SpiRITUALity – Made’s cremation ceremony

Prologue

Made died on a moonless, windy evening in July. It happened so chillingly fast. He’d suffered a sudden attack of excruciating chest and stomach pain at home for half an hour. An eternity. We’d endured a slow, never-ending horse-cart ride to the beach on Gili Meno as my angel-friend Livia and I frantically tried to get him to a hospital on the mainland. But at the jetty Made passed away calmly and silently in the dark. On a small speed-boat as we crossed the rough water to Lombok, and in the back of a small open-back truck on the drive to the hospital, Livia and I tried our best to resuscitate him, but he never breathed again.

The events of that evening are perhaps a story for another day, or perhaps not. I know they will torment me forever and when I think about them I go down a dark tunnel.

But what happened to Made after he died is a story I’d like to share. It’s the story of his Hindu cremation ceremony. I’d like to share it especially with friends that live in western cultures, who rarely get the chance to be so hands-on (literally) in the care and preparation for the onward journey of their loved one’s body and soul. I feel, sadly, that in our cultures many of us have been long conditioned to be rather divorced from this part of the reality of life and death. 

Some of this story may be confronting. Or may differ from your beliefs. And I apologise in advance if I offend you with my opinions.

In Indonesia, Hindu people cremate their dead with a ceremony called ngaben. Ngaben ceremonies can be elaborate, lavish ceremonies with music and feasting, with processions and bodies put onto giant bamboo platforms in the shapes of bulls or dragons. They are often held as communal cremations. Typically, if a family can’t afford a ngaben when their loved one dies, they bury them instead, and once they have enough money, they exhume their bodies and do the cremation later. Sometimes years later. It’s all about preparing their body and performing rituals that let their soul return home. A body must be burned before the soul can leave it completely. Bodies aren’t devoured (burnt or buried for good), they are prepared for their souls to enter the upper realm where they wait to be reborn or become liberated from the cycles of rebirths. Hindu people embrace the afterworld and a ngaben ceremony is a festive and joyous occasion to celebrate the soul’s onward journey. In Bali and Lombok, the ashes are always released into the ocean, back to the elements.

The festivity of the ngaben ceremony also helps the family and friends come to terms with the loss and chaos of death, in much the same way our ‘celebrations of life’ do.

I don’t think there’s such a thing as a funeral home in Lombok. Families and friends do everything. And I will be eternally grateful – especially given that I’m not Hindu, and Made and I weren’t married – that Made’s family embraced me into every part of the ceremony, as the primary mourner.

 

Made’s (modified) Ngaben cremation ceremony

Because of my experience with death, early in my relationship with Made I’d already had ‘the big chat’ with him about what we wanted done when either of us died. So I had no doubts that he wanted me to entrust his body into the devoted care of his family in Lombok.

And so it was that within an hour or so of Made passing away Livia and I were sitting with him and his family at his home. The bed I’d bought five years earlier had been brought out onto the porch, and Made laid there, covered in his favourite ceremonial sarong. Incense smoke wafted up from a plastic stool beside him.

Made’s friends and his large extended family came from the village, his two sisters from villages nearby, and his four other brothers and sisters who live in Bali started the journey across the ocean. His ex-wife and his son, Gede, came from the city, Mataram. The gathering grew as the night went on.

A family meeting was held under the direction of the oldest uncle, his Uncle Komang, and due to the challenges of Covid-19 restrictions, it was decided to hold a quick cremation and simple ngaben ceremony two days later.

Made’s mother arrived, late in the night. She’d been picked up from her house high in the mountain. When she looked at Made she fainted. She crumbled onto the floor beside the bed. Family jumped to help, cooled her with fans and massaged her hands and feet lovingly until she came to. Just the week before, Made had spent two nights at her house, so this was an incredible shock for her too. Ibu needed to see him, to see that the news of her eldest son’s death was true. Importantly, she told me she needed to see his face and to know that he was at peace. She said she’d fainted from relief.

And Made was at peace. His eyes were closed, his face was soft, his lips held a slight smile; his expression was serene.

About 70 men stayed with Made through that first night. They played cards and guitar, they sang and smoked and drank coffee. It is what mates do every time someone dies, and there’s been many a night that Made went to Lombok to do that for others.

