How rural India is mourning its dead online

As migration, distance and cost reshape family life, grief too has gone digital, from Kashmiri homes and Bihar’s floodplains to India’s first online condolence platforms.Srinagar, Jammu and Kashmir: In Kashmir’s quiet villages, where families once gathered under wooden roofs to share their grief, mourning is now finding its way through phone screens.Across Ganderbal, Baramulla and Kupwara, families sit around kitchen tables, holding smartphones to offer prayers for the dead. What was once communal, marked by presence, food and touch, is increasingly mediated by technology.The reasons are simple but heavy. Travel is costly, migration has scattered families, and in remote areas, even reaching a funeral can take hours or days. For many, a video call has become the only way to be part of loss.“Flying relatives home for a funeral would’ve cost more than I earn in months,” said Ghulam Nabi Dar of Baramulla. “We held the prayer on a video call instead. It helped, but I still felt alone without them beside me.”“I couldn’t travel to Delhi because the roads were blocked,” said Safiya (name changed), a 43-year-old of Zainpora, near the Jhelum River. “My cousin had died there. I climbed to the roof, held my phone high, and could barely catch the signal. I finally saw him on the screen. I prayed and cried for hours.”Digital mourning surged during the pandemic and never truly receded. Tools like WhatsApp, Zoom and Google Meet now aid in hosting condolence prayers. Imams, priests and relatives join from different cities or countries.“Last winter, the snow had trapped us in our home for days,” said Aijaz of Kupwara. “My son didn’t know a certain prayer he had to recite at a relative’s ritual in the next village. I couldn’t be there because the roads were blocked, so I recorded the whole prayer on my phone and sent it to him to memorise. Later, I watched a video of him playing the exact recording on a speaker there. I was surprised but felt like I was part of the ritual.”“In 2021, my brother died in Dubai,” Bashir Ahmad of Kangan in Ganderbal told 101Reporters. “Doctors advised against travel. We opened a video call and prayed for him. I cried, but I also felt peace because I saw him.”Anthropologist Dhuri Saxena said this shift is changing how communities grieve. “Mourning has always been about presence,” she said. “When it moves online, some of that intimacy is lost. But it also allows memory to travel beyond the village, reaching relatives far away.”Platforms of remembranceIn recent years, this adaptation has led to the introduction of new players, catering exclusively to facilitating funerals digitally.Shradhanjali.com, India’s first online memorial platform, now formalises digital mourning. Families can upload photos, prayers and tributes in local languages.“People thought we were encashing grief,” said co-founder Vivek Vyas. “We had to explain that we’re creating a business of memories.”While most users are urban, Vyas said some rural families also use such services. “Those communities are emotionally more connected to remembrance,” he said. “We haven’t reached them deeply yet, but their need is stronger.”For many others, accessible tools like WhatsApp remain the main link. In villages with weak networks, families climb rooftops or gather in courtyards searching for a signal strong enough to connect with distant kin. Payments to imams or priests are now made online; funeral prayers are often streamed through a single phone placed near the body.For families separated by migration, online mourning is a bridge.Families said digital mourning has become both a necessity and a form of connection.“Even though we were miles apart, I could see my relatives’ faces and share our grief,” said Imran (name changed) from Kupwara, recalling a virtual condolence gathering attended by relatives from Delhi, Bangladesh and Srinagar. “It made me feel that we were still together.”But not everyone is at ease with this change.“In our time, mourning was not only prayer,” said Haji Yousuf (56) of Wagoora, Baramulla. “It was sitting together, sharing stories, helping the family with food and comfort. Now, boys and girls recite Fatiha on a screen. They send flowers through apps. I do not say it is wrong, but it feels hollow. Rituals are not only words, they are warmth.”Cover photo - Image of Tasbeeh and a phone app (Photo sourced by Parsa Tariq, 101Reporters)

From job applications to Wi-Fi woes: Prayers at this Srinagar shrine are evolving in digital age

