Part 23: Life After

April 14, 2023 Choyghoria, Batiaghata,

District Khulna, Bangladesh

The sun bared down upon our backs as we walked to the riverside. Tulshi, Bishnu and his wife, and one of their uncles were just starting to wash the body when we arrived. Sure enough, there was Bishnu and Tulshi’s dad, just as I had known him. I had talked to him on the pathway just two days before. “Are you going home?” I had asked. He smiled and nodded his head in affirmation.

He always looked so frail, so weak. Yet, he always had a toothless smile on his face and a tool in his hands. I often wondered how Bishnu and Tulshi could have such aged parents. Already their mom has lost her mind. It was only recently that I found out that both of them are younger than I would have ever guessed.

Then, one Friday, I saw Tulshi in the yard intently discussing something with Trevor. I wondered what could be the problem. Today was his day off, and he usually only comes by on Friday if he needs something. Today, he had come by to tell Trevor that his dad was very sick. They thought it was liver failure, and his stomach was filling up with fluids. For some reason, they were unable to take him to the hospital that day, but they planned to take him the next.

The next day, Saturday, April 2nd, they stopped by our house on their way into Khulna. They tried to get testing at the hospital, but some doctor hadn’t shown up. They returned home empty-handed.

He died that night. It sounded like a heart attack. Tulshi tried to call Trevor in the night, but his phone was on silent. We didn't know until we woke up at 4:30 am, for today was the day we had been planning to leave for Rajshahi. “Change of plans,” Trevor had said when I sleepily lugged my backpack and pillow down the stairs. Tulshi’s dad had died, and we would be attending the funeral in a few hours. Of course we would. Tulshi is here with us at the house every day, and before he worked for CSI, his big brother Bishnu was with us for fifteen years. Tulshi and Bishnu are practically family.

Now, here we were at the riverside, at the sight of the Hindu burnings. Tulshi’s friends chopped wood a hundred feet away as he and his big brother washed their father’s body and prepared him for cremation. I remembered back to just a few months ago, when Tulshi had stood beside me in this exact spot, explaining all the Hindu rituals and rites as I watched a different pair of sons preparing their father’s body. My heart filled with sadness for him, and I fought back tears.

They hung a wreath of flowers about their dad’s neck and dabbed his body with mustard oil. Then, they painted big white dots all across his forehead and dressed him in a fresh white lungi. As they worked, we could hear them softly crying. No dramatic wailing this time, only raw, genuine emotion.

Suddenly, Fahim and Sumon (two of our neighbors and Tulshi’s closest friends) went running down the narrow path between the fish ponds. There wasn’t enough wood, they said. They’d have to go round up more from the village. More men got up and ran to help as others found a shade tree to stand under. Tulshi and his family stayed beside their dad’s stiff body, each one of them keeping a hand on him.

A middle-aged man and his very pregnant cow suddenly showed up. Apparently, there is one guy in all of Choyghoria who delivers calves, and he happened to be present at the funeral. The man, the cow, and the vet-of-sorts excused themselves and not-very-urgently meandered down the pathway.

When the wood finally arrived, the remaining men rose from the shade of the date tree and filed down the narrow pathway like ants. They carried the tree trunks to the burning sight, threw them on the ground, and started hacking and sawing again. This is love, I thought, the love of their friends.

When the wood was stacked and ready, two men came and got the body from the washing table. Unceremoniously, they carried him to the stack of wood and crudely laid him inside. What’s going on in Tulshi’s head? I wondered. He’s watching his dad’s body taken to be burned.

Once the body was stuffed in and more wood had been stacked on top, Tulshi, Bishnu and his wife, and their uncle took the torch and walked around the stack of wood seven times. After the seventh round, they stuck the torch in the wood. Then, as swift and graceful as the wind, all four of them bowed: one last show of respect to the man who had raised them.

