ABDF

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Hi everybody!

I’ve been very busy with Claire, visiting people, accepting invitations for meals, and so forth. It’s wonderful having her here. It’s been great seeing the changes (or sometimes lack of them) through her eyes; she hasn’t been here since the tsunami days. Also it’s great having someone to talk to who has the same cultural perspective. Makes it much easier to let your hair down and relax.

I’ve been asked if I get lonely here, being the only Westerner around. The answer is that no, I’m not. I have a lot of friends, and someone is always stopping by, or if I want company I just call someone. In fact, I like my alone/down time, and it can be very hard to get! But I do find that with virtually everyone, except Izzadeen, I have to explain everything all the time. That can make it very tiring. With Claire, I can take communication shortcuts, or make cultural references, and she understands what I’m saying. That is very nice.

In my last dispatch I mentioned the death of the father of my friend Murali. I promised a description of the funeral. Hindu funerals are very different than those we have in the West. Each village has its variation of tradition, and Sittandy, Murali’s home town, is considered exceptionally traditional. So I can’t say that what I’m going to describe is true for all Hindu funerals everywhere. But I suspect the basic outline holds true.

We first went to Murali’s family’s house; Murali himself lives in a small house in Batti. I have mentioned before the tradition of sitting at the house of a family that has recently lost someone. That begins the day the body is brought to the house. The SFS folks had rented a van for the day, as Sittandy is about 20 km north of Batti, and they, their families, and Claire and I squeezed into it. When we arrived at the house, there was already a huge gathering of folks sitting, and the chairs were starting to spill out into the street. Temporary awnings covered the whole scene, to protect the sitters from the fierce sun. Strings of white streamers filled the front yard, and were also hung across the street.

A part of the front porch had been sectioned off with a long strip of cloth that looked like a sari, but probably wasn’t. Within this section lay the body, and at the head sat the grieving family. The body had been laid on a table, and was wrapped in cloth so only the head was visible. It rested on a small pillow, and was entirely surrounded, almost buried, with flowers, so much so that the face looked tiny and you only noticed the flowers at first.

When we first entered, we all paid our respects, both to the departed, and to his family. Then we found some chairs and sat. There was a keening in the air, which occasionally rose and fell. Additionally, there was a drummer who would periodically bang a drum to remind the village of the death. The drum was incredibly loud and, frankly, unpleasant, which I think is the point. At any rate, we all jumped out of our seats the first time we heard it. In one corner there was a microphone and loudspeaker; men were giving little speeches, tributes to the newly departed, I was told.

Murali’s family had been instrumental in the running of an orphanage in town; the Illam, as everyone calls it, and the SFS had been helping Murali’s father make the place sustainable. In fact Murali’s father spent much of his time and energy with the boys of the orphanage, and was very much a father to them. So part of the funeral involved a procession to the orphanage, which is only a kilometer or so from the house.

There was much wailing as the body was lifted up and taken through the house to the waiting vehicle for the drive to the Illam. I don’t know exactly what was happening in the house as the body was taken through, although I do know it was placed in a flimsy red and gold coffin (there is a reason why a sturdy coffin wasn’t used, as I will explain later.) Both men and women were wailing, keening, and crying out. It made the hair on my neck and arms stand on end, and both Claire and I later found it difficult to describe the sound. We just aren’t used to such a public display of wild grief.

However, that was nothing compared to what we heard at the Illam. The body was taken into the main hall of the main building, and those villagers that hadn’t gone to the family house all came and filed by the body. For two hours, there was weeping and lamentation coming from the hall, while many of us, who had already paid our respects, sat outside and listened.

Particularly difficult (such an understatement!) to listen to was the crying of the boys of the orphanage. As I said, Murali’s dad was the only father figure, the only stability many of them had had for their entire lives. Now, suddenly the rug is pulled out from under them. At least emotionally, everything for them became uncertain. You can well imagine why they were – and still are - so upset and frightened. Some of the kids were absolutely inconsolable, and had to be helped out, when the body was taken from the Illam and put aboard the vehicle to go to the cemetery.

Thus we formed into a grand procession and walked along the main road to the cemetery. In front of all drove a tuk-tuk with a loudspeaker, and funeral music was played.

At the head of the procession proper, walked Murali, as eldest son. He was shirtless, wearing only a traditional white sarong with gold embroidered hem. There was a string crossing his torso from the left shoulder, and on his right shoulder he carried a clay pot with a white cloth tied across the mouth. I’ll explain that in a minute.

Following came some of the boys from the Illam, baring the flowers and funeral wreaths. Then the truck with the coffin. The rest of us followed immediately behind. The procession was solemn, slow, and very moving. It was odd to be part of this, and walk along the main road past the army patrols, the soldiers of which stared as we walked by. Also, there were no women.

Hindu tradition, at least in Sittandy, has it that women do not go into cemeteries, or rather they only go as bodies. The oldest son performs the funerary rites, as I’ll describe, and then immediately departs. I was told that this is seen as a reflection on life. Women and wives are the home, and so they separate from their dearly departed at the front gate. The sons are the result of the marriage, and so symbolically carry the parent to their final resting place. But the actual disposal of the body, the cremation, is done without family around; because, I was told, we all have to go to the Beyond alone.

