I traveled to India to meet an Aghori. A tantra practitioner devoted to Death.

After a long journey I was there, in the other side of the Ganges in Varanasi, surrounded by human skulls, metal figures, fruits, flowers and incenses. A smell oburnt flesh and bones. There. Crying. Overwhelmed.

I received multiple messages I could not understand. I took part on a long ceremony in the Ganges. One of the most polluted rivers in the world. I went inside the water, between corpses and trash, to clean with him a colossal metal figure, leaving my clothes in the water. A long piece of silk, with hand embroiled symbol made by the Muslim tailor. An offer for this action.

Aghori made fire and cooked rice with milk and sugar. He screamed to me, spitted on me and prayed for me. I made balls of sand between worms and trash, naked. He showed me how to make fire with a match, using the body to protect the flame.

He showed me the power of faith, and how, after all, Death is just a convention created by a system of control based on the administration of fear.