Growing up in Gangtok, the capital of Sikkim, I lived what you might call an urban life. I wasn’t exactly cut off from my culture but I was never quite rooted in it either. Unlike my cousins from the countryside, I didn’t know how to start a fire, walk through the jungle, or name the plants in our orchard. I didn’t know the stories of our people the way they did.

It wasn’t until high school that I began to understand what I'd been missing. Since then, I’ve been trying, slowly, to reconnect with my roots.

In July 2024, my grandmother—Farasey Lepcha, the loving matriarch of our Breemu family (Breemu is my grandfather's clan name, which she adopted after marriage)—passed away after a long struggle with a chronic urological illness. She had been undergoing dialysis twice a week. We all knew the end was near. And yet, no one was truly prepared.

She was one of our last living ancestors, holding the memories of our people—our customs, our traditions, our sacred ways. And now, she was gone. And with her went all the stories that only she remembered… so much of what made us who we are.

This was the first time I was allowed to be present at a funeral. The first time I witnessed every detail unfold, from the beginning rites to the final rituals. You see, in our Buddhist community, young children outside the immediate family are usually kept away from funerals. Our elders say our protective aura is too weak, and the dark energies could make us ill. So this, for me, was not just a ceremony; it was a rite of passage. A reintroduction to the old stories. A reckoning with belief, death, and everything in between.

In our tradition, funeral rites can last up to three months—beginning with the main ceremony, followed by monastery offerings on the 21st and 49th days, and then yearly remembrance rituals for three years. In some villages, like my father’s in Phensong, these ceremonies can stretch over nine years. I was surprised by how much I didn’t know.

It was comforting to have my siblings around, and to share in the old stories we all carried. It felt surprising, even a little strange, to meet relatives after years, and to actually get to know them.

But what struck me the most was how the grief came in waves—but so did laughter and kindness: someone cracking a joke, someone reminding us to eat. After all, if everyone were to sink into sorrow, who would be left to remind the others that this too is part of life? That life must go on without those who have journeyed on.

There’s one memory, though, that keeps returning to me. In our ancestral home in Pakyong, we have several pomelo trees, but one in particular stands out. The old tree in the orchard. It’s huge, with heavy yellow fruits hanging like lanterns. As kids, my dad and uncle would tie a thick rope to its branches and make a swing for us—one we used all winter vacation. That tree came to the house with my grandmother. It was older than her, they say. It witnessed her marriage, her life, and now her passing. Lately, the tree has started to wither. It’s no longer as healthy or full of life.

And my grief is like that pomelo—heavy, bittersweet, impossible to forget.

At first, I was hesitant to take these photographs... was it right to photograph something so sacred, so personal? But something in me knew I had to. Maybe to process what I was seeing. Maybe to remember it better. Maybe to understand.

I want you to notice the everyday life in these frames. The hills. The people. The rituals. The quiet continuity. The ways we mourn, and love, and remember, and go on.

I want you to come to Pakyong with me,
sit with the mourners.
hear the chants.
feel the rain.
taste the pomelo.

and in the act of looking,
remember what it means to belong.

1. Leading the procession in the rain
A quiet march of love and loss, as we carry my beautiful Nyukung (grandmother) forward through the mist.

2. Echoes from a funeral home
A signboard leads towards the funeral home in Pakyong, towards memory, ritual, and everything unsaid...
3. Prayers for the journey ahead
Collecting prayers and khadas* from loved ones for her soul to carry along.

*Khadas is a long silk cloth, traditionally used in Himalayan regions as an offering during weddings, birthdays, funerals, and other auspicious occasions. It is typically presented as a gesture of respect and homage, similar in spirit to the flower garlands offered elsewhere.

4. Mani Monlam
A sacred mourning ritual performed by elders. Prayers are chanted, offerings made, and khadas placed carefully on the coffin—each gesture an invocation to Chenrezig*, asking him to guide the soul gently on its journey ahead.

*Chenrezig is the bodhisattva of compassion, known in Tibetan Buddhism as the ‘Lord of the World.’ The ritual of Mani Monlam is performed after death to call upon his presence. It is believed that by chanting the Mani mantra, the departed will be led by Chenrezig himself—guided not by fear, but by compassion, into whatever lies beyond.

5. Flowers being offered
As my sister carries the bouquet, I think of Anne Frank’s words: “Dead people receive more flowers than the living...” But here, the flowers aren't just grief, they symbolize womanhood fulfilled.

6. A table of farewells
Beautiful flowers and fruits gathered as a final offering to her.
7. Chairs left behind
Herds of mourners make their way to the graveyard. At home, the empty chairs quietly wait.
8. Rain on the terrace
Preparations for the communal meal continue on the terrace, despite the rain. The meal consists of my grandmother's favourite dishes, but has to be vegetarian only.
9. Where fields once grew
A temporary kitchen rises on freshly ploughed ground, once a field, now a space of shared meals and memories.
10. Bardo: the offering to the dead
Her favourite food being offered to her hungry soul, passed through the sacred medium of fire.
It is believed that the soul lingers in the house until 49 days, so offerings are made to it for nourishment under Bardo.
11. The scent of farewell
The soul feeds through the aroma. When the fire extinguishes on its own, we know she has received it.
12. The old orchard
My sister guiding me through the old orchard that used to be our childhood playground.
“How lucky we were,” she said, “to prance around this orchard, listening to sungs (stories) and guffs (conversations).”
Now, only wildflowers bloom in the empty spaces of the land.
13. Ashes and rivers
Family and monks gather the remains. The ashes will be released into the Rangpo Khola (river), a final act of letting go.
14. The search begins
After the rites, we search for the sacred coin and gems that had been placed in grandmother's mouth—a tradition said to protect the finder from evil.
Anom Sanchi (my cousin) has found the coin. They say it will shield her from all harm.
Others keep looking for the gold that burned alongside it, equally powerful if found.
15. Mugwort water for protection
A jar filled with mugwort (local titipattey and cold water) waits at the entrance. All who joined the procession must be sprinkled with this holy water before re-entering the home. This will cleanse and protect.
16. The final rites: Shendak
A noisy ritual unfolds to chase the soul taker (Sett) away from the family members and the home.
“Get ready to cry your lungs out!" Shyedoq or Shendak being performed.
All kinds of noises are made, dry red chillies are burnt (adding some comic relief), a ritual of release.
17. A rainbow over Machong
A rainbow appears right above the Machong Monastery. A good omen for grandmother’s funeral.
18. Of meeting, knowing and sharing words of hope.
Family gathered after the ceremony to exchange a few words of hope.
19. Small gestures, still burning with love
A flickering butter lamp and a donation box kept for our beloved grandmother.