The Inner Science of Last Rites: Asthi Saṅcayana, Jalāñjali, Piṇḍa-Dāna, and Kapāla-Kriyā
While we were reading the story, there was a point where Bharat told Ram, “Offer jalāñjali-dāna and perform piṇḍa-dāna for our father.” That brought up two questions: What exactly is jalāñjali-dāna, and what is piṇḍa-dāna? Last time a couple more questions also came up, and today we’ll address them all. I’d like to share a few things. Since jalāñjali-dāna and piṇḍa-dāna already appeared in the narrative, I’m adding one more rite alongside them: asthi-saṅcayana (gathering the ashes/bones). First I’ll lay these three rites out and explain what they truly mean. After that, the answers will reveal themselves.
When someone leaves the body—after death—many rites are performed. We can’t discuss them all here, but some we can. Collectively they’re called antyeṣṭi—the rites done after the body is left. Among them are three important ones: asthi-saṅcayana (collecting the remains), jalāñjali-dāna, and piṇḍa-dāna. These three matter a lot, so it’s essential to understand the science behind them. I believe there was a time when everyone knew that science. Over time, we lost touch. So let’s make a small effort to understand it.
Before we talk about the inner meaning behind these post-death rites, there are two key facts we must get straight:
First fact: Out of ignorance we assume that these rites—asthi-saṅcayana, jalāñjali, and piṇḍa-dāna—are performed for the person who has died, for that jīvātmā’s welfare on their onward journey. But that’s not the reality. In truth, no one—not even a son—can do anything for the spiritual welfare of the one who has left the body. The departing jīvātmā takes along only their own earned wealth—by which I mean not gross or even subtle material wealth, but the wealth of puṇya and pāpa (merit and demerit). That alone goes with them and bears fruit for them. As the Gītā says, uddharet ātmanātmānam…—each person must raise themselves; no one else can deliver liberation for another. With this in mind, our seers and sages, seeking our upliftment and deeper understanding, found a unique opportunity even in the death of a loved one. They knew that the wisdom which struggles to sink in when the mind is comfortable can enter more readily when the mind is in sorrow. They also knew that a bereavement is a powerful moment to see the futility of indulgence and to understand pleasure in its proper perspective.
I’m reminded of the Mahābhārata: after the war, when Kṛṣṇa came to Kuntī to take leave for Dvārakā, he said, “Ask me for a boon.” Kuntī asked for sorrow, because in sorrow she always remembered him. Our seers understood this: in times of grief, knowledge penetrates; in times of comfort, even great teachings don’t. So, when someone close dies, that moment becomes the best opportunity to offer the living—those in grief—a doorway to wisdom. Hence, the rites performed at such times are not for the departed. They’re for those who remain—the loved ones in mourning. That’s the first fact.
Second fact: We must correctly understand the scriptural word pitṛ (“ancestor”). We often hear “the dead become pitṛs,” and that rites are “for the pitṛs.” Because we misunderstood this term, many errors crept in. In truth, “pitṛs” represent our saṃskāras (karmic impressions), which are of three kinds: kriyamāṇa (formed by present actions), prārabdha (carried from the last birth), and sañcita (accumulated over many births). Puranic literature uses symbolic language: it associates kriyamāṇa with “father,” prārabdha with “grandfather,” and sañcita with “great-grandfather,” and so on—not to literally refer to those relatives, but to conceal and point to the layers of impressions. So whenever scriptures say “do this for the father, grandfather, great-grandfather,” they actually mean: work on present, activated past, and accumulated impressions.
Liberation is impossible without addressing these saṃskāras—i.e., without “redeeming the pitṛs.” With that in mind, our tradition prescribes asthi-saṅcayana, jalāñjali-dāna, and piṇḍa-dāna to help us rectify these three layers within.
Now to the rites:
1) Asthi-saṅcayana (collecting the remains)
We imagine that by gathering a loved one’s ashes/bones and immersing them in a river, we’re granting them a good afterlife. That thinking is our ignorance. Truly, the human being has three bodies: sthūla (gross), sūkṣma (subtle), and kāraṇa (causal). Only the gross body ends here; different faiths dignify its disposal in different ways—cremation, burial, offering to birds, etc. That’s fine and proper; it’s our duty to respectfully bid farewell to what we loved and were attached to. But the subtle and causal bodies do not end; they travel on with the jīvātmā and determine auspicious or inauspicious destinations.
Our thoughts, feelings, and perspectives make up the subtle body; repeated actions etch impressions into the depths of the mind, forming the causal body. These two are the real “wealth” that moves forward. Therefore, the rite of asthi-saṅcayana is actually a signal to the living: pay attention to what truly goes with you—your subtle and causal formations.