The next day extended family and villagers continued to visit. Each said goodbye to Made and prayed for his onward journey. They brought baskets of rice and notes of cash to help pay for the ngaben. Aunties and sisters and friends cooked for the feast; jackfruit curry, fish sate, moringa soup and baskets and baskets of white rice. Ibu made and cooked doughnuts. They chatted and laughed and gossiped and remembered their Made. Because I was distraught and overwhelmed by it all, and able really to only do two things – be with Made and rest – I didn’t see the aunties and cousins running errands to purchase offerings and flowers, and didn’t hear the uncles notify the temple and the man who controlled the fire (the only professional person that was contracted). I didn’t see the men make a bamboo platform for Made; even my muslim staff Nasir came to help make it. Everybody knew what had to be done and it all ran like a well-oiled peaceful machine.

Young Gede spent a lot of time sitting on the end of the bed. I believe it was good for him to spend some time with his dad. He mostly played on his phone, and sang quietly. Every so often he went to look at his dad’s face, and I hope this helped to let him understand, slowly, that his dad wasn’t just sleeping. 

Apart from a rest in the afternoon, Livia and I spent the day there too. I went to Made often. I prayed beside him, I shared my thoughts with him. I said sorry a thousand times. Sitting with him, looking at his face, watching his family and friends share in that experience somewhat helped me come to terms with the sudden finality of it. 

His face was still peaceful. His skin still felt natural and soft. He didn’t go purple or grey. He didn’t lose body fluids. And even in the tropical heat, he smelled good, as he always did. Made’s second given name, Wangiarsa, means something like “nice fragrance of a sea flower”, and despite being a smoker and living in a hot country and being overweight, Made always smelled good.

He didn’t get embalmed as is often done in our culture for viewings. No chemicals were injected into his body. He wasn’t plugged or propped or positioned. His blood wasn’t leeched, his eyes weren’t puffed full, his lips and jaws weren’t stitched together. He had no makeup.

Lying outside on the porch, in that hot climate, Made was natural, at peace and real. He looked like he was sleeping, and subconsciously, as was my habit, I kept looking at his belly to see if it would rise with a breath.

Again that night family and friends stayed – awake – with him the whole night. There was not a single moment that Made was alone.

During that time his family told me many times they believed he was going to the highest realm. There were three reasons they gave me for this. Firstly, because of his exceptionally good heart, his deep connection with animals and nature, his inherent generosity for all people, and his calmness. Secondly, because he didn’t smell bad, which was unusual by the third day. It meant his soul was pure. And thirdly, because he had died on his Balinese calendar birthday, a most auspicious day. 

Hearing these things warmed my heart.

The Balinese Hindu people believe if tears fall on the body they will impede the journey of the spirit. Out of concern and love, Ibu, Tante Rini, cousin Sentix and ex-wife Putu urged me not to cry. I was told that if I did cry, they’d ask me to step away from him. But on the third day, as I had my last private moment with him, I kissed his brow a final time and a tear fell gently from his right eye, the one closest to me. I swear this is true. I can’t explain it, but I believe his soul was showing me that at that moment he was sad to leave.

Then the men lifted Made onto the simple bamboo platform and gently removed his clothes. Together his family and I washed his body with soap and shampoo. I chose to wash his hair and face. What an honour to do that, lovingly, ourselves. As we washed him, the pendeta (Hindu priest), chanted mantras and prayers. Nothing was rushed.

To physically stop my tears from falling was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do. I did fail momentarily, but to be honest I wasn’t too worried; Made was a natural crier himself (he always wept openly even when he watched videos of cute little kittens) and I knew he’d be ok with it. But out of respect for his family and their customs, and because I didn’t want to leave his side, I wiped my face and made the tears stop.

Then his family wrapped him gently in a white cloth, symbolising purity, and I looked upon his face for the very last time. They adorned him from top to bottom in frangipanis (Bali’s signature flower), purple and white bougainvillea and red hibiscus and the beautiful, sacred, orange marigolds. His brothers sprayed perfume over him. An outer wrap made from hand-woven strips of bamboo. Slow burning tropical incense blooms, sandalwood and cempaka, were symbolic offerings carried skyward for the gods and ancestors.

At the Pura Dalam – Temple of Death – Made’s Tante Rini guided me and men carried Made to the open-air pyre, a simple corrugated iron tray within stacks of ceramic tiles. I carried his best traditional ceremonial clothes, others carried offerings and wafted smoke about from incense and coconut-leaf bundles, and Gede carried a framed photo of his dad. With the priest and the men carrying Made, we circled the funeral pyre three times.

In Hinduism, ‘three’ represents the supreme deities, Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva – the creator, preserver, and destroyer, respectively. Together, they represent Rta, the underlying universal laws that govern the universe (it is all quite complex but the symbolism and rituals are simple enough).

