The Workers of the Ghats

Families arrive crying.

They leave within hours, carrying grief and ash. But Ram Bahadur doesn't leave. He was here yesterday.

He'll be here tomorrow.

From the first pyre lit at dawn to the last ember cooling past midnight he stands in the smoke, doing the work no one wants to talk about. The ghat kattas of Pashupatinath manage every cremation along the Bagmati.

While mourners perform their rituals and go home, these men breathe the entire afternoon and the one before it, and the one before that. Hundreds of kilograms of firewood burn per body.

The smoke is dense.

The ash hangs low.

The PM₂.5 doesn't know that this place is sacred it enters lungs the same way it does near a brick kiln or a diesel engine. Ram coughs more than he used to.

He doesn't talk about it much.

There's no form to fill, no sick leave, no protective gear waiting by the steps.

Just the river, the fire, and the smoke that never really clears. The ritual is holy.

That's true.

But holiness has never filtered particulate matter. These workers carry our dead with dignity.

The least we owe them is clean air to breathe while they do it.