When I came to India, I never
been to a wedding nor a funeral. I was excited to go to an Indian wedding (and
fully expected to) and never really gave any thought to the possibility of going
to a funeral. Living in Banaras, a place where people come to die, I’d seen
funeral processions and bodies burning on the ghats, but it was not so sad
because I did not know those people. The only other time I can think of someone
who I knew who died was my friend’s mom in preschool. Even then, the only
memory of her that I have is at Sunday school she taught us the song that goes “I
see London. I see France. I see _______’s underpants!” and we thought it was hilarious.
I don’t remember finding out that she died, but I do remember asking my
parents, dressed all in black, if I could go to her funeral with them. When you’re
three, though, death doesn’t hit you the same way as when you’re older and can
understand it.
Stephen’s homestay father passed away early Monday morning. To say that
it was totally unexpected would be untrue. After all, he had been undergoing
dialysis treatment for some time and was so weak he could barely walk to the
bathroom from is bed. That being said, it also was very much a surprise. We hadn’t
really thought of death as something that could actually be an immediate result
of is sickness. Just last Thursday we were at their house for Stephen’s
birthday with him, singing songs, eating cake, and dancing (he sat in a chair
and looked on). We helped carry him up the stairs to his bedroom after the
party and said goodbye without giving it a second thought.
Most people found out via a text from Caleb-ji on Monday morning. I was showering
when Caleb sent the text and then didn’t check my phone when I got out and left
for the program house. When I walked in and Caleb told me the news, I didn’t
know what to feel. It was sort of a sad numbness. I didn’t know Mr. Sachdeva that
well, but of the people in our group I knew him best next to Stephen. He
volunteered at Nirman before he got sick and would joint teach the 6th
graders math with me. I had snacks and water at is house a few times and bonded
with him over the University of California Berkeley (where he received his
master’s degree and where my older brother studies now). It didn’t feel real when
Caleb told me. Ben P and Jenny were sitting quietly at the program house in a sort
of gloomy silence. We heard the plan for the day – no work, meeting at 11:15 at
Stephen’s house for a short ceremony, and then the boys would accompany the
procession to Manikarnika, the big burning ghat where open fire cremations take
place (girls are not supposed to go). More people trickled in to the program house
and joined us as we sat in a cloud of melancholy. In the kitchen Muni-ji (the
woman who cooks breakfast for us) was blasting cheery Bollywood music that was
eerily out of place, but none of us bothered to ask her to change it.
Upon finding out about Mr. Sachdeva’s death, many of us suddenly felt the
need to contact our family and make sure they were still okay. Death seems so
unreal sometimes. You sort of get double think knowing that you’re going to die
someday, but at the same time not actually expecting it to ever happen. When
someone does pass away, however, reality gives you a punch and all of the
sudden everyone becomes so mortal. It seems like anyone you know and love could
just be gone in an instant. The worst scenarios jump into your mind and you
just want the comfort of knowing that the people you love are still alright.
Hemant-ji showed up for our yoga class, but we told him to cancel. He sat
with us for hours, though, first talking about culturally what you’re supposed
to do when someone dies (since all of us were clueless on the matter) and then
about other things, occupying our minds so we would not have to dwell on the
sad news until eleven. At an Indian funeral you are supposed to wear brightly
colored or white clothing (anything dark is considered inauspicious). You bring
malas (flower garlands) to place on the body and once you arrive are not
supposed to leave until after the body as left the house on the procession to the
burning ghat. The procession consists of close friends and family members and
typically involves carrying the deceased, wrapped in colorful cloth and covered
in garlands, on a stretcher to one of the two burning ghats in Banaras,
Manikarnika (the bigger one closer to the old city) or Harishchandra (the
smaller one closer to Assi). During the procession the family/friends chant
“Ram nam satye hai!” (Ram’s name is truth – Ram is a warrior king in Hindu
mythology). After visiting the home with the dead body, Hindus believe that you
have become impure and must bathe/wash your clothes before touching anyone/thing
or going into the house. More of my thoughts on this practice in another blog.
As it got later in the morning, our group split up to change clothes, tell our host
families, etc. before coming to meet Stephen and is family at their house.
I didn’t expect to cry at the funeral. I’m not usually an extremely
emotional person and very few of even my close friends have seen me cry. But while
at Stephen’s house, I couldn’t stop the tears from creeping into my eyes and
falling down my cheeks. In fact, I started crying on the bike ride over as I
mentally prepared myself for the funeral. Sure, I wasn’t extremely close to Mr.
Sachdeva, but I still felt immense pain thinking about what his family must be going
through. Just thinking of my own father dying sent tears to my eyes and when I
put myself in Stephen’s host sister’s shoes I couldn’t help but cry in earnest.
When I arrived and saw Kushi and Pari (Stephen’s host nieces), I cried more
because they had just lost their wonderful grandfather. What sent me bawling, though,
was talking to Stephen’s host mom. I had visited her just on Wednesday to tell her
about Stephen’s surprise birthday party and even then she had cried at the thought
of Stephen leaving Banaras. Now, she was hysterical with grief, sobbing in garbled
Hindi and English, asking what she will do when Stephen leaves in a few weeks
and she will be all alone. To say it was an intense emotional experience would
be a vast understatement.
What was perhaps even more disconcerting for me, though, was seeing the
corpse. Only his head was visible (everything else was wrapped in colorful cloth
and malas) and while I was placing the garland over is legs I simultaneously
wanted to stare indefinitely at him and also shut my eyes and bolt out of the
room as fast as possible. You read in books that people look peaceful in death,
that they look like they’re just sleeping, but I did not find that to be the
case. He certainly did not look like someone peacefully sleeping. Something was
gone, was missing that made him now almost inhuman.
This funeral procession was a less traditional and orthodox than the
practices that Hemant-ji had explained to us. The body was taken to Manikarnika
Ghat in a hearse rather than carried by men on a stretcher and most people
traveled behind it in either cars or rickshaws. Even though in Hindu orthodoxy
it is believed that the soul cannot be properly released from the body unless
the funeral rites are performed by the eldest son, the funeral rites were
performed by Stephen’s host sister (Stephen’s host brother lives in America and
could not arrive in time for the funeral).
As weird as this might sound, I
feel like this has overall been a healthy growing experience for me. I still
fight back tears every time I write/edit this blog and think about what
happened. I still wish that he were here and I could ask him for tips on how to
manage the unruly sixth graders or talk to him about his days at Berkeley. But
I can also find some consolation in the knowledge that he is no longer in pain.
That he is in heaven or reincarnated into a body who will be taken care of and
loved by his family (following whichever faith). His passage (or expiration as
an Indian might say) has pushed me to really ponder life and death and made my
experience in India more grounded and whole. I can now say without a shadow of
a doubt that I have experienced some of the highest highs and lowest lows of my
life while here. Rest in peace, Ashok Sachdeva.
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