Even the word points to this. “Asthi” here is indicated as “asti”—that which is, being. The teaching is: collect what truly “is”—your real nature. In other words, asthi-saṅcayana means to recognize and gather yourself into your true Self—to know and abide as the ātman, not merely as the body. As long as we take ourselves to be the gross body, “I” and “mine” arise, leading to self-interest and, from there, to lust, anger, greed, attachment, pride, jealousy, liking and aversion. The meaningful “collection” is to return to who we really are and live from there. That is the real fulfillment of asthi-saṅcayana; the physical immersion is proper in a worldly sense, but the inner rite is to collect and abide in our true being.
2) Jalāñjali-dāna
In Ayodhyā Kāṇḍ, after Daśaratha’s cremation, Bharat offered jalāñjali, and later asked Rām to do so as well. The question was: if jalāñjali has already been offered once, why again?
Jalāñjali-dāna is often taken to mean “taking water in cupped hands and offering it to the one who departed.” But again, the deeper purpose isn’t for the departed—it is a teaching for the living. Break the word down: jala (water) also symbolizes consciousness and karma; añjali is a small cupped handful; dāna means to give. What is to be given? Not a gross or subtle thing, but our attention/awareness—our cetanā.
So jalāñjali-dāna means: give a little of your attentive consciousness to your own actions. Turn your awareness toward how you act. Do your actions in the spirit of non-doership, without ego, and without attachment. When you bring this small, deliberate attention to present actions, the freshly-formed kriyamāṇa saṃskāras can be quickly resolved—just as a fresh stain washes out easily, while an old one clings.
Thus jalāñjali-dāna is the ordinance for the redemption of present-moment impressions: act, but knowingly, without ego or attachment. The Gītā’s karma-yoga and jñāna–karma-yoga chapters teach precisely this. So when you perform the external rite, hold the inner meaning: jalāñjali is for your own kriyamāṇa saṃskāras, not for the one who has passed on.
3) Piṇḍa-dāna
Piṇḍa-dāna is also done after death. People say: make a ball from what we ourselves eat and offer it to the pitṛs; it will surely reach them. This statement is true—when we understand its depth. As we’ve seen, pitṛs here are our saṃskāras, not our deceased relatives.
The “food” in piṇḍa-dāna is not gross food. It is the “food” of knowledge (jñāna), action (karma), and devotion (bhakti) that we take in each day.
To “eat” knowledge means to absorb it. But scattered bits of understanding must be made solid—that is the piṇḍa (a compact, coherent lump). The solid form of knowledge is: I am the Self, not the body; and others too are of the nature of Self. When understanding condenses into this living vision, knowledge has become piṇḍa.
For karma, the solid form is: perform action without attachment, without ego, and in the spirit of non-doership.
For bhakti, the solid form is: love and surrender to the Divine—i.e., to existence itself—accepting whatever comes as right as it is, and holding a loving attitude toward all.
When knowledge, action, and devotion take on this solid form, that “food” surely reaches our prārabdha and sañcita saṃskāras. Like roasting seeds so they won’t sprout again, this “piṇḍa” satisfies, pacifies, and ultimately burns out those impressions that obstruct liberation. Our own impressions are the true obstacles; they keep surfacing from the depths and agitate the mind. Piṇḍa-dāna, rightly understood and lived, opens the path to freedom.
Kapāla-kriyā
Another question was about kapāla-kriyā. It is done earlier, before the three rites we just discussed. Let’s understand kapāla. Dictionaries give two derivations:
ka + pāla: ka meaning joy, pāla meaning to nourish—that which nourishes joy.
kam + la: kam meaning vibration, la meaning to bring—that which brings vibration.
Both suggest the mind. When we turn Godward, the mind nurtures that joy; when we turn toward indulgence, the mind brings restlessness. Hence, mana eva manuṣyāṇāṁ kāraṇam bandha–mokṣayoḥ: the mind is the cause of bondage and liberation both.
So kapāla-kriyā is a signal: the gross body is gone—now first tend to the mind. Choose to orient it toward God, not toward indulgence. In the physical rite, because the mind isn’t a tangible organ, the skull is touched or broken so that it too is consumed like the rest of the body. That outer act points inward: attend to the mind.
Why can many people offer jalāñjali?
Another question: if one son has already offered jalāñjali, why should another do it? Because the benefit lies with the doer. If there are several sons—or any loved ones—they all can and should take that benefit. Scriptures emphasize the son simply because tradition granted him a special role, but the inner purpose remains: the living should use the moment to work on their own saṃskāras.
The coconut (nāriyala)
Why is the coconut used everywhere? The coconut mirrors our structure. Its hard outer shell is like the gross body, the soft kernel like the subtle body (our thoughts, feelings, outlook), and the water inside like the Self. That’s why it’s offered—it represents us.