It was in Marseille’s hot and lively streets that I received the news, the message of my grandmother's peaceful passage. She had always been frail and old, and sad. “I am just like you saw me the last time, except that I can’t walk anymore”, were her last words to me when I had asked how she was doing earlier this year.
Her yearning for unity transcended distance, beckoning me from the gusto of Marseille to the silent haven of Balangir, a hidden town, nestled in the heart of western Odisha, India.
“We’ve booked a ticket to go tomorrow. We’ll be there when you arrive in Delhi”, my mother said in a hurried voice from her home in suburban Delhi. My parents didn’t have the time to mourn yet, they had to catch a flight early in the morning the next day.
About a week later, my impending journey became a pilgrimage of the soul. In Marseille, where the ancient cathedrals stoically witnessed the fleeting dance of human endeavours, the city's rhythm echoed the transient nature of existence. “She must be relieved now, wherever she is. Her pain is no more”, a friend reassured. I agreed.
Balangir unfolded like a serene hymn to eternity, where time flowed gently, whispering forgotten tales through the rustling leaves of mango trees. The contrast echoed within. It was more than the juxtaposition of two landscapes; it mirrored the duality of life itself—the ephemeral against the eternal, the bustling motion against serene stillness. Amidst this contrast, the realisation dawned that death was not an end but a transition—a spiritual transcendence from one realm to another.
By the time I arrived at my grandmother’s house, no one there seemed to care about her death anymore. No palpable ripple marked my grandmother's passing. The town, seemingly indifferent, continued its gentle rhythm, unperturbed by the departure of one of its own. Her absence seemed swallowed. The townsfolk moved in quiet oblivion, unaware or unacknowledging of the soul that had embarked on its new journey.
The absence of communal mourning had become an unspoken dissonance. No sombre gatherings, no whispered condolences—just the gentle hum of daily life carrying on. It was a silence that spoke volumes, a profound contrast to the outward displays of grief witnessed elsewhere. It's almost as if the town itself absorbed my grandmother's departure into its own rhythm, embracing her transition as part of the natural order.
A few days later, as my cousin and I rode our scooter to the market in Balangir, we stumbled upon a sight that shattered my soul. A woman, a neighbour of my late grandmother, lay lifeless on the road, her body gruesomely disfigured from a likely collision with a drunk truck driver. The air reeked of tragedy; the road bore the scars of a life brutally cut short.
This gruesome spectacle tore at my heart. The townsfolk's reaction bewildered me—it was as though her death was inconsequential. I overheard someone remark, "She is so lucky that she died today, it's Ekadashi!" Ekadashi, the 11th day of the waning phase of the moon in a lunar month, brought with it the untimely death of the oblivious neighbour.
The belief that departing on Ekadashi might elevate one's soul to a more auspicious afterlife had blinded the people to the brutality of the accident itself. It obscured the importance of addressing the circumstances leading to her death. The focus shifted from acknowledging the crime to viewing her passing as a fortunate occurrence, nay, a celebration, merely due to the day on which it happened.
This ugly superstition acted as a lens through which the community processed the tragedy, potentially inhibiting a deeper examination of the negligence and criminality involved. The crime became overshadowed by the perceived spiritual significance of the timing, blurring the lines between acknowledging a wrongful death and attributing it solely to a divine plan.
Tears flowed down my cheeks uncontrollably that night; it wasn't just her death that pierced me but the utter disrespect surrounding it. The callousness, the nonchalance, shattered the sanctity I once associated with this town. It had all gone away with the passing of my grandmother. The contrast between reverence for spirituality and the disregard for this woman's passing struck me deeply. Spirituality had felt timeless, until this incident blurred its purity.
This encounter challenged my understanding of death as a spiritual transition. Was it truly a release from pain and suffering, or had the essence of spirituality been lost in this apathetic response?
It's a paradox where I honour the commitment to faith while grappling with the moments when that same faith seems to serve as a barrier to questioning or evolving beyond certain cultural norms or practices. In this erstwhile spiritual haven, I find myself questioning the intricacies of spirituality, the sanctity of life, and the complex interplay between mortality and the town's response to death.