Culture full of color
By Devanie Andre
I crouched on the uneven surface of the cremation grounds in Titram, engulfed by the smoke of the recently lit pyre. My stomach felt queasy, my throat began to itch and there was a slight burn in my dry eyes. I clutched the camera tightly as I attempted to find the correct settings on the Canon Rebel without letting moments slip past unphotographed. I felt intrusive, photographing the cremation rituals of a woman I had never met and surrounded by a village of men I didn’t know. I didn’t quite know what my emotions were, let alone what they should be.
A few months prior I walked alongside my volleyball teammates as we entered a church that hosted a funeral for one of my teammates' 26-year-old brother. I watched as my teammate’s family clutched each other, attempting to understand their sudden loss. Three years ago I sat in the front pew of an old beige church attending my own grandma’s funeral. At 63 years old, she had unexpectedly passed on a cold November morning from a stroke. These funerals felt cold and the singing was somber as we focused on what was lost and less on the life that had been lived.
Jan. 13 in Titram, the funeral felt vastly different. There were still tears and some crying for the death of a loved one, but there was a sense of closure lingering in the fog. The funeral celebrated the passing of a woman who had lived into her 90s. Her death had been expected. The cremation ended quickly, seeming like a routine more than a ritual for the family members and villagers in attendance. The pyre went up in flames and heavy, dark gray smoke poured out. Within a few minutes, the men who had been once gathered around the strategically-built pyre of dried manure patties, wood planks and bundles of hay disappeared down the exceptionally foggy path back to the house filled with singing women. The singing would carry on throughout the next few days of rituals and celebration.
A few days later back in Titram, I slipped my shoes off and joined a large group of women on thin, stiff mats separating us from the cold, wet brick flooring of the dead woman’s courtyard. It was the final day of the funeral celebrations as well as my final day in India. Emotions were already high and my heart was heavy. The women chattered and smiled, as they felt honored that a group of random Minnesotan college students wanted to join them. They began to sing, and I began to cry. For them it was a happy moment, and for me it was a mix of happiness, confusion and an overwhelming flood of love. For an entire month, I was happy to share precious moments with strangers who constantly welcomed us into their homes and lives. Many refuse to let us leave without numerous cups of chai, blessings and new stories. Even throughout the difficult moments in India, I was immersed in a culture full of color, hospitality, vibrant people and joy that consistently prompted me to focus on the beautiful lives we were living.