The River Ganges.
Its murky waters flow through the Himalayan valleys to the North Indian plains, slicing Bangladesh on its passage to the Bay of Bengal.

One in twelve of the world’s inhabitants surround its catchments, pouring refuse and waste into its waters whilst worshipping on its shores.

I watch them from the large open windows of my home, and from the shadows of the huts that line the embankments. I watch them look up into the night, reflecting on the great goddess, Ganges, the name sake of the river that stretches out into the horizon. I watch them undress slowly, unravelling their bodies like a gift to the heavens.

And into the water they steep themselves, their movements a prayer for the forgiveness of sins and the blessings of moksha, or salvation.

There are those that I see return, in time, wrapped in shrouds and carried atop painted wooden palanquins, flanked by wailing mourners. Upon the surface they are lowered, and set upon their final earthly journey, surrounded by a sea of offerings; candles and marigolds.

The spectacle is beautiful, exotic and fiercely macabre.

When the voices are silent and the devotees are gone, the river is mine to worship.

The white faces beneath the water call to me, welcoming me home. The gaunt, skeletal fingers curl into my hair and round my wrists as I sink down into the water. I claw into the soil, boring down into the mud, the force of the water and the resistance of the earth testing the limits of my strength.

How can I describe the peace I find in the darkness? I slumber with sleeping spirits for days at a time, wondering, on occasion, if I shall ever have cause or desire to return to the surface again.

With every night that passes, I grow more estranged from the world of the living. I am seduced by the stillness and the isolation of my submerged burial.

Existing at the cusp of the world of the dead and the world of the living; this could be where I belong.