At the shrine of Makhdoom Saab, offerings now include exam papers, resumes, and even notes about technology, showing how centuries-old rituals adapt to modern life.Srinagar, Kashmir: Folded among the usual notes asking for good harvest, health, or blessings, a new kind of prayer has begun to appear at the Shrine of Makhdoom Saab, also known as Mehboob-ul-Alam, in Srinagar, Kashmir. Job application printouts, exam roll numbers, and photocopies of ration cards now lie beside the threads once tied for good harvests and healthy cattle.Document placed on the shrine wall while praying (Photo - Parsa Tariq, 101Reporters)These slips of paper — called arzi, or requests — carry the everyday anxieties of a generation raised on digital forms and online submissions. In this shrine, they are handwritten again, offered with the same reverence as the old prayers for rain or livestock.By the time the Maghrib prayer or the sunset prayer in Islam approaches on a Thursday evening, the narrow path leading to the shrine is already crowded.Men and women wrapped in shawls sit along the steps leading to the grave — heads bowed in contemplation, clutching small pieces of paper.The fading light catches the threads tied by generations seeking relief. Beside them flutter the newer papers, carefully folded and slid into boxes kept by shrine workers or through a small window near the grave when no box is available.The rituals, tying threads, murmuring prayers near the grave, have remained unchanged for generations. For decades, people have come here with their most urgent worries, trusting that the saint listens through every season of need.Abdul Rahim (70), a farmer said: “Hamare gaon mein ek dafa teen mahine tak sukha pada tha. Tab poore gaon ke log yahan aaye the sirf barsaat ke liye.” (Once, after a three-month drought hit our village, the entire village came here to pray for rain)“Now, the children come here for jobs or education. For us, farming was everything and for the young kids jobs are everything,” Rahim added. To place one’s arzi here is to hand over one’s worries to Makhdoom Saab himself, trusting that the saint’s blessing, spiritually “signed”, will help guide their prayer towards fulfillment. To place one’s arzi here is to hand over one’s worries to Makhdoom Saab (Photo - Parsa Tariq, 101Reporters)Constant amid the change“I fill job applications everyday, but placing an arzi here comforts me,” said Uzair (22), who recently completed his BSc. “It feels like I am not struggling alone.”Inside the shrine, a plastic box with its lid open waits quietly for such prayers. Some visitors travel miles on foot to reach it, limited by public transport or money, but they still come — men and women of all ages, carrying folded papers that hold their most private appeals.When the box fills up, devotees slide their arzi through a small window beside the grave. The stone beneath it is smooth from countless hands pressed against it over the years.“When we come here we just know that someone is listening,” Sakeena Bano, in her 50s, a regular visitor told 101Reporters.Arif (18) agreed with Bano. “I wrote a note asking Makhdoom Saab to make my Wi-FI stop crashing during online classes,” he said, laughing. “I know it is funny, but I take it seriously here.” Fareeha (25), said, “I submitted three job applications online today. Then I came here and slipped the same details on paper into the box — both carrying my hopes.”Another devotee, Sana (22) told 101Reporters said, “I wrote a paper asking Makhdoom Saab to help me convince my parents to let me study abroad.”“I get my results on my phone,” Danish (19) a student added. “Still, I write the number here. It’s like transferring my anxiety to something bigger than my screen.”For the older generation, the worries were different but the instinct the same, said Hajra (age). “Only the troubles have changed,” she added.But the way the prayers are made has not, Aisha, in her twenties, said while sliding her paper through the window.The prayers have changed but instincts to place their faith here are the same (Photo - Parsa Tariq, 101Reporters)“I learned this from my grandmother,” she said. “When I was little, she used to take me to shrines and tie knots for a good husband. Now I come here bringing a copy of my resume for a good career.”Behind these individual prayers, there is the caretaker of the shrine who makes sure that the walls are clean and the area is orderly so that the devotees can find peace here. “People come every week,” he said. “Some bring papers, some just sit quietly. This grave listens to everyone.”The maulvi who serves at the shrine explained how the community handles the arzi. “After Maghrib on Thursdays, we offer the khutmah prayer — a collective recitation of the Quran,” he said. “Everyone sits around the grave, recites verses, and then all the papers are collected and burnt.”For him, this weekly ritual is less about sorting through documents and more about carrying the community’s shared worries collectively into prayer, allowing generations old and new to entrust their hopes in the same sacred space.Cover Photo - Woman holding document and praying (Photo - Parsa Tariq, 101Reporters)

