In the New Year, I always find myself reflecting on past experiences and if they mean anything to me today. I am coming to the realization that many of life’s experiences that have come my way are just for me; to make me a better person, to help me think differently, and to let me view the world through a more creative lens. It is difficult to pass on those experiences and more, sometimes I wonder if it is necessary to pass on what I carry from those experiences. I am the person who experienced the event that changed me and molded me into who I am today and who I am becoming, so, maybe I need not worry about anyone else but myself.

However, some of those experiences are so profound and it is at this time of year that I want to remember those moments and reflect on them. One such experience of mine is encountering death in India. I’ve encountered death several times while in India (as I have already shared in my piece, Finding God in the Slums of Mumbai), but it wasn’t ugly—it was profound, it was moving, and it was noxious. It was overwhelming and it was candid. It was real.

I first encountered death in India in January of 2005. Walking on the Ghat in Varanasi, I stepped over a man I first thought to be sleeping. As I stepped over him, I noted his mouth agape and a hole in his wrist where bugs were crawling in and out of, as well as his stiff body, as rigor mortis had set in. I began to gag, hyper ventilate a little, and got a little dizzy. I had never seen this, obviously, in the United States or when I lived in Europe so, it was completely overwhelming. My Western frame of mind didn’t quite know how to process what I was witnessing that very moment and I wondered what to do. I was with a group of people, only one who also noted this dead man. I remember thinking, Who is this man? Where are his loved ones? Does anyone care that he is just lying there, dead? What will happen to him? Who will pick him up?

This was in Varanasi, the Hindu Holy City of India, where people come to literally die so they can be put on the funeral pyres, be set alight, and their ashes spread into the Ganges. Many times, people do not have the money or loved ones to do this for them, so they purposefully go to Varanasi and choose to die down on the Ghat with the hope that someone will give them a proper burial. It was in this realization, after stepping over that dead man and thinking about his life and where he came from, that my perspective on death changed. I wanted to bury that man the way I thought he should be buried. I wanted him to be surrounded by loved ones who cared that he had died. Yet it was in my desire for him that I realized that his desire was what I witnessed.  He wanted to be there at that moment in his life, in holiness and light. I can’t argue with that, because after all, it’s his life and experience, not mine.

The second time I encountered death in India was in July of 2006, also in Varanasi. It was about 6PM and I was on a rickshaw with my daughter, Katy, and my former husband, Andy. As we approached something in the road, our Rickshaw Walla veered around to the left, leaving the dead man lying there with a clear view to the right. Katy looked at me and said, “He was there this morning, but on the other side of the road.” Apparently shop keepers moved him from one side of the road to the other, so customers would not be kept away that day. It was over one-hundred degrees that day and this road was paved. I don’t think I need to give details, but imagine the worst, and that is what we saw.

Again, my mind raced. This death was different as it was not down by the Ghat, but in the middle of the road. This man was moved from one side of the road to the other because he was a burden, but no one, after a whole day in the blazing sun, cared enough to pick up his body and give him the respect he deserved as a fellow human being. As cars, bikes, rickshaws, motorcycles, people walking, and even the stray dogs veered around this man, part of my being screamed a little inside. I was just like the rest of them: I didn’t stop either, but only stared as his body past by, mouth open, mind reeling, eyes disbelieving. What do I do with this, I thought? And more, my daughter who at the time was sixteen, how is she processing this, I wondered? There is no explaining such a thing—it just is.

Many times when a loved one dies in Varanasi, the body is covered with gold lame’, draped in flowers, and family members and friends carry the body through the streets of the city, with drums playing while chanting and singing. As the body is carried down to the Ghat, the wait can be quite a while to actually cremate the deceased, so one can witness several bodies lined up waiting for their ultimate fate. Finally, the body is set ablaze and then once the body is gone, the ashes are distributed into the Ganges. This process is quite beautiful, actually, and celebratory, and external. One can watch this process from the very beginning if you choose, right down to getting on a boat on the Ganges to witness the very end. Sometimes the flames are so intense, you almost forget that you are viewing a body burning.

In contrast, my experiences with funerals here in the West are internal. We sit in a building, tell stories about the deceased, pray quietly, and not cry too loudly because we don’t want to upset anyone. In India, death is celebrated outwardly in recognizing the life of the deceased. In the West, death is directed inward and I can say there is no beauty in the deaths I have experienced here. I think this is my most valuable understanding of encountering death in India.

What else did I learn from these experiences? Honestly, I am still not sure. I can apply my western understanding of God in a way that explains my reaction, but does not help me understand a culture that I love, yet, in many places, struggles so much for every day survival, there’s no time to care about someone who has died that is not their relative. I understand that there are social issues involved here as well; a demographic issue, a Caste system that is said to not exist but does, and a society that is still in its developing phase. I understand this, yet, what I question is that in all that stuff—in all that demographic, developing world, mumbo-jumbo, we are all human, right? We are all deserving of dignity and grace and love throughout our lives, but especially in the end. Although I especially still think about the man in the street more than the man on the Ghat and wonder when they were both finally picked up and if and when their ashes were put into the Ganges, I respect Indian society—a society that is holy, reverent, and incredibly fascinating.

In the end, I now view death differently. I view it with deep reverence and positivity. I view it with questioning. I view it with heartfelt compassion. I view death as a celebration of life – death is life, full circle. I view it as a reality that we cannot escape. Death is not a choice, but in these experiences of mine, I see how we can choose to react to death in a different way—in a healthy way. Through a new and different lens, encountering death in India has helped me view death with life. How beautiful is that?

Image courtesy of www.wikimedia.org and can be found at http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a5/Bodies_waiting_for_Cremation_Burning_Ghats.jpg