Marigold
The wake of a hundred
pairs of footsteps echoes in the dry heat.
Down the mountain
the mechanical chatter of cicadas and
a jungled canopy of branches fill the sky.
The lowing of a conch cuts through the air again
and again;
Down, down
Down the valley and across town
to the bank of a rocky river
where marigolds glint softly on a bed
of leaves
of wood
of smoke.
Down the river
A red saree floats in the turbid waters
Wet with memories.
Today marked the thirteenth and final day of observed mourning
for our Chettri family. An aunt-in-law who had been struggling with
brain cancer over the preceding months (muhaa, they called her)
succumbed to her death on October 12, 2023, at 6pm. Her name was Dil Kumari Adhikari.
She was 73.
Some days after my initial arrival, I met her for the first time. Muhaa had returned from a month-long stay in a hospital in Chitwan, where she was given an MRI and diagnosed with cancer. During this period we video chatted once or twice from the hospital, before I knew who she really was. Evidently invasive treatment was not on the table, so after the hospital she was brought home to be kept as comfortable as possible.
I did speak with her briefly in person -- we sat together one afternoon outside the house. My limited Nepali and her poor condition prevented us from discussing very much. She wasn’t able to walk on her own; but she rested and watched, and chatted with villagers who came around. She asked after me, made sure I was eating, and told me to come back and visit.
“What affection she had for you,” my family would say wistfully. Muhaa was known for her compassion – she raised my host father like a mother when he was young, and they were very close, which made her loss especially devastating. She was loved very much.
"Did you get to talk to her ... you know, before?" someone would ask me. "She talked to you, didn't she?"
"Yes, she did," I would say. I wished I had had the chance to know her better.
Her condition worsened over the course of a month and a half: she became bedridden, and her breathing labored. She required round-the-clock care. A portable oxygen tank was rented for times when breathing became difficult for her. After some time she depended on it. Then she labored to talk with the machine at full capacity. Then she labored to breathe. And later she stopped talking altogether.
The days leading up to her death were heavy with grief as the end of her life drew perceptibly close. Crowds
of family, friends and villagers visited every night to see her and pay their
respects. This had been true for the extent of her illness, but now her nursing room was constantly packed with circulating bodies.
The day she died I visited the house in the morning and spent some time with her. I was leaving for the day and wasn’t sure she would be alive when I got back. The room was uncharacteristically empty. Usually it was stuffed every night when I came around; but it was morning now, and today the children were at school; and others were busy with their daily and household chores across the village. So I sat quietly with muhaa and her daughter-in-law in the empty room. Bars of sunlight filtered obliquely through the window, the rhythmic wheezing of the oxygen tank filling the silence. There wasn't much to be said. I wept, and said goodbye.
Later I returned from my day in town. It was about 5pm. I took a quick bucket shower and had just finished changing when a piercing wail
from the cliffs below broke the still evening air. It was then we knew that muhaa
had died. And then that the 13 days of funeral rites began.
Death and ritual rites are highly variable among different
caste, religious and ethnic groups in Nepal. I won’t pretend to be an expert,
even for the rituals of my family, which is of Hindu religion and Chettri caste. The
rules and observances are intricate, even to the point where my youngest host
sister was sometimes unclear about them. (“Mom! Am I allowed to bathe today?”
she asked my host mother one morning. “Yes or no?” My host mother, ignoring
her, or distracted, didn’t answer.)
I am sure there are cultural and religious explanations for all of these observances – unfortunately, I don’t have the breadth of that understanding; filling in the blanks with research from Google somehow doesn’t feel right, either. So I can only speak to what I saw, understanding that what I observed is generally standard practice for Chhetri families with some variability here and there.
13 days of mourning
- As news of muhaa's death broke, family and villagers piled in through the night, grief-stricken. My two host sisters arrived from their city three hours away by private taxi. Muhaa’s body lay on the stone floor outside the house – some hours later a barrier of straw mats was erected around her, though people were still able to grieve and sit with her body.
- The funeral (cremation) was performed as soon as possible the next morning, at about 10am, with the guidance of a pandit, a Hindu priest (who is also dictated by caste – different castes have different caste pandits. In our case he was Brahmin, or baun). This occurred at the bank of a river where it is believed the spirit of the dead will be carried away by the current. Her body was carried down the mountain an hour by foot with a procession of about a hundred villagers, by my estimation; and was burned on a pyre of wood after some announcements and customary rites. After this was complete, refreshments were served – juice boxes, coconut pieces, biscuits, and apples.
- Muhaa's sons and daughters-in-law changed their clothes at the river and from this point on were untouchable for 13 days. They were dressed in simple shawls and blankets. Back at the house they had separate sleeping quarters on the floor and were forbidden to touch anyone, including their spouses and children, for 13 days. Their forbidden touch extended to objects that they touched – like the bedding of foam and straw that they slept on. If a single piece of straw touched you, you would be required to fast the next day. They were allowed to eat only plain rice in the morning and fruit in the evening for the duration of the observation.
- Muhaa's sons wore white and took their meals outside of the house in a makeshift shelter.
- Immediate family of the household (brothers, sisters and their children – this included my nuclear family) were forbidden to consume some foods like processed salt, meat, soybeans, onions, and garlic for 13 days. Nieces and nephews followed this restricted diet for 5 days.
- Male family members shaved their heads.
- Various rites and rituals were performed across the 13 days – I did not observe many, personally, and cannot speak to them well… but they were dictated by the pandit and generally involved smoke, incense, offerings, and prayer.
- Every night, food, tea, hot water, snacks, and fruit were offered freely by the house of muhaa’s family, with the help of other community members. An altar and posters of muhaa were erected for her memory. Villagers stopped by to spend time with each other and chat. They wrote their names down in a register and offered money or food. Usually a large group of men would be playing games and gambling in one corner of the house; in one of the rooms, kids would watch a romantic drama on television, or cricket. Women sat together on long straw mats talking about family news and complaining about the weather. It felt like a block party for the wrong occasion.
- On the 13th day, yellow tika (blessing given in the form of rice and mixed paste that is applied to the forehead) were given along with envelopes with small amounts of money. A large communal meal was prepared for all in attendance. This marked the end of the acute mourning period.
One year of mourning
- Muhaa's daughters-in-law (and perhaps sons as well) cannot drink milk or milk products for 35 days following her death.
- Extended family (I am not sure how extended this is, but includes my family) are not allowed to celebrate festivals and holidays, step foot in temples, or participate in communal worship (puja) for a year following her death.
- One-year death anniversaries are marked with another shraadh, and subsequent distribution of yellow tika and a communal meal. Shraadhs from then on are conducted every year after the death of a family member in their respect and memoriam.
Rest in peace Muhaa.
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