Rites for the Dead

When I returned to Bangladesh with my dad and my brother after being away for nine years, my dad sacrificed three cows in honor of the people he had lost over the years: the first in the name of his mother, the second in the name of his wife, and the third in the names of the son he lost after only a few short weeks and the child he never had the chance to meet. The sacrifice took place in front of our village home in Sylhet on a surprisingly sunny day during the monsoon season. My dad’s cousin, an imam, said the prayers, incorporating the names of the honorees that were written on a scrap piece of paper, before each cow was taken aside and swiftly killed. It took several men—all villagers we met through acquaintances, only one an actual butcher—to hold down the cow, releasing it quickly when the trachea was cut and the cow began to wildly kick its legs in desperation, bleeding into the hole dug earlier. It was then pulled aside and the next one was brought over, and finally, the third. Thus began the long process of skinning, cutting, and dividing the meat into thirds—one-third of each cow was distributed to the poor, one-third was divided amongst family friends, and the last third was kept for our family. Nothing was wasted: word of the sacrifice had traveled throughout the village, and beggars came to collect what they could of the meat. One woman, wrapped in a flimsy cotton sari that had seen better days, came with her two children, to collect the stomachs. The butcher asked to have the hide, and another volunteer took home the feet and the heads.

 In the middle of the day, before the zuhr call to prayer was heard, the imam got on the PA to finish reading the last few verses of the Quran. He and the other imams my father had hired had been reading the entire Quran for the last 24 hours so that the rewards of recitation would help the spirits of the deceased move further along on their journey. Once the reading had finished, the imam of our masjid said a closing prayer. I sat with my nanu, who had been praying all morning for her deceased daughter, and we prayed with the imam. When it was over, the men bathed and left for the mosque while the women finished their tasks, preparing lunch, cleaning up the house, bathing, saying their zhur prayers.

 I have experienced many such moments of prayer and sacrifice. They are requisite during Eid-ul-Adha, a Muslim holiday of sacrifice. Less elaborate versions are carried out for the celebration of success, for the birth of a new family member, or for the wellbeing of the gravely ill. In these occasions, the beef is often replaced with shinni, a sweet made out of wheat flour, sugar, cardamom, and raisins. Annually, though, those who can afford to do so offer something for the deceased before the month of Ramadan.

 Yesterday, my boro mama called me to ask about this year’s prayers and sacrifice: “We try to do something small every year, but your nanu has been crying, wondering who will carry out these rites, saying that her grandchildren should honor their mother.” That’s when I realized that I had never considered performing the rites on my own. It has always been something my dad initiated—my dad who has an ever-growing list of people to honor. I have only witnessed these rites, never performed them. To have this asked of me now, especially as I have an income and a career, especially as I grow older, seems both appropriate and inappropriate. I know of these responsibilities, and a part of me feels compelled to carry on traditions. Another part of me wants to reject these traditions, as they are foreign practices, burdensome in their unfamiliarity. But I find myself questioning the part of me that rejects the idea, the part that imagines commemorating the dead with flowers at the gravesite, trying to feel connected to the only physical remnant of one long gone, an imagining that, in reality, can rarely be actualized, as my mother is buried in a village in Sylhet far from where I am. I wonder whether offering prayer and sacrifice in the way Bengalis, Muslims, do would truly be more useful than what I do now, occasionally thinking of my mother and hoping she is happy, safe, and proud. I wonder if I am keeping her from progressing on her spiritual journey.