So it was just us gents in the funeral procession with Murali in front, clay pot still on his shoulder.

The cemetery itself has few tombstones; most people burn their dead if they can afford it. I was surprised at how small the pyre was; there were six upright posts forming a rectangle about the size of a double bed. Wood was piled underneath to about waist high. We gathered in a circle around the pyre, and the coffin was led around it three times, with Murali in the lead. It was then lowed onto the wood, and the top section opened, revealing the face. The village men gathered around, and symbolically fed rice to the body, as a final thank you for all the service done to them by the man. The boys from the Illam, continued their sobbing, and the coffin was closed back up. Coconuts were broken and placed atop, and more wood added. On top of all, the Murali’s mothers’ wedding sari was unfurled and briefly placed atop. It was later given to the man who tends the pyre, as partial payment for his services; another Hindu tradition.

Then Murali performed what is called the water ceremony. A man took a machete, and punctured a small hole in the clay pot, still on Murali’s shoulder. Murmuring prayers, he circled the pyre as water trickled out. Then a second hole was made, and he circled a second time. Then a third. After the third trip around the pyre, Murali stood with his back to the pyre, and the remaining water drained out. When the pot was empty, Murali dropped it off his shoulder, shattering it. Then, without looking back, he walked out of the cemetery as torches were placed into the wood. Most of us followed him back to the house where the women were waiting. We had sodas, and then piled into the van to go back to Batti. The villagers mostly remained sitting, and would remain sitting for much of the next week, as I’ve described in an earlier dispatch.

I was told that it takes two days for everything to burn completely. The bones fragments are then taken up in an urn. They are then taken to the sea, and scattered. This happened yesterday morning, Monday.

Tomorrow, Wednesday, the SFS folks, Claire, and I will be cooking the lunch for the 8th day. You will recall from that earlier dispatch that we did the same for Prabha when his father-in-law died. Again, the sitting will continue until 31 days go by.

In the meantime life goes as on normal for the rest of us. Like I said, I’ve been busy with Claire, visiting and eating and showing her some of my work.

On Saturday she tried unsuccessfully to visit the girls’ orphanage in Palugamum, where she and her cousin Fiona had done a lot of work back in the day. Palugamum is in the former-held LTTE interior, and I have never been able to get through that particular checkpoint. We had hoped that a smiling, oh-so pretty foreign gal might be let through, but the Military Intelligence officer in charge of the checkpoint was adamant. No foreigners allowed. Claire is deeply disappointed; visiting the girls was to have been the highlight of her trip.

I don’t think she would have been allowed through anyway, but the excuse was an attack on a TMVP office earlier that morning. Initially we heard that it was the Palugamum office. Later we heard it was up near Kiren, on the opposite side of the District. Then we heard Kaluwanchikudy, then we heard somewhere near Earavur. The only thing these rumors had in agreement was that two TMVP fighters had been killed and many injured. The LTTE is being blamed, although it isn’t that simple. There is a lot of in-fighting between the two TMVP factions and I suppose it could also have been one attacking the other. It’s happened before.

I mentioned the hartal last week and the trigger for it, which was these two guys from Arriampathy vanishing. So far no bodies have been found, contrary to rumor. However, there continue to be provocations against the Kattakudy Muslims, which the Arriampathy TMVP still blames for the disappearances, despite all the evidence to the contrary. But the then Arriampathy TMVP is virulently anti-Muslim and is looking for any excuse to cause trouble. At least that’s the general consensus among both Muslims and Tamils. So far the Muslims have not responded, thanks largely to the Kattankudy Mosque Federation, which has kept the lid on any retaliation. But it continues.

Yesterday evening there was a bomb blast in a shop on the main road through Kattankudy. Claire and I could hear sirens crossing the Kallady Bridge, which is not far from my house. We wondered what the commotion was, and then got the news. I belong to an informal security phone tree run by the United Nations. When something happens in the District that could affect us, it is broadcast via text messaging. That’s how I find out all these things.

So on top of all that I have to re-arrange my flight home. SriLankan Airlines is always changing their flight schedule. It’s caused me disruption in the past, and now it has again. So I will be arriving home a day or two later, but worst of all my layover in London is going to be 14 hours! I’m not sure what to do; should I go to town and get a room to sleep, or try for a place at the airport, and pay double. Well, I still have to get the new flight info before I make a definite plan. Claire, who knows Heathrow well, will help me find accommodation online if that’s what I decide.

Claire and I just had a visit from Batshala and Pushpakaran, two of the Synergy staff. Batshala brought me a jar of home made curd. She knows I love the stuff and lately it’s been difficult to find. YUM! Thanks Batshala!!!!!!!!! Also, she lives in Arriampathy, on the other side of Kattankudy, and takes the bus through to get to the Synergy office. She says all is normal in Kattankudy. I assume the Mosque Federation is still managing to keep people calm. Thank God, or in their case, Allah.

Ah well, anyways, that’s it for now.

xoxoxoxoxoxo

B.