Today, I took part in my first funeral in Saudi Arabia. I didn't know the person, I don't even know his name nor had I seen him before but it still pricked and it numbed and it sobered me with a sprinkle of humbleness.
Apparently, screeching rubber and searing turns with a gravel turn table resulted in putting a full-stop to his physical presence, an interim in those that loved him and a hyperlink to a new adventure for his soul.
This though hasn't been my first. I have been a part of my Gran' Pa's but have missed out on a lot of other passing-ons primarily due to the physical distance. This was different in some aspects.
I realized that in this part of the world, graves are un-marked as it is against the 'school of thought' to do otherwise. I was also given a small pictoral demonstration of how the grave is dug and structured to ease decomposition, prevent the stench from coming out and protection from scavenging animals should there be any. I was part of a tradition that I was very honored to be a part of.
The calmness and the composure exhibited by the person I knew, whose kin was lying a few feet away as he greeted the mourners. Calmness which I'm not very sure I would be able to possess should we trade shoes, God forbid. I tried to pass on as much warmth as a hug and some hollow words could - I hope he's warm.
I wonder if 'he' saw us from above, perched upon a cloud. Wishful thinking, many would say and I would most likely agree.
Maybe I'm reading too much into this..