They turned to walk away. They just lit their dad on fire, I thought. But they don’t think of it like that, I guess. Bishnu walked to sit under a distant tree, turning his back so he didn’t have to watch. Tulshi sat down on the grass by himself. I couldn’t keep the tears back at the sight of our closest friend sitting alone in the shade of the tall banyan tree; sitting alone to watch his father’s body burn. Trevor sat down beside him so he didn’t have to be alone. Fahim soon came marching purposefully over there, took off his shoes, and plopped on the other side of Tulshi. Soon, he was surrounded by all his friends- his brothers. They sat there talking to him. I couldn't tell if they were trying to keep his mind busy, or what. When the breeze died down,

Fahim nudged Tulshi and said, “Look, now that the wind is calmer, the fire will burn better. That’s good, huh?” Are these words of comfort?

I sat down beside Tulshi’s sister-in-law and squeezed her hand. “How are you feeling, boudi,” I asked. She just shook her head. Her eyes looked tired and sad. Her hands shook as she buried her head in her knees.

Tulshi turned around to talk to me. I didn’t realize he’d noticed that I had sat down on the grass behind him. For once, my words failed me. What do I say? I can’t say: “He’s in a better place,” or “It’s better this way.” Neither can be proven. Only God knows where his soul is, and now that he’s gone, Tulshi’s family has thirteen days of intense death rituals.

In the end, I didn’t say much. I asked him if his dad had felt any pain in dying. He said he didn’t think so. I asked him if his mom understood that anything had happened. He shook his head and said she didn’t know anything. She was at home, babbling away like always. I was happy to learn that Tulshi hadn’t been alone that night. Sumon said that he and Fahim had gone to be with him.

The wood burned and burned. The sun burned too, and people started going home. Tulshi’s friends had to clean up the axes and saws, wash the bed used for transporting the dead, and deal with the extra wood. Soon, Tulshi was left all alone again. I didn’t think anyone should sit alone and watch their dad’s body burn, so I scooted to sit silently in the mud next to him.

Every now and then, he wiped tears from his eyes. They threw salt on the wood to make the fire burn hotter. When the dogs woke up and started trying to pick a fight with a pack on the

other side of the river, a smile snuck across Tulshi’s face and a chuckle broke through the tears. “Amader Tobyr moto,” he quipped. Just like our Toby.

Fahim came back and squatted beside Tulshi. “We have to leave now, but we are coming back to be with you. We are all here for you,” he said. He should know what grieving people need, I thought. His little brother died by suicide last year.

When we finally left, they said the fire would still be burning for thirty more minutes. “Let us know if you need anything,” Lisa told Tulshi.

“I will,” he said.

I walked away with such a different feeling than last time. Instead of intrigue and wonder, I was filled with deep sadness. Again, I was made so thankful for the comfort and warmth surrounding our culture’s funerals. Yet, it was so nice to see humanity on that day. The love and concern displayed by the friends and the genuine emotion from the family was both heartwarming and heartbreaking.

Of course, Tulshi is off for the thirteen-day mourning period that the Hindus observe after the passing of a family member. I don’t quite understand everything they have to do, but here are some of the things: following the funeral, the family had to fast for the rest of the day. Then, the following day, all their food had to be made and eaten from mud dishes.

Tulshi and Bishnu are considered “unclean” for thirteen days, so nobody is allowed to cook for them or eat with them. They can only eat a select kind of food, and only at certain times of the day. They aren’t supposed to wear shoes, pants, or a lungi. Instead, they wear a white cloth-looking thing around their waist. One day when Tulshi came by, he had another red cloth tied on top of the white skirt-thingy, with a twig stuck in the back of it. That same day, I went to retrieve Toby, who had gone to visit their house, and I saw Bishnu with the same twig stuck down his back. Bishnu was also wearing a ceremonial necklace that I often see Hindus wearing on holy days. I never learned the reason for either.

