Morning Vigil and Send Off

I wish to speak about the photographs that were taken at the aftershock of Grace’s leaving, or the compendium of being that was Grace leaving her shell behind, like any other creature of life’s great ocean.—But I should say the pictures come the morning after the vigil, and after Mathan Lal helped give Grace a bath and after Mathan, Mary and Rajkumar kept the main vigil around Grace as you see in these first photos where she is in her bed surrounded by our landlord Shanmugam’s precious dahlias and roses. Dr Kollie came and checked her. I gave up working on messages around 2 a.m. when I sat up sort of meditating on all the teas, as well, and sleeping somehow I guess a an hour. Balu kipped a bit on the sofa, Wellington and Raj camped out upstairs as did all the girls around Mum, the ones especially who were with her when she died; Mary sitting up on Mum’s bed beside her all night. I have to say, life long atheist, inkling to Buddhism, Grace was like some saint with flowers around her … and so we kept vigil and Rajkumar, hope he doesn’t mind me saying so, got drunk which was indeed a libation-oblation to Mum, and cried copiously, and took a bath at four or five and helped Mary and the others bathe her and set her out in the coffin outdoors in the carport where you can see in the photos people arriving at six. After some time as the arrangements to take her down heated up I took a series of pictures of their blessings through the incense … by Mary and others close to Mum. The atmosphere was loaded with a great deal of loving energy.

We had to find an experienced driver to negotiate the forest road and Murugesh and Rajendran my workshop mechanic and others were really helpful in organizing vehicles and the driver Ganesha who was Grace’s charioteer. Going with Grace in the decorated Ambulance (no hearses yet in India that I have seen) Rajkumar, Mary’s husband Michael, and Rajkumar’s nephew Prakash (who is seen in the pictures carrying Grace through the woods) while the ladies and gents processed behind—and it was accepted that I took pictures—down to the main road below our house. I went with Ambassador Murugesan who, you can see in one shot, has a Mercedes insignia on his bonnet, as we drove into Pudukottai Maharaja’s gate to reconnoiter for a hike to the burial place.

Grace’s wish was to have an apple tree planted over her. Amazing luck that I can even think about fulfilling it, and she also wanted to be taken out sitting up which I been unable to accommodate, with drunken dancing on before, all in funerals she had witnessed in south India. But all the same, she went with flowers, and in nature. There was never a sense of gloom around, through some ladies wept freely—early during the wake when Balu’s kids were around the four of them played with each other and posed for photographs as if nothing particularly sad or bad was happening; Grace would like this too, I thought, this normal feeling of relaxed chaos around the house along with whatsoever prayers and incantations and expressions of love were being made.

In Tamil Nadu in most communities only the men go to the actual “funeral” … horrible sounding word, and I find myself repulsed by it, some other expression?—Send off?—Anyway, the men are expected to do this, and I didn’t mind one way or the other, when Radhika who wanted to follow us, agreed that everyone could attend a gathering on the farm after the sixteenth day or 22nd day, because anyway even if a lot of people had wanted to come to the site, it was a bit forbidding after the rains. And so we plan to go there after a suitable duration of time when I shave my head at Poombarai temple and return to sprinkle milk over the grave.

Her send off was beautifully choreographed by our household and friends, with electrician-plumber and handy man Ramalingam in the lead with a muffler wrapped around his head and his poly-jacket taking over duties as a priest. It was he who organized the sacraments of our dhotis and washing in the river, filling the clay pots (which had to be somehow acquired on a Saturday at seven in the morning) and organizing the staff you see me carrying (through my neighbor Mr Karrupan’s land) with burning embers, don’t ask me why.

The people in the foreground lifting Grace are Mathan Lal, Prakash, in the back are neighbor Mani our mason Rajendran, Rajkumar with a handkerchief tied around his head, and Kamakshi’s son Murugan and others whose identities I shall ascertain, but all friends, family and community who know about such things, especially in crossing the slippery river bed.

We are headed to the site we picked called a samādhi where we are putting Mum’s body—I know the photographs look like I am leading the procession through the trees and fields but I am not, I am doing exactly what I am told to do by Ramalingam, and barefoot … with leeches, no, not really… they must be right in the vibe … though another processioner picked up some.

What looks like a wide road is the stone riverbed we are cautiously crossing for slippery algae under the flowing water. I applaud these guys and take it as one more oneness of the oneness in the people around us who really show pluck and how much they care about Mum.

John had done an excellent job making the way passable and the site ready. We had all classes of people around who had this in common, this recognition of the rites associated with a death, since the common usage in Dravidian culture is burial not cremation. I was able to fulfill Mum’s wish as close as possible, even though apples do not come very well down there, pomegranates and loquats do, and I intend fully to plant a grove around her “last resting place”, though I expect her influence and light will be around for some time.

Michael and others set candles, and Ramalingam poured ritual water on the grave from one of the clay pots from the nearby river. Aftab read a wonderful text by Rumi which I will transcribe.

You’ll see my job was to walk around the grave three times, with dear ones following, each time a crack on the pot was made by “priest” Ramalingam following behind me so that some water trickled along my side. I must say, Ramalingam was very skilful cracking a hole and only breaking the pot completely at the end, the third round culminating in a final smash with the water flowing away from me miraculously somehow. My out held palm and splayed fingers in the last shot of the circumambulation indicate the empty space of the pot. Thanks to Adam’s friend Raja and Prakash for these pictures.  

Lots of flowers, and stones to keep out wild animals, and a headstone shaped serendipitously, the selection, I thought like an upright triangle, a Buddha stone, or Kali. After a day or two John covered the grave in raspberry brambles and began work on a dry retaining wall on the terrace below. I thought of having a photo of her put on a ceramic tile. We do not intend a western style gravestone as in Shiva’s blog, something more colorful, less grim perhaps.

I need to include a picture of Grace’s view, even though on this Saturday morning when we put her in the ground there was a delicate rain, never off-putting, gentle, merciful, from a cool grey cloud in a long low curtain completely covering the view of the mountain walls of valley to the west of her, but still this in itself was a Rothko-esque view, or darśana.

After the clay pot was broken from behind and without looking back and with help from Ramalingam I plunged the incense stick I had in my hand into the grave. You try and stick incense in a mound of earth from behind you, it is not actually easy to do, but I did everything else rather well, I thought, and was back in my old capacity in Performance Art, though this time for real, really real.

A white dhoti was placed over my head (which should have been shaved but isn’t, yet) and I was handed the aruval or machete which broke the pot. I don’t know what it means but it was perfect.

We had people of all persuasions with us on very short notice. But I was gratified to realize that we were a mix of Muslim, Hindu, Christian, Socialists, uncertified Buddhists and other unassociated non-dualists.

As I say many people here wait a few days to allow relatives to gather, thus the refrigerated Lucite box. We were not able to notify many more people who would have liked to attend, but I do not think Grace would have wanted a huge shebang. It was perfect as it was. Hindi Pandit appeared purely by way of paying us a visit on Friday and was able to say a prayer in Sanskrit over Grace’s body. Padmani too was here on the afternoon of Grace’s death. We were all having cups of tea. I think I was the only one to eat something that night, some chickpeas and greens. The next morning Arogyaswami an old friend from the seventies and Rayan were not able to see her body, but came to the house with flowers and paid their respects.

It was seeing this little shrine to her that made me realize I have a ancestor god here.