What is Dead May Never Die

Like bloodhounds picking up a scent, we humans follow death at its heels. By nature, we are attracted to the dead or dying. I don't know why we do it, but I'm guilty as well. In fact, I'd say that I'm guiltier than most. I'm a sucker for death. It's often described as a morbid fascination, but I'm not sure I agree. Death is 50% of life, isn't it? What's macabre about something so innately human?

It's no secret anthropologists go gaga over the dead. Graves, mummies, tombs - the ones that get all the attention - are only the surface. There's ritual, symbology, kinship, landscape, temporality, and on and on until you've either exhausted your academic vocabulary or completely dissected (pun intended) human social behavior.

Death goes beyond what's living though. Or at least, organically. Buildings, timelines, ideas - they die as well.

Right now, I want to talk about buildings.

I grew up thinking knowing that I was going to become an archaeologist. I surrounded myself with books on ancient civilizations, watched documentaries on excavations, and pored over volumes and volumes of National Geographic magazines. Mind you, I don't think I was processing the words to well. It was the visuals that enraptured me. Antiquated ruins, standing like behemoths over the shallow landscapes, showed off a certain side of life that is often covered up. Battered temples, crumbling castles, and rotting edifices took center stage. No, it wasn't about the largest buildings on Earth or the most luxurious houses, but quite the opposite. It was the failures of humanity. The derelict and destroyed, forgotten and abandoned. Where the arrogance of people prevailed and the fruits of their labors put to shame. What was once the epitome of progress now stood naked, its memory fragmented.

The ruins of St. Andrews Castle, Scotland

 It is death envisioned.

This past semester, I was enrolled in an environmental studies class, merging the idea of historic preservation with environmental conservation. Once a week, we would convene in a classroom to prepare for our field trip the following day, going over the site's history, importance, and overall contribution to the environment of the Hudson Valley. The class was taught by a professor of archaeology, one that I had had many times before, so I knew what to expect.

One week, we went to Denning's Point, in Beacon, NY. Once an old brick factory and depot, it now stood abandoned. For the first hour or so, we talked with some folks who were running an educational organization there - the Center for Environmental Innovation & Education. Then, we were told to go on a hike, to wander the surrounding trails and paths for another couple of hours. Basically, do whatever we want.

Naturally, our first stop was to get to the shore of the Hudson river. 28˚C it was that day (in Farenheit-nope, you can google it yourself), and what better way to start a hike than to walk for five minutes and relax? A hard earned treat, we convinced ourselves.

The banks of the Hudson River

We then split off into our self-formed groups, as it tends to happen. The long legged individuals go together, the I-love-hiking-but-I'm-especially-tired-today-even-though-we-all-know-you-never-actually-go-hiking group went their way, and the ones who missed the memo and showed up in flip-flops traipsed along, presumably to find another small beach.

Us long legged folks walked for a bit, chatting, teasing, and having a good time in general. But this isn't interesting. Nobody wants to read about someone else's conversation, and especially when it is as uneventful as the one I'm about to explain. Here's exactly, word-for-word what we discussed:

I'm kidding. It's too exciting to type in full. You'll have to ask me in person.

But a few minutes into the hike, and out from the undergrowth emerges this structure. And it's big. Like, "How does this get hidden in this tiny wooded area?", big. To my pleasure, it's absolutely gutted. The walls are broken, floors have fallen through, and it's plastered with graffiti. I'm drooling.

The factory peeks out, hidden from plain sight

Without hesitation, each of us found a point of entry and slipped in. I found a broken window just at ground level, and not known for being the widest human being on earth, managed to slither in without a hitch, aside from a nice dusting of cobwebs. I was quite proud of myself for cleverly finding that little spot, until a friend sauntered through a wide open doorway that some previous urban explorers had nicely cleaned up. Hmph. Mine was more thrilling anyway.

I don't want to give away everything we saw, but we spent nearly an hour exploring this building. All of us were enraptured by it. Swallowed by creepers and rogue branches, bruised by age and weather, and "vandalized" by some teenagers, it was a thing of beauty.

Vandalized. Yes, technically, it was vandalized. Broken glass, paint, graffiti... it's illegal, isn't it? But what would this building be without it? Just another stupid, neglected, useless old building that has no purpose. Too much money to maintain, too much to destroy. In other words, dead.

The layers and layers of spray paint proved something to us. This building, on its last legs, tilting, buckling, was far from dead. Death is characterized by what's forgotten. The old brick factory, with all its missing machines, rusty pipes, and broken windows, is no longer a brick factory. Today, it is more alive than ever. If a building, hidden in the woods, away from civilization, lacking any electricity or WiFi can attract the attention of so many children and adults alike, how on Earth can we call it dead?

Man and nature blend seamlessly

It wasn't just alive - it was creating memories. Ripping and sewing together time. Repurposing the past for the future.