Yesterday was the tenth day since their father’s death, the day on which the sons of the deceased shave their head and beard. I was sitting on my balcony pecking away at my computer, when suddenly, a bald guy dressed in white rode by on the back of a rickshaw van. He waved at me. Now, why is that bald guy waving at me? I wondered. But something about the face was familiar. I knew I recognized that face. Suddenly, I realized in horror that it was Tulshi with a shaved head! The reason for my horror was that I had only politely waved back, instead of the grand gesture of acknowledgement that I would normally give to someone I know. Later, I saw him, and he rubbed his head as I explained that I wasn’t able to recognize him. Today, when he came over to say hi, he had his head wrapped in an orange cloth.

This Friday will be the last day of the mourning period, and life can resume as normal for them. Hopefully he will come back to work after then. The garden is needing a green thumb. I have been trying to use the things my mother taught me in the garden, but for some reason, I don’t have the magic touch.

That day, wee trudged home from the funeral, almost swimming our way through the muggy air. Lisa made egg sandwiches for lunch, but for some reason, I wasn’t hungry anymore. We had been planning to leave for Rajshahi the next day, but suddenly the boss got excited about leaving that very day. So, we loaded our already-packed backpacks and pillows and blankets up into the van and pulled out of the gate at 2:00 pm.

We drove along tree-lined roads and through green rice fields that extended through the vast landscape until they touched the far-away trees. We passed markets and villages and little children playing in the dirt. But something felt off about the day. I felt like something profoundly sad and life-changing had just happened. I had just watched a guy I knew get burned, and here the earth just kept turning like normal. Tulshi had just sat in the grass and watched his dad’s body covered up with wood; he had taken a torch and lit it on fire. Why wasn’t the whole world mourning? Life goes on. There is life after.

We drove until we crossed the Padma River. On the other side of the river is a town called Iswardi. This town is significant for two reasons: our brother Shanto grew up here, and the Russians are funding a huge nuclear power plant on the banks of the river. Shanto had told us to stop at his brother’s cha dokan. After we passed the four massive nuclear cooling towers, we jonted down a little side road to hunt for the right dokan. Once we were sure we had the right one, we all piled out of the van, happy to stretch our legs.

“Are you Shanto’s brother?” Trevor asked the man who came out from behind the counter. He nodded in affirmation. Trevor called Shanto to tell him we’d made it, while I made myself comfortable on the bench. This was Shanto’s brother’s cha dokan, after all, and Shanto’s are our family, which makes his brother’s cha dokan my uncle’s cha dokan. But something wasn’t quite right. He asked too many questions. He didn’t have the right kind of smile. He didn’t even know where we were from.

I think we have the wrong dokan... I thought to myself. Surely, Shanto would have told his brother we were coming. Surely, his brother wouldn’t be asking us so many questions. Surely, Shanto’s brother would know a little bit more than this man, whoever he was.

Sure enough, we had gotten the wrong dokan! It seemed that none of us could get back into the van fast enough. Our mad scramble had poor timing though, because just as we began our rush to get into the relative safety of our van, a bunch of Russians came pouring out of a nearby building. I hoped people didn’t think we were running away from them.

Trevor got on the phone so Shanto could direct us to the right place. When we pulled in, we all made him get out and make 100% sure that it was right. But, that wasn’t needed. I could have told you right away. The man at this dokan was very obviously Shanto’s brother. They had the same brood smile and friendly eyes. He was very excited to see us- he had been expecting us- and rushed to clear a table. He made us some delicious coffee and brought out some decadent cake for us to eat.

While we ate, he introduced us to his sons. His oldest son works at a dental clinic and speaks English and Russian on top of his native Bangla. He said that a lot of Bengalis in the town speak Russian, but none of the Russians speak Bangla.

Looking around, it felt like we were in some strange half-way land between Bangladesh and Russia. The signs all had Russian writing on them. Tall, bald, white men walked purposefully about. Ladies with short blonde hair and jeans(!) came out of clothing stores. Yet, rickshaws tickled by on the road and goats bleated on the grass. Bengalis everywhere tried to speak Russian to us. (Karlen and Harmony, we needed you.)

