The picture of grief

Today we all experienced tragedy at Rising Star. One-year-old little Saranya slipped from this life. She left her mother, Anjali, inconsolable. I wish that grief were divisible, that it weren't a bottomless pit of despair. I wish that I and each community member could have each shouldered one share.

I hate how long grief takes to go away, and that it never really does, completely. I hate how you can't go around it, but only through it. And I especially hate how grief has to be commensurate, as high and as wide, with whatever joy it's replacing.


Anjali is an assistant cook in our kitchen, and she walks in to work every day from the village. She always brought along her two daughters. Archana (below) is in first grade; the baby had Down syndrome with a sweet and loving disposition.

Life here is raw and unfiltered. Every aspect of it is on daily display in the streets: when you feel the urge, you just go; when you have trash, you toss it somewhere (no trash collection-later I will post pictures of the enormous piles on every corner); when you are happy, you shout for joy; when you grieve, you wail. Nothing is hidden.

Sharing the sadness, communal ritual, is an important part of this attitude. Neighbors, especially women, sat with Anjali and the baby for several hours. Finally, it was time for the burial (I expected a cremation, but that is only for older children). The duties are gender specific: women sit and mourn; men carry the body away to burial.

The most heart-wrenching scene was the mother not allowing them to take away her baby. She had to be held down.

I've had some qualms about photographing these emotionally laden scenes, and even more about posting them on a blog. I certainly don't want to come across as exploiting a tragedy. In the end, I decided to share this story, in all respect, reverence, and empathy.