In April 2022, The Irish Times deputy foreign editor Dave McKechnie died unexpectedly. He was a highly valued colleague who left behind a rich journalistic legacy.
A gifted editor with a background in subediting, Dave was also an accomplished reporter and writer. As well as landmark reports from Colombia and Myanmar, he had a long track record in sports journalism. His work across all subjects showed considerable insight and flair and no little humour.
To commemorate his work, The Irish Times launched a journalism prize in his memory. The Irish Times Dave McKechnie Memorial Journalism Prize took the form of a writing competition.
The winner was Liz Cookman, who wrote a Kyiv Letter. The first runner-up was Ailbhe MacMahon with a Varanasi Letter, below. The second runner-up was Sorcha Lanigan, who wrote an Athlone Letter. Her piece will be published this week.
Time stands still for cremations on the banks of the Ganges
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I see the first corpse of my visit while I am sitting in a cafe.
The body, shrouded in saffron material and garlands of marigolds, is being moved by stretcher through the alleyway outside.
A group of men is heaving the stretcher towards the Ganges river, chanting in unison as they go.
It’s a jarring scene, but the staff in the cafe seem unperturbed. This is a routine sight in Varanasi, known to Hindus as India’s holiest city, with upwards of 100 bodies cremated every day out in the open by the riverside.
I have arrived at a time when India is making headlines worldwide for two separate events. Firstly, Hindu nationalist prime minister Narendra Modi and his Bharatiya Janata Party have lost their outright majority in the elections for the first time in 10 years. At the same time, a terrible heatwave has gripped the country. Temperatures in Varanasi are said to have climbed to 47 degrees, while a weather station in Delhi recorded 52.3 degrees.
[ Liz Cookman wins Dave McKechnie Memorial Journalism PrizeOpens in new window ]
One of the world’s oldest continuously lived-in cities, Varanasi has long been a pilgrimage site. Hindus come to bathe in the sacred waters of the Ganges, to cremate a loved one or to die in the city; it is believed that being cremated in Varanasi will unshackle a person from the cycle of rebirth.
I am staying in a small guest house in the old town, where the alleyways are too narrow for anything with more than two wheels to negotiate. These streets are a heady maze to walk through. Hand-painted signs for inns, music schools and yoga centres coat the walls. The air is hazy with incense and dust. Tinny radio music spills from behind closed doors. A cow headbutts me in the arm as it passes. Giant cow pats pattern the ground, joined by rust-coloured splatters of chewing tobacco spat out by street traders. Motorbikes, often carrying three people apiece, blare their horns as they whip around corners.
The alleyways eventually churn me out on the banks of the Ganges. Cremations take place on funeral pyres at the river’s “burning ghats”, the most auspicious of which is the Manikarnika Ghat. With the heatwave claiming lives across the country, the number of cremations taking place at Varanasi has risen.
Not all bodies are cremated – there are exceptions for pregnant women, children and people who die of snake bites, among others. Their bodies are instead weighted down and buried in the opaque waters of the Ganges.
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It feels like an invasion of privacy to watch a stranger’s cremation unfold, but respectful observation is welcome, I’m told.
By the brutal heat of the pyres, I join a group of onlookers and watch as a body is carried down to the Ganges, the deceased’s mouth filled with the river’s holy water. The colourful synthetic fabrics dressing the body are then removed, with simple white cloth left to shield the corpse. Once the body is placed atop a pyre, the blaze is lit by the deceased’s male relatives. Pungent smoke swirls in every direction.
It will take several hours for the body to burn, with the ashes then cast into the Ganges.
There’s something about the process that, in a small way, reminds me of an Irish wake; the catharsis of seeing a loved one for a final goodbye.
By the ghats I get speaking to a woman who is visiting from the state of Bihar. Every religion has its last rites, and these are Hinduism’s, she tells me. People come here to see the realities of life and death, she adds.
I see a stray dog sleeping soundly in the cast-off material from the bodies. Nearby, a cow eats one of the marigold garlands. At the water’s edge, men pan through the ashes for gold and silver – the remains of jewellery and gilded dental work.
At sunrise the next morning, I go on a boat ride along the Ganges. It’s 5.30am but temperatures are already in the high 30s. I ask the boat captain, Ashish, if the blistering work of open-air cremations is ever paused due to the intense heat.
He shakes his head. It never stops, it’s 24/7, he replies.
It is a time of flux in India. But, to an outsider, it seems that time stands still at Varanasi’s ghats, where time-honoured rituals are given the same reverence day in and day out.