We got some fried chicken and french fries to go, the first thing I’d eaten all day. I still wasn’t hungry following the events of the morning, but I could feel a headache coming on. The

chicken wasn’t bad. We drove through the night and finally arrived at our hotel at 10:45 pm, eight-and-a-half hours after leaving Khulna.

The reason we had come to Rajshahi was to close down the mission post. Michael and Monika and their family, our church members, had moved back to their old village. Now, without a church, and with Elwood and Melissa bouncing back and forth between BD and India, they felt like it was time to close the post down. Our CSI project in Rajshahi was small, and they felt like we could run with only three offices instead of four. Elwood’s had come from India a week before and had started cleaning up the house- donating and selling stuff, ect.

We stayed at a hotel because I guess everyone thought a hotel would be a better option than everyone crowding into the only bed that remained at the mission house. The hotel was really nice. The restaurant served the normal- egg rolls, wontons, club sandwiches, diet coke, ect. The beds were exceptionally soft. And the POOL. The rooftop pool had a fountain and a view of India just across the river.

The first day in Raj, we cleaned out the house. We sorted things into “donating” piles; “take to Khulna, ship to Dhaka piles, bring to Gopalgonj” piles; and “trash” piles. We swept and mopped and swept and mopped and swept and mopped.

One of my highlights from the trip was *surprise* a dog. Allow me to elaborate. Last summer when I was staying at this house for a month, I made friends with a little puppy who just happened to have a case of mange but was still beautiful of course. He was so happy and excited and I always left a few eggs on my breakfast plate to feed him. His hairless, flaky, and bumpy little body didn’t look very clean to touch, so I resorted to wrapping my hands in napkins and giving him belly rubs.

Now, fast forward nine months. I was standing outside the house when this big, beautiful, healthy, black dog bounded over to me and started licking my face. The guard lit up and said, “Look, he still recognizes you!”

“Is this the same dog?” I asked in shock and awe. He nodded emphatically. I was so proud of him! There wasn’t an inch of mange on his strong body. He was the same happy puppy I remembered, only bigger and healthier.

That night, Elwoods had a garage sale at their house. They put all the things they wanted to sell in their yard and opened their gate to the public. It was so intriguing watching the Bengalis try to barter with Elwood and Melissa! At the sale, I got to meet an old friend from my month of being in Rajshahi last summer!

Another friend from last summer, Maya, wanted me to come to her house for supper. Elwood is also friends with Maya’s family, so he and Melissa wanted to go, too. I dragged Whitney along for the social fun of it, and we went. It was so nice to see Maya again. She is a sweet, quiet girl in nursing school. She’s currently fasting for the Muslim holy month of Ramadan, and I had told her we didn’t need to eat anything when I came to her house. I guess she thought differently.

First, out came noodles. Following the noodles, we were served homemade tomato chips and watermelon. Then, they asked us to sit for just a little longer, because they were bringing something else out. Sure enough, out comes a big ‘ole bowl of biryani. We had no option but to eat, and when they offered to serve us seconds, it would have been impolite to refuse.

At this point, it was around 11:00 pm. Elwood and Melissa took us back to the hotel. I figured everyone else would be long in bed, but come to find out, Trevor’s had finished up at the hotel restaurant only ten minutes before. “It took us for a whole hour to get our food!” Brock would inform me. We went to bed that night very, very tired.

The next day we did some touring of Rajshahi. Trevor’s had been there before- their welcome was actually in Raj- but Kylie was sick the entire time. Lisa hadn’t left the house. She wanted badly to see the things Rajshahi has to offer.

I’ve written about Rajshahi before. “The Eden of Bangladesh.” Many, many acres of fruit and vegetable gardens dot the landscape. It’s a very clean area. The town looks fresh and shiny. There isn’t as much water as in Khulna, so it’s not as humid. It’s basically flowing with milk and honey.