It was time to light the pyre. Young Gede and I were handed matches to light a bundle of coconut leaves. Then, together, he and I placed the burning bundle under Made’s body. We took a step back, and with my friends Livia and Bernie holding me, I watched it become the fire that turned the body of my beloved into ashes.

If I’d read those paragraphs beforehand… I’d have been aghast. Even as I write them now tears fall, and I feel a strange mix of contraction and heaviness as well as fluttering in my chest and throat.

But it wasn’t ghastly. I guess partly I was able to do it because I was numb with shock and I was just being carried along with the flowing current of rituals and what had to be done. But also, I could do it because it felt so natural and I simply felt so spiritually connected and filled with love to be able to do it for Made.

Then there was nothing else to do but wait. I joined my friends who’d come from Meno that day, and we sat on the ground in the shade of a big old bayan tree. They’d come to honour their friend Made and to support me, and I’m so grateful they were there to witness what is probably a confronting spectacle for western-conditioned people.

We sat and chatted and ate the food shared by Made’s family, and we watched. Towards the end I sat by myself near the pyre, and for a while his brothers Nyoman and Ketut joined me, as I stared into the flames.

To say it was surreal doesn’t even come close. I doubt there would be words in any language to describe how I felt through this.

When the fire had finished its job, there was, again, no funeral director to collect his ashes. I’ve never even thought about how that’s done in our society (does an automated machine do it, or the funeral staff?). We did it ourselves.

Gede, Putu, brothers and aunties and me. We sifted our fingers through his remains and gathered up the ashes and small pieces of bone. The cremains, as they’re called.

Made had invited me to many other ngaben ceremonies. In a large family and close community there always seems to be someone dying. Because I was still grieving Harley, and because I carry a rather nightmarish memory of the sickening smell of a burning dog that my ex-husband shot and put on a bonfire decades ago, I’d never been able to bring myself to go to one with him. I was sure I’d be frightened and nauseated beyond belief.

But on this day, again, all I can say is I was filled with love and reverence by doing this for him. These feelings came from beyond the depths of my heart. They came from the very essence of my soul.

The rituals continued.

We gathered all his cremains and put them into three bowls – for his head, his torso and lower body. Then Made’s youngest brother Ketut and Tante Rini gently poured holy water from yellow coconuts over the three bowls of cremains, to cleanse and bless them. We washed the dust off our hands in the oily spillage. More walking and circling followed as we carried the cremains to a special table in the temple.

While we did all this, people continued eating and drinking and chatting and laughing and smoking; it was, after all, a celebration. 

Another aunt carefully laid out Made’s cremains on a cloth on the table, in a small caricature shape of a body. I was stunned. At first I found this part of the rituals rather bizarre, but I quickly realised it was a beautiful way to gather his cremains from the pyre and prepare them for their final release. I placed more frangipani, cempaka, marigolds and perfume all over Made. People came up to put another small note of cash, symbolically, on the cremains. Finally, Cousin Komang gathered up the cloth, tied it securely and placed the bundle on my head.

I then carried Made, holding my hands firmly but gently over the softness of the bundle to balance it. Unlike Indonesian people I can’t carry anything on my head without holding onto it! More circling and praying at shrines, walking backwards and so on, before heading to the beach. So many small gestures and rituals which I don’t know the deeper meanings of. Hardly any of Made’s family speak English, so we often had to rely on my rudimentary Indonesian, hand gestures and, behind our Covid-19 masks, encouraging smiles, nods and soft, reassuring blinks.

Balinese Hindu people believe intersections are sacred spots, so we stopped at the main intersection in the village, where the pendeta was squatting in the middle of the street with more incense and offerings. Brothers and cousins stood on the road, stopping the traffic. Still holding Made on my head, I was guided to carry him in three circles around the pendeta as he chanted prayers. By doing this, we chased away evil and low-realm spirits and confused Made’s spirit enough so that it wouldn’t want to find its way back as a ghost, but would instead continue on the smooth and peaceful journey as a beautiful spirit to the highest realm.

At the beach we sat with the pendeta on the sand. Holy water was sprinkled and prayers were made on flowers.

Om om
om bhur bhuvah svah
tat savitur varenyam
bhargo devasya dhimahi
dhiyo yo nah prachodayat

Family asked if I wanted to hand him over, worried my clothes would get wet, and that I’d be uncomfortable going into the water. But there was no way could I let go of him at that point. I have issues with past loved ones’ ashes not being taken care of properly, and it was both a gift and felt imperative for me to complete my sacred duty and be the one to let Made go.

