(Sidenotes) on Dealing with Death

Last Thursday at 7 PM: I am told that the grandfather of the family who I am staying with, unfortunately, died.

“Aw [expletive],” I thought (or said aloud) “this sucks.” Immediately I was overwhelmed with grief for the 26 year old who had lost her grandfather and secondarily I was concerned for my future position in the home-stay. Or maybe it was the other way around? (Semantics!)

I arrived home late that night in hopes of leaving the family to grieve without that girl standing over their shoulders wanting tea, or something. Relatively unnoticed I slipped into my bedroom. Fine, I would deal with it in the morning. (Apparent Success.)

Not so, Nutan (my home-stay sister) came into my room shortly after my “stealthy” arrival. I told her I was “sorry”; she said she was “fine.” I hugged her; her arms stiffened by her side. (Relative Fail.)

Morning came inevitably as it does, and I walked downstairs not knowing what to do or say. (Sorry seemed not to translate.) Ima, my home-stay mother, stopped me as I reached the bottom of the stairs. I explained that I would be staying out of the house for the next few days. She seemed to understand, and I wondered if she wanted me to leave for longer. She explained that upon my return I would have to eat only fruit and potatoes in accordance with the mourning rituals. (Undoubtedly a Hollywood diet fad in the making.)

Upon arrival to the house four days later the house had been transformed. People (family?) were milling about. Fruits upon fruits were piled in the kitchen and spilling out of the pantry, white cloth was draped everywhere, a shrine to grandfather was perched in the entry way.

Curiously and timidly I stepped into the living room, hands clasped neatly by my belly, eyes wide, mouth puckered in solemnity. To the left, where the dining room table usually sat, was a section siphoned off for the ‘priest’ and some boiling water. My eyes scanned right into the former comfy living room now transformed into a white oasis of linens covering couches. In the corner, there lay the 2 sons of the deceased, heads newly shaved. “Namaste,” I said. (My command of the Nepali language is heartbreaking[ly beautiful].) “OH hi!” said the man who I am staying with. And then his smiling elder brother said, “We got in trouble, that’s why we are in the corner!” I laughed in spite of myself. (Right? Laughing is okay when people are dead, isn’t it?)

Ima launched from out of nowhere (in reality, the kitchen) “WHITNEY!” yelped this soft spoken tiny woman who would never hurt a fly, “don’t touch ANYTHING!” (+5: Keeping my hands to myself finally paid off.)

She wasn’t angry; certainly, my touch would sully the holiness. Not offended, just nervous, I attempted to appease her by sheepishly bowing my head and whispering, “Can I just look?” Without waiting for an answer I backed out and crept upstairs. (Unscathed, but sweating. Hint: It was NOT hot that evening.)

OBVIOUSLY: I haven’t mastered the art of Hindu death rituals, but I’m a hell of a lot closer than I was in January. (Definitely something to write home about, or on a blog, whatever.)