The bier was carried by several men, and one bore sacred fire in an
earthenware pot. The body was then laid upon the pyre; every one walked
up and put a little water in the mouth of the corpse, just as we throw
dust on the coffin; they then piled more layers of wood on the body,
leaving it in the middle of the pile. Then the relatives, beginning
with the nearest, took burning brands to apply to the wood, and the
corpse was burned. The ashes and bones are thrown into the sea. It
was unpleasant, but not nearly so revolting to me as the vultures in
the Parsee burying-ground. All the mourners were Hindu except ourselves,
and they stayed and watched the corpse burning. Shortly the clothes
caught fire, and then the feet. After that we saw no more except a
great blaze, and smelt a smell of roasted flesh, which mingles with
the sandalwood perfume of Bombay. The Smashan, or burning-ground, is
dotted with these burning-places.
A very interesting visit for me was to the Pinjarpole, or hospital for
animals sick, maimed, and incurable. It was in the centre of the native
quarter of Bombay, and was founded forty years ago by Sir Jamsetji
Jijibhoy, who also left money for its support. I was told that the
animals here were neglected and starved; but we took them quite unawares,
and were delighted to find the contrary the case. There were old
bullocks here that had been tortured and had their tails wrung off,
which is the popular way in Bombay of making them go faster.
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