Village Life Beyond the Little Flock Gate

From our first day arriving at Little Flock village, we got to experience life in the village where Little Flock Orphanage resides. Our first exposure was walking the road through the village to meet the Little Flock kids at their school gate and walk them home.
As we walked, we saw women washing their clothes out on the cement road with little ones at their side, cows roaming in and out of yards, flowers and food offerings put out at Hindu shrines, motos whizzing past, and more.
 


  In our second week on our walk to teach a 2nd time at the village school, we stumbled upon quite the unexpected experience. As we neared the first row of homes, we heard loud popping sounds, and saw poufs of smoke. I imagined it was yet another Hindu tradition. As we rounded the corner of the dirt road, I saw a long row of motorcycles, parked one after the other. I figured many people had traveled here for the celebration. Clumps of men wearing white collared shirts and traditional Indian male skirts lined the narrow cement road. 
One man walked up to me with his hands out, but I shook my head, not understanding his gesture, so he passed me and walked up to my dad and shook hands with him. The young Indian man put his hand on my Dad’s back and I could hear him say, “Mother. Dead.” That is when I realized slowly that this was not a Hindu celebration, it was a funeral for this man’s mother.
It was quite evident where the funeral was taking place. The third house down was decorated with colorful flower wreaths. As we got closer, I could see that women filled the home’s front patio area. We were moving slowly because of the amount of people filling the road but suddenly Dad was brought by the man into the patio. In that moment I panicked a bit. Most of the group had gone ahead and passed the home’s front gate, but I still hadn’t, I wasn’t going to leave withput Dad.  It was such a strange feeling…we were in such an unfamiliar and uncomfortable situation. Soon enough, the group past the gate got pulled into the courtyard, moments later, I was invited in too. Inside the gate, I passed a cluster of women in colorful saris and stepped under a hanging canopy. As I was ushered in past the rest of our group, I saw Dad and a couple of others kneeling down.
It all happened slow in my mind because my heart was pounding and I was full of adrenaline. I saw 4 women kneeling in front of a large rectangular box. They banged on its plastic sides, and I could hear choked sobs. At first glance, I saw inside the box: a magenta covering over what I presumed to be the body. My eyes skirted left—a mistake—there I saw the face of an older woman with brown lines of age. You can tell she had been beautified for the ceremony. My heart stopped. I immediately looked away and kept my head down for quite some time. I stood by the end of the clear coffin box, and then I saw her gnarled feet. It soon became clear that it would be more respectful to kneel down behind the rest of our group.
Then, one of the men came forth and shooed the sobbing women to the side so that we could be closer to the body, which surprised me so much. The fact that we, as people off the street, had priority over her closest family and friends was dumbfounding. For several minutes, I kneeled on the concrete patio, my hands clasped and my head bowed. As my heart sped, I  prayed in that moment. I knew it was likely she was Hindu and she may have never known God.
Here I was in India, thousands of miles from home, praying for a dead Hindu woman in the humid air, experiencing my first ever funeral…not to mention my first time seeing someone dead. Little did I know, 3 days later I would have my second such experience.
I took one last glance at the clear casket adorned with wreaths of blood red and sunny yellow. I walked out and passed through the open gate. A flash of relief washed over me. Despite the sadness, unfamiliarity, and bizarreness of the situation, it was truly lovely.
We gathered back up along the road, and then scurried to keep our commitment at the school with no time to absorb what we had just experienced. Later that afternoon, from our dorm house window, I saw a long line of people just outside the Little Flock gate. I was told by one of the kids that it was the funeral procession, apparently the crematorium was directly across the road. The woman’s body, no longer in her casket, was now hoisted up by four men on a woven stretcher decorated beautifully with colorful flowers. Later walking in the village you could see the remnants of flower wreaths likely tossed during the procession, they looked wilted and dreary…a reflection, I’m sure, of how her family now felt.
A few days later when we went to teach English at the village school, we sang some more English songs, and gathered in conversation groups in the grassy yard…which evolved into frolicking games of tag. The teacher came out amidst our laughter-filled chasing and gathered everyone together. She shared with us that a teenage girl who had attended this school, and was now in 12th grade, had committed suicide. School would be dismissed now (30 minutes early), as there would soon be a Procession coming through the village road right outside the school, and she wanted all the kids home. 
