Peak death

IN HIS office behind Tokyo’s Aoyama cemetery, Yukihiro Masuda says that these days prospective clients are so much readier to talk about the end of life that he encourages them to try out his coffins. He gestures at one: a handsome model, lined with white satin, and decorated on the outside with superb red kimono cloth. Inside, with the lid closed, it is as acoustically dead as a recording studio, quite soporific and, for this overweight Westerner, at least, rather snug at the shoulders and hips.

Talking about death is still taboo for some Japanese—and in parts of the country the burakumin, an often ostracised group who are descendants of medieval outcasts, still fill a large share of jobs in the funeral business. But for many others the taboo is broken. A 2008 film, “Departures”, movingly depicted the beauty and dignity of nokan, the (Buddhist-derived) ritual cleansing ceremony for the recently deceased, carried out at home before laying the body in a coffin for cremation. The film’s success led to a wave of job applications to perform nokan. Not long after, the Weekly Asahi, a magazine, began promoting the idea of shukatsu, planning for the end of life, in the hope of interesting readers and attracting advertisers. And then the devastating tsunami of 2011 made many Japanese wonder openly: if I die, who will take care of my funeral, sort out my affairs and carry out my wishes?