter. On the other hand, when the Parsi
addresses his prayers to Hormuzd, or God, he never thinks it at all
necessary that he should turn his face to any particular object. He
would say, and does say, his ‘Hormuzd yasht’ (prayer to Hormuzd)
anywhere whatever, without the slightest misgiving. Again, when he
addresses the angel of water, or any other but that of fire, he does not
stand before the fire. It is only when he addresses the angel of fire
that he turns his face to the fire. In short, in addressing any
particular angel, he turns his face to the object of that angel’s
guardianship as his emblem; but, in his prayers to Hormuzd, he
recognises or uses, or turns his face to, no emblems whatever. Since
fire only could be brought within the limits of the temple—any of the
grand objects of nature (as the sea, the sun, etc.) being unavailable
for this purpose—the temples naturally became the sanctuaries of fire
alone, and hence has arisen the mistake of the Parsis being regarded as
‘Fire Worshippers.’”
This is precisely what I was told by every intelligent Parsi with whom I
spoke on the subject; but very few of them expressed it so clearly and
ably.
I was asked, in Bombay, to follow a little Parsi baby to the dokhma. I
intended doing so—not out of curiosity—but out of sympathy and liking
for its mother. I even started; but before we were half-way there I
turned back. I thought of that little white stone where the white-robed
procession must stop, beyond which the mother might not go. The vultures
sometimes scream when the halt is made at the “Farewell Stone.” I could
not go. I could not see that little baby’s body carried to the hungry
birds, in the presence of the pale, pretty, little Parsi woman, upon
whose breast I had seen it the week before.
God help any mother when she parts with her dead child! But I think the
glad shrieks of those swooping beast-birds must be even harder to bear
than the first fall of the earth on the coffin lid.
Asia is the graveyard of countless millions. Asia is the home of many,
many distinct races, all of which have different burial customs. All are
more or less interesting.
The Parsis, who rank above most of the Oriental peoples in civilisation,
dispose of their dead in the most repulsive manner of any race in Asia.
But they break no sanitary law when they throw their dead to the
merciless vultures.
The Hindoo disposal of the dead is, more than that of any other Eastern
people, save the Burmese, in entire consonance with the health of Asia’s
living millions.
The Burmese also practise cremation, and are, therefore, as much as the
Hindoos, the guardians of public health. It is the Burmese who most hate
death, and who mourn longest for their dead.
The Chinese are, in their funeral rites, the most fantastic, the
noisiest, and the most callous. Their custom of keeping the dead
unburied for long years, and their mode of interment, which is usually
above ground, are a positive menace, not alone to their own health and
the health of the stranger within their gates, but also to the health of
all Asia.
The Japanese, who are Past Masters of the difficult art of living
gracefully, pleasantly, satisfactorily, and with dignity, meet death
with more self-control than any of their fellow Asiatics. There is
nothing in their funeral customs to offend the most fastidious European
or the most prejudiced American. Their cemeteries, if we are to have
cemeteries at all, might well be models for the civilised world—models
of peaceful, quiet beauty, ideal resting-places surrounded by the
everlasting hills, which lift their high, hopeful heads as if in promise
of immortality—places full of flowers that live so brightly and die so
sweetly that they whisper with their gentle, perfumed lips the only one
consolation for death—if death be eternal.
The Cingalese, the Sikhs, the Mohammedans, deserve mention in this
little series; but then so do a score of others. May they all rest in
peace, the simple native folk, and know no trouble, feel no pain, in
that strange land from which is sent us no Book of Travels, and not even
a newspaper letter—“The undiscover’d country from whose bourn no
traveller returns!”