Another thing the area is known for is its silk production. In the morning, we toured one of the silk factories. We got the see the entire process of silk from the moth laying the egg that becomes the worm, to the worm spinning the cocoon, the harvesting of the silk from said cocoon, the spinning of thread (it reminded me of my favorite story, Rumpelstiltskin), how the thread is woven into huge rolls of silk fabric (this building was so LOUD that the people literally communicated with sign language), the dying station where they create beautiful colors, the lady who handpaints silk sarees, until finally, the production room. Here, one can buy many items of clothing that were made right there under our noses. Beautiful and rich colors lined the shelves and I picked up a dress that was $95 USD. And then quickly put it back. After having been to two different silk factories, I can now understand why it is so expensive. It’s quite an amazing process!

In the afternoon, we got on a brightly painted boat and putt-putted our way to our own little sand bar in the middle of the Padma River. We scarfed down our packed sandwiches and cookies and drank our sun-warmed cokes. Once everyone was sufficiently wet and sandy, we all clambered back onto the boat and made our way back.

That afternoon, the kids got their long-awaited time to swim in the hotel pool. I think they’d still be up there if they could be!

The next day, we finished up at the house and packed up all of our acquired things to head back home. Trevor gave everyone strict instructions that nobody was to open the trunk. We stopped at Ishwardi, the Russian town, for one of the best lunches I’ve eaten. We got home after dark to a very happy dog and a kitten who had doubled in size.

The day after we returned home, we were invited to Drishtidan Eye Hospital, the hospital that CSI works with. Kelly from Gopalgonj and Trevor had a meeting with the big dogs there, so the big dogs had said, “Oh, come for a meeting in the afternoon and we’ll all have iftar together.”

(Now, I’ve mentioned several times that it is currently Ramadan, the “holy month” of Islam. Muslims fast from sunup to sundown, not even taking water. Then when the sundown prayer call is heard, they all get together and break their fast at a meal called iftar. There is another meal, suhoor (called sehri in Bangladesh), at 3:45 in the morning. To mark the time for sehri, which I may remind you is in the middle of the night, the guy from the mosque turns on the mic and chants a whole speech. In the middle of the night. At 3:45 am. Thankfully, my windows don’t face any of the mosques in the village, so I don’t wake up every night.)

Ok, back to the story. After the meeting, Asad ushered us all to the upper room. Many LARGE meals have been eaten in there. Upon entering, my stomach was tempted with a little PTSD. We beheld, upon entering, a long table which was laden with just the perfect amount of plates. The plates each had two dates, apple and cucumber slices, fried eggplant, and fried onion. In front of each plate was some pink concoction that we learned was a mixture of fruit concentrate and water.

Asad instructed us to wait until we heard the familiar “Allahu akbar” ring out from the nearest mosque. That would be the evening azan, the prayer call announcing the end of the day’s fast. And so, shortly after 6:20, just as the sun dipped below the western horizon, the man dressed in robes stepped up to the mic and sounded the familiar words. Asad told us that it’s tradition to break fast with the dates. Everyone took a date. (The kind that comes from trees, not the kind that you go on. Who do you think I am anyway.) After our plates were finished and our bellies were plenty satisfied, Asad told us to wait for ten minutes while he went to do his prayers. But we weren’t supposed to leave, because they were bringing more food.

Biryani. Lots of it. They heaped our plates with rice and chicken and beef and boiled egg. Then they served coke and sprite. Then, ice cream. There will be no mercy upon our

stomachs this night, we thought. No matter, it was delicious as always.

___________

The day before Tulshi’s dad died, we went on a little adventure. In Bagerhat, forty minutes away, is a famous mosque, Sixty Dome Mosque. As you may have caught on from my previous letter, I have a fascination with mosques. And, as you may have known from knowing me (or not), I have a fascination with historical buildings. Sixty Dome Mosque is both.

