The grim business of organising mass cremations offers a glimpse of the deadly trail left by COVID-19
By Aman Sethi, Published The Straits Times, 3 May 2021
NEW DELHI (NYTIMES) - The first 36 corpses were placed in the designated concrete cremation pits and set ablaze by 10 in the morning. After that, all the extra bodies went to the muddy parking lot, for a mass ceremony later.
Last Wednesday, ambulances doubling up as hearses lined up along the narrow street outside the Ghazipur crematory, on the city's eastern border. There were no cremation pits in the parking lot, so hospital attendants in protective equipment carried out the dead and placed them near the scorch marks left behind by the previous day's pyres.
Mr Ram Karan Mishra, the presiding priest of the parking lot, walked among the corpses unmasked and unafraid. "If I fall sick and die, I will go to heaven," he said, before paraphrasing a popular reading of Hindu scripture: "Death is the only truth."
It is an aphorism that India's government would do well to remember. Two months ago, the ruling party claimed that the country had defeated Covid-19. Today, a deadly second wave of the coronavirus ravages India. Crippling shortages of oxygen and hospital beds have resulted in many deaths, including that of a former ambassador who died in his car while waiting for care for hours outside a fancy private clinic.
The chief minister of Uttar Pradesh, India's most populous state and one of its poorest, has asked officials to seize the property of people he accuses of "spreading rumours" about shortages on social media. (The police in Amethi, a town in northern India, reportedly brought criminal charges against one man for appealing on Twitter for an oxygen bottle for his sick grandfather.) The Indian government has ordered Twitter, Facebook and Instagram to take down dozens of posts criticising its handling of the pandemic.
Counting the dead
But mass cremations have captured what epidemiologists call "excess mortality" in gruesome detail. Everyone I know has lost someone to the virus. Many have lost several members of their family.
But while you are in lockdown, the dead do not feel dead as much as disappeared. So when my father called me last Tuesday to say that his uncle had died of Covid-19, that the uncle's whole family was ill with the disease and that a cousin of my father's was in an intensive care unit (ICU), I sensed the onset of a familiar numbness.
"I might go out for a drive," I mumbled vaguely to my wife. But as I got into my car the next morning and drove out to several crematories, I realised I just wanted to feel something.
The parking lot in Ghazipur is so small and the bodies are so closely packed that the pyres can be lit only all at once. So the corpses are placed on individual pyres through the day and then ignited in one big blaze in the evening. (Other crematories, especially those with pyres powered by electricity or gas, burn corpses from morning to sundown.)
Mr Mishra, the priest, told me that for the past 10 days, the crematory's staff had been burning between 40 and 50 bodies every day in a space no larger than two tennis courts.
A cremation site is a mostly male space. Many Hindus still believe that only a son has the right to light his parent's funeral pyre. At Ghazipur, small groups of young men briefly put their grief on hold to divide themselves into teams and tend to various tasks. One group runs off to stand in the queue to register the corpse of their loved one. Another dashes to the shed to get its allotted share of wood before all the good pieces run out. A third rushes with the body to reserve a spot on which to build a pyre. Everything in this pandemic - medicines, oxygen, ventilators, hospital beds - has been marked by scarcity born of the government's failure to plan for and procure essential supplies. The crematory is no different.
Last Wednesday, Ms Malvika Parakh, one of the few women at Ghazipur, stood alone amid this frenzy, the body of her father, Dr Dattaraj Bhalchandra Parakh, at her feet. He was a plant pathologist at India's National Bureau of Plant Genetic Resources and was 65 years old when he died of Covid-19. He needed an ICU bed with a ventilator, but she could organise only a hospital bed with an oxygen cylinder.
Ms Parakh's mother died a decade ago; most of her other relatives had Covid-19. A family member who had escorted her father's body from the hospital morgue to the crematory had suddenly felt sick there. So here she was alone, a 32-year-old clinical psychologist standing by her father's corpse in a parking lot-turned-crematory, trying to make sense of it all.
"It's like one of those movies in which the world has been attacked, and there are bodies everywhere," she said, as she looked at the rows and rows and rows and rows of pyres in various stages of completion. "You wait for the superhero to come and save everyone. Only in this case, there is no superhero."