The only things that are truly dead are the ones that have no memory. The names, places, and things that once buried, never resurfaced. Those that aren't even in our current scope of reality. Dead buildings, however... they don't exist. No building can truly die until it is forgotten. Think about it - every house you ever lived in, every school you walked into, every bathroom you pissed in - is alive somewhere. And it's not dying any time soon.

Ticket to Nationality

“If it’s treason ye’r in for, then may God bless yer soul. First, ye shall be hanged by the neck - but not til’ death! No, noooo. That is much too generous for committing this treachery. The noose shall be wound around yer neck until the peachy white of yer cheeks flush with blue. And then, as the light starts t’ fade and yer eyes roll into yer skull, I sever the rope and bring ye back t’ yer wits.”

The audience didn’t move an inch.

“As ye lay on the ground, gasping for breath, I grasp me axe and chop off yer privates. With my sharp, shiny sickle, I tear yer skin apart, detach yer vital organs, and set them alight right before yer eyes!”

Gasps echoed.

“And after yer corpse has been quartered and yer parts scattered across the land, only then, ONLY THEN will you be sent to the depths of hell. That, good folk, is why ye shall never, ever, sell yer soul to the enemy.”

Traitors, beware!

In Edinburgh Castle, a fortress that had stood for centuries, children, parents, and the elderly gave a standing ovation to an actor who had just grotesquely described one of the most brutal forms of execution. Unlike most history classes where each sentence goes in one ear and out the other, this particular pleasant lesson was etched into everyone’s minds. All it took was a simple costume, a few lines of dialogue, and an audience.

The Scots understand how to market history. India, a land that has been occupied since time began, filled with hordes of undiscovered treasures, monuments that make man feel insignificant, and culture so interwoven and rich, can only achieve a fraction of this.

Scotland is astounding. There is no denying it at all. Rolling emerald hills, sapphire seas, and breathtaking vistas are plentiful, and even a short bus ride from one town to another will expose you to its raw beauty. For such a small country, it packs a real punch.

Edinburgh is an stunning combination of old and new, manmade and natural

Pass through any village, and no matter the size, you'll find a few signs pointing to some historic landmark. Back home, we reserve these for only the most important of monuments. Here, a little blue sign directs you to a tiny, seemingly insignificant structure. Some house that an old fogey lived in, or a mill that has been around since 1645. The cornerstone that Robert the Bruce urinated on when his carriage was passing through, or the exact location where William Wallace's pet cat was born. Who cares? one might think.

It's all about identity, though, isn't it? Yeah, maybe your stupid little town only has one grocery store, an antique taxidermy dealership, a postman who is hard of hearing, and a telephone booth that still uses a rotary dial. But what if that town can be connected to something larger than itself? What if your town, a nothing name with nothing people who do nothing, can relate to something?

It makes you feel important. It connects you to the land. I didn't care one bit about Bangalore for many years. It was just another city to me, where I went to school, did my work, came back home, ate food, and slept. Another place where Dushyant existed independently of Bangalore.

But then, I started learning more about it. Discovering the stories it had to offer. One of the oldest substations in India. A village that set the path for the biggest technological advancements in history. An aerospace industry, dating back to the 18th century, that revolutionized space travel. Suddenly, I was a Bangalorean. No more was this 11 million strong city a blip on the map. It became a part of me, and I a part of it. I was proud to write, "Dushyant Naresh, age 16, Bangalore".

India makes it hard for you to love her. It's a wonderful country, but a self-destroying one. Our people have done so much for the world, to the point where without some of these contributions, life would not exist anything like it does today. However, India tries to make you forget about these things. It makes you remember the poverty, the filth, the corruption. The castes, the disparity, the privilege. In some ways, it's a good thing. It makes you face the problems, not hidden behind grey walls like in Beijing.

Scotland is a mirror image. She reminds you that this country of five million, tucked away in some remote corner of the Earth, its only contribution being the riveting, edge-of-your-seat sport of golf, is strong. She tells you- no, she convinces you that to be Scottish is to be Great. Whether you're a bartender in Pittenweem or a financial executive in Glasgow, you are connected to the land, the land of the proud, strong, and brave.

The view from Wallace Monument, a national symbol of pride

Edinburgh Castle is just a building. An old building, I must say. Its walls have felt centuries of change, witnessed the bloodiest battles, been privy to the most scandalous information, crowned the most glorious kings. At face value, it is just another line in the history books.

But you start to weave a narrative, and things change. No longer was I walking through an empty hall where kings and queens once feasted, jesters played, and trumpets blared. The location - a two dimensional set of coordinates - was transformed into a memory. I was watching an engrossing tale of treason, torture, and fear. I was standing there, aching legs, heavy camera, and frozen fingers, immobile, as a stranger transported me to another era. Edinburgh Castle, from that moment onwards, was not another castle struck off my bucket list - it had become a living memory, breaking the boundaries of space-time, hitching me to this land they call Scotland.

In that second, I was Scottish.