The body I had held and loved and sang and laughed with for five years, had been burnt down to this bundle. I guess similar to the urns in western countries that we carry, and sometimes keep, our loved ones in. But in Hindu tradition, we released them that day. With cousin Komang and brother Nyoman beside me, I waded into the water in my full length sarong and finally, when I couldn’t walk any deeper, Komang released the string on the bundle and Made was scattered into his beloved ocean.

My silent dry tears fell into the water and joined him there.

Afterwards, I was ushered back to Made’s house where the pendeta gave me a final, important cleansing blessing, to release me from pain and suffering, and in so doing, also help Made’s soul be free.

This ceremony and all its symbolism may seem odd to some of you. And it sure is another leap for me into a world of faith and spiritualism. And I know I will never have what I want – Made to still be alive – but having been able to sit with Made those days, and this cremation ceremony did help ease my shock and it softened my fall into the journey of grief. 

 

Some after-thoughts; a subject that we find hard to talk about

Even though I’ve been to various Hindu ceremonies with Made before, this was the first ngaben for me. And so it was sort of fascinating. But for everyone else there, children too, it was a familiar occasion. Every time someone dies, they all participate. Which means that everyone understands death. And everyone knows exactly what will happen to their own bodies when they die. They know they’ll never be alone. They know they’ll never lie in a funeral home, away from their own home. They know they won’t be pushed behind a screen and into a big commercial oven by a stranger, if they’re to be cremated. In fact, the thought of such possibilities wouldn’t even occur to them.

Taking a body away quickly, and perhaps not even seeing it again, is a violent, brutal act that we’ve normalised in our western world. I feel it can contribute to denial, lack of acceptance, disbelief and all of the other tragic components that make up our dreadful grief. 

I’ve since read of other cultures, and even people in our own cultures, who choose to keep a loved one beside them for days or longer. It gives them comfort and allows them more time to process.

A couple of months ago I watched a tv series called The Casketeers. It’s about a funeral company in New Zealand. It’s poignant, heart wrenching and ridiculously funny. I loved it, because it showed the love and care and attention the owners and staff put into each and every “client” that came into their care, and their grieving loved ones. And for many of their Maori, Samoan and Tongan clients, the families of the deceased stayed beside the coffin overnight, sometimes for many nights, and sang songs and held ceremonies, even in the funeral home.

I know we can no longer do everything ourselves in our cultures. And perhaps that is preferable for you. But from my experience with Made’s ngaben, and my earlier experiences, I feel strongly that next time someone I love dies, I will want things to go slow, if possible.

I will ask to keep them at home, or in their nursing-home room, or in the hospital room, for as long as it feels ok. If possible. If it can be done with dignity and grace. I know that I will take comfort in that. And I believe it will give their soul some time and peace.

I believe the soul stays close by for a while at least. There are so many accounts from diverse people all around the world who’ve had near death experiences, or who die in hospitals and are ‘brought back’, that support this belief. 

If it softens, even just a feather’s breath of a smidgen, the shock of death, then why not slow things down. Even when you know your loved one is going to die, like I did with my mother-in-law when she had cancer, it is still a shock and seems abrupt, when they do. My mother-in-law died in my home, as I was wiping her brow with a cool washer, and within an hour the undertakers we’d called came to the house and zipped her up in a black bag and took her away. Just like that. I wish we’d taken more time.

With Harley I had no choice. His body had been at the coroners for over a week, and had been embalmed and dressed at the funeral home. It was not an easy visit. To me his body looked unnatural, it neither felt nor looked like him. And even though the funeral director was kind and polite, it was very impersonal to me. I know in circumstances like that we may have no choice in the matter; but still, in Lombok and Bali, I’m told the family are still the ones that would look after their loved one’s body.

I also watched a series called The Last Word about a eulogist working for funeral home in Germany, which was a bit graphic at times. It made me question the need for embalming, so I googled it. Embalming is not a pretty process. Sometimes it’s necessary, if the body is being kept for a long time before a funeral, or if it’s being repatriated, or if injury to the body needs to be sensitively disguised. But from my reading, I understand that embalming is usually unnecessary, and is often done unnecessarily. It’s also not good for the environment (neither are cemeteries, burial plots and commercial cremations, but that’s another conversation). There are options of full embalming, partial embalming, and no embalming, and I feel that knowing this gives me a little more power to make appropriate choices in future. From the experience with Made, I know it isn’t always necessary; and if it is not, then it’s certainly not desirable.

I am so thankful for the gift of Made’s natural, simple ngaben ceremony. It was a beautiful and very personal way for us to show our respect, love and devotion to Made’s soul and the body that had carried it for just 49 short years.