As the horrific year came to an end and we look forward to welcoming the New Year; my mind somewhat moribundly goes to the year that my father died. If I were to examine my conscience, a la Freudian style, I would probably link it to the grim, almost constant reminder of death we saw this last year and the promise of the after (pandemic) life. I remember the sense of bewilderment, desolation, and intense grief that I felt when I saw my father’s
body in the morgue of the hospital. This was followed by the sense of relief that his suffering had ended and that he was indeed in a better place. I am not religious (rather, I border on being agnostic).
Yet, I am inexplicably drawn by the rituals performed after death. For life to be celebrated, death must be accepted as part of the circle of life. The rituals following death are made for the living- to allow for grief. I remember with such clarity the mixed emotions: the sense of peace and purity in the maelstrom of grief and desolation. Following my father’s cremation, we traveled to Wayanad – a beautiful, lush, and mountainous part of Kerala where the last rites were performed. Driving for hours on windy, mountainous roads, we reached
the temple. After the traditional bath in the temple pond and offering prayers at the deeparadhana - the traditional ceremonial lighting of the lamps.
We began the rituals at dawn on the following morn. The trek from the temple to the stream seemed long in my memory. We followed the priest to the middle of the ‘sacred’ stream, gingerly stepping on the river stones to the middle of the stream, where he sat on a large rock and my family on smaller ones near him. He unpacked a little bundle of offerings and placed them on a boulder, and began the rituals of purification and praying for the soul using the river water. I remember watching as the tiny raft of flowers on a leaf began its journey on the stream. What I remember a decade later is the sense of peace. The sounds of the forest, the birds, and the burble of the brook in harmony with the Vedic mantras chanted by the priest. The sense of grief lives on – but the beauty of the ritual helps with the containment and brings hope.
I would like to do the same with 2020. In my mind’s eye- I remove the grim reminders of 2020 while paying homage to those who have worked tirelessly, those who lost loved ones, and those who have and are experiencing such grief and loss due to the pandemic. The journey is not over but the sounds of the forest and the chants provide a glimmer of salvation for the grief.