Feed Me To The Pigeons - by Grant David Crawford, PhD
Varanasi cremates its dead. Tibet feeds them to vultures. But America has spent 150 years building a funeral apparatus that refuses to let bodies return to the earth. I want mine fed to the city.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles. - Walt Whitman, Song of Myself, 1855 In 2017, I found myself roaming through the crowded, narrow, golden corridors of Varanasi. I strayed from my group, a pesky habit of mine, losing myself in an endless stream of incense shops and cell phone repair stalls. It was hot. The air was thick, a lingering soup of jasmine, open sewers, and sandalwood. And then there were the dead bodies. Corpses floated through the city like a relentless tide, marching toward the shore of the…
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