August 2, 2007 - New Delhi, India
"Times have changed and times are strange,
Here I come but I ain't the same,
Mama, I'm comin home"
~Ozzy Osbourne
On my last day in India, I find myself thinking about cycles and balance. These concepts are not just practiced in India, but are a way-of-life.
Upon returning to New Delhi, a Hindu friend had shaven all his hair except for a short ponytail in the top-back, called a choti. After some investigation it was learned that a year ago his father had pass away. As a Brahman (highest caste members), there were many ceremonies to be performed.
When the father passes, the men of his family take the body to the nearest river or travel to Varanasi, to The Ganges River. The body is laid on a plank of wood and multiple ceremonies take place, including the eldest son walking around the plank three times. The son then takes a stick and smashes open his father's skull to allow the brain to come out, in order for the soul to be released. More wood is then laid upon the father and he is cremated.
Death ceremonies always take place near rivers, because one is born through the mother's "river" and one must complete the cycle by leaving on a river.
The Hindu calendar is based upon the lunar cycles. The soul of the deceased roams the Earth to complete unfinished business for a full year. On the forth night, after the full moon wanes towards a new moon, twelve months later, the eldest son performs additional ceremonies. These include shaving the head in order to release the father's soul, from roaming the Earth, to Heaven.
As a final note, I will share the moment that continues to replay in my mind. While in Bhubaneshwar at dust, when the clouds opened up and monsoon rains began, I stepped under the entrance covering of a Shiva Temple for shelter. There, a Hindu priest took my hand and led me to the interior of the candle lit shrine, towards Shiva's alter. He asked me a single personal question, looked deep into my eyes, and immediately knew which prayer to bestow upon my soul.
He began by placing in my cupped hands two hibiscus flowers; one pink, one white. As he started to chant the prayer, he painted a turmeric paste on my forehead, cheeks, and neck. He continued by touching both my eyelids with the pink hibiscus, placed it back in my palms, and clasped my palms in his until the chant was finished. I was then directed to place the white hibiscus on the alter and give thanks.
Much like my swim in The Ganges River, Hindi may not be my personal spiritual path, but I'll take any extra blessings I can get.