The story is told that one day, God reached down and touched the world with his finger. In His fingerprint, a powerful Sultan named Ulagh Khan Jahan built a number of mosques and holy houses. In the center, right in the whorl of the fingerprint, he built the grand Sixty Dome Mosque.

Much time has passed since the year 1459, but the prayer house is now a UNESCO World Heritage site. It even has its own article in the encyclopedias I used to read from cover to cover when I was young and bored. The first time we drove past the site, I thought to myself, “I know that place.”

Then it came back to me: those long-ago afternoons when I would grab a random World Book volume from the shelf, sit on the floor, and flip through the pages. It was from these pages that I learned the rules to the all-American sport of gridiron football. It was from these books that I traveled, long before I possessed a passport, to places like Egypt, Switzerland, and even to the Moon. I walked the Grand Staircase of the Titanic and admired the red flowers of the sprawling White House lawn. And on one of the pages, in the bottom left-hand corner, I still remember the picture of the strange-looking brick building in a far-away land. Except now, it wasn’t so far away anymore. It was right outside my window, and I have always wanted to visit it before I leave.

And OH MY GOODNESS she did not disappoint. The lawns of the courtyard are a deep green and the flower gardens dot the yard with color. We walked under the botanical arbors and enormous trees. We removed our shoes and entered the 565-year-old building. Our footsteps echoed across the flying arches of the stone interior. Looking up, I saw the underside of the famous domes. (Fun fact: there are actually eighty-one domes.) In the middle of one of the long prayer rugs, a young man sat rocking back and forth, deeply immersed in the Quran. In the corner, an aged man in white prayer robes and prayer cap was sitting, talking to a white couple.

He beckoned us over, and we learned that the couple were tourists from Germany. (We don’t see many tourists, but when we do, they are most likely from Germany or Spain, for some reason.) In wrapped fascination and poor English, the bearded man told us all about the history of the mosque.

Lisa asked him if he was the one to make the prayer call. “Oh yes, I can do it. And he does it too!” He gestured to a younger man wearing matching white prayer robes. “Sunao.” (“Make them listen.”) The younger man didn’t hesitate. Though it wasn’t time for prayer, he put his hands to his ears and started singing the minor strains...”Allahu akbar....” The notes reverberated off the cold stone walls, harmonizing with one another as we stood there listening. He finished: “La illaha il Allah” “There is none greater than Allah.”

I wish we would have been in a Christian country so we could have had the opportunity to sing inside the mosque. I wish we could have lifted our songs to the One in the heavens. How that place could ring.

That evening, Shanto and his boys came over. While Trevor and Shanto sat on the roof talking, the rest of us played volleyball. The volleyball game consisted of the older team yelling at the younger team to give us what we wanted since we are older and should be respected, as Asian children learn very young (and American ones should too). We won. I don’t know if the younger team lost out of respect or not.

After they left, we tried to frantically clean the house and pack the bags for our trip to Rajshahi the next day. But then, Trevor awoke to a phone call from Tulshi and the news that his dad had died. That brings us to the beginning of the letter: full circle, if you will. It feels like these past two weeks have been as long as a whole year. They have been emotionally and physically exhausting. It seems that there have been so many “endings”: death here among loved ones, death back home among loved ones. Final goodbyes lead one to realize that life still goes on without some people. Family and village politics cause some of the people we love to feel offense and hurt.

Yet, there’s always a silver lining. Somehow, sunlight still comes in through the cracks. Music still escapes from behind closed doors. Beauty still remains.

My friend grabs me a stool so I can sit beside her and break bricks for their new kitchen roof. I sit in the house across the pathway, eating pitha and listening to a new friend tell me stories about her time living in India. In a different house in a neighboring village, a white dog lays across the doorway as I hold a 4-pound baby boy. And the sunflowers that Tulshi planted in the garden are tall now. Each day, their yellow faces follow the sun as she makes her journey across the infinitely blue sky. They look up. And so will I.

Come see me. There’s still some time before May 27th! -Kalli