In a neat string of interactions, Dave, a pastor who was with us, offered to pray over the situation. The teachers asked all the children to gather in close. It was neat to be surrounded by so many small children with caste marks on their foreheads and necklaces representing Hindu gods, perhaps experiencing someone praying to God for the first time. It was an intimate moment, despite the language barriers, and it was an honor to be with them as they received the difficult news.
Our time at the school had been cut short, and the walk back with the boys was quieter than usual. Then later when the soft evening had come, the procession came past Little Flock. The sound of drums beating rang through the grounds. I could see tens of men walking to the cremation site. Some Indian men who were former Little Flock staff invited mom and I to come along. We reached the crowd and to my relief the girl’s body was obscured from my view.
This time it was less frightening, probably because I was aware of what was happening, unlike before where the funeral had come upon us like a wave. I was also accompanied by mom, and we had our knowledgeable Indian guides. Mom was encouraged to come forward to honor the body, but I was very reluctant. I begged Carter, a fellow team member to stay back with me, but eventually we joined Mom’s side. Our guides explained that the men would lay down the wood, place the body on top, and then pile more wood on top of her. They would set it all on fire, come back in the morning, and collect all the ashes for a special ceremony.
I watched the men strategically placing wood, pointing, and giving rapid instructions in Tamil. None of them seemed to be grieving, and I wondered whether any of them were her close family. Through people’s legs I could see the woven mat she lay on, and the red fabric she was wrapped in. Even though I wasn't as alarmed as last time, my heart was still pounding rapidly. When someone shifted, I allowed myself to look upon the girl’s face. The red covering went all the way up to her chin, and you could see her body’s thin outline. I could see very little of her dark hair, and her eyes were partly open. She looked very peaceful, and I wondered what her story was, what she had been like when there were life in those eyes. If she was anything like the incredibly kind and joyful girls I had come to love at Little Flock, I know she would be greatly missed.
Upon arriving back through the gate, Gracelyn, one of the girls’  “house moms” told us what she knew about the girl. Her parents had arranged for her to be married, but she had fallen in love with another boy. They would not accept the boy she loved, so, with poison, she took her life. Apparently, the boy also attempted to take his life--eerily like  Shakespeare's “Romeo and Juliet.” Gracelyn said that suicide is not uncommon there because of arranged marriages, which is extremely sad.
One of the Little Flock girls, Kousalya, told me that the girl was her friend’s older sister. The connection made it even more personal and heartbreaking. She had been the first in her class and had a bright future ahead. But because she would have to live her life trapped with someone she did not love, while the one she did love was kept away from her, she took her life. I couldn’t even imagine her hopelessness, but by taking a step into her situation, for once I could see why she made that choice.

While we experienced  some of the saddest of times in the village, we also got to experience joyous celebration.  It turns out we were there during one of the most significant Hindu holidays – Pongal—their Harvest celebration. It is celebrated for 3 days. As we walked through the village, we could tell something special was going on…most homes had elaborate designs in colorful powder on the ground at the entrance to their gate.
On the first day, it is a time of “burning the old”…many homes had a fire in their front yard, adorned with flowers positioned around it. January 15, the 2nd day, is the most important. Families buy a new clay pot, and wear new clothes. As we walked through the village, we could see children and women dressed up beautifully.
One after the other as we passed people, we were greeted with a very energetic, “Happy Pongal!”

Everyone seemed in such high spirits.


We could hear the pop explosions that night in the village. We were told that “In India, we celebrate with fireworks whenever possible
 The 3rd day is in celebration of the Bull. They explained to us that on that day, people bathed their cows in milk, and decorated the bulls with color and flowers, though we didn’t get the opportunity to venture out for any glimpses. We had no idea that we would be in India during this very significant Hindu holiday, and we certainly didn’t anticipate taking part in one, let alone, 2 intimate funerals in the village. We felt honored and humbled to be part of these rhythms of life in the village, the painful times, and the joyous ones.