I had traveled by train to the nothing town of Agartala to cross the border into Bangladesh, but the border was closed for 3 days because of Gandhi’s birthday, so I made a swift exit 24 hours later. The little travelled Northeast States of India don’t have many amenities. My hotel was lit by a flickering fluorescent tube and smelled like the mold climbing the walls.
Death is public here. It’s everywhere. Open air cremation is the number one attraction in Varanasi, one of India’s most visited cities.
I didn’t want to see this, let alone take a picture, but someone had to. I didn’t need a photo to remember this moment. Who’d WANT to remember this moment? I needed a photo to bear witness. I needed evidence. The blur reveals my discomfort. One shot.
A Dalit woman, an “untouchable,” dead in the train station, her face covered with a shawl, her feet dusted with bright red abir…a little dignity afforded her by some unknown angel.
I boarded the westbound train. I couldn’t even consider a visit to Nagaland because I wasn’t traveling with a husband or male family member. I’m told that’s no longer the case, but I’m in no rush to find out. India’s no place for young women.