The invisible hands that bury Kashmir’s dead

Gravediggers live with stigma, poverty, and health risks, yet remain unrecognised by the state and society.Srinagar, Jammu and Kashmir: “People will stop eating with me if they know I do this,” said Zubair (21, name changed), a gravedigger from Baramulla. “They won’t sit next to me.”Zubair dropped out of school in Class 10. After his father’s death, his uncle, also a gravedigger, asked him for help.“At first I used to cry while digging. I felt scared. But now I feel numb. I just want to be paid enough to go back to college someday.”On a good day, he earns Rs 500 to Rs 1,000 for a burial. But he refuses to call himself a gravedigger. The label, he said, would ruin his chances of having friends, or even of finding a wife. Young boy watches the grave his brother has dug (Photo - Parsa Tariq, 101Reporters)Stigma and silenceGhulam Mohammad Dar (56), who has been digging graves since he was a teenager, explained what Zubair means.“We bury the dead with our bare hands, wet dirt, rotting wood, sometimes even blood. No one gives us gloves, no one gives us masks. People don’t care about us, and neither does the government.”For many, grave digging is only one part of survival. Most work as daily-wage labourers, carpenters, painters, or butchers to feed their families. Teenage boys often assist their fathers or brothers. “If I had to live only on grave digging, my children would starve,” Dar said.The stigma pushes many to work outside their own villages. A man from Ganderbal digs in a neighbouring district to avoid being recognised. “Some people keep it quiet if they know, others make it a huge topic of gossip,” he said.Another gravedigger from Pulwama explained why he refused to be identified: “If you print my name, people will stop inviting me to weddings. They will think I bring misfortune. Who will marry into our family after that?”Not everyone, however, views the work with resentment.Bilal Lone (40) from Anantnag called it ibadat or prayer. “Digging a grave is the last service one can offer another human. Even if I’m not paid, I do it for Allah.” Still, he admitted, “People often tell their children to stay away from me. Even in the mosque, some move a little farther if they know I just came from a burial.”A view of the graveyard (Photo - Parsa Tariq, 101Reporters)Risks without recognitionGravediggers, however, have more to worry about than social shame. According to Dr Farhaan ul Hassan of Sher-i-Kashmir Institute of Medical Sciences, gravediggers face occupational hazards including falls, cuts, bruises, dust allergies, exhaustion, and exposure to decomposing bodies. “Without protective equipment, long-term exposure leads to chronic respiratory illnesses, fungal infections, joint problems,” he said. “They should have gloves, masks, posture training, vaccinations against tetanus and hepatitis, and regular medical check-ups. But they get none of this.”Unrecognised as formal workers, gravediggers are invisible to state healthcare. There are no medical cards, no insurance, no safety training.Nighat Jan, a Village Level Worker in Singhpora-Baramulla, said that while sanitation workers and other essential staff received some acknowledgment during the pandemic, gravediggers remained unseen.“There is no government support for them. Not even basic tools. Society sees them as people who bring death, as if speaking to them brings misfortune. It’s not just a lack of policy, it’s a lack of dignity,” she said. Tariq Ahmad, president of a mosque committee in Habak, Srinagar, added: “They are not paid by the Waqf Board or the government. The family of the deceased hands over money, sometimes Rs 500, sometimes Rs 1,000, directly into their hands. They even buy their own tools.”Unrecognised as formal workers, gravediggers are invisible to state healthcare (Photo - Parsa Tariq, 101Reporters)ForgottenWhen 101Reporters met Dar he was preparing for the next funeral. “We are always ready,” he said. “It doesn’t matter if it’s raining or snowing, people want their dead buried.”But, once the grave is covered, he walks away unrecognised, uncelebrated, invisible, until the next death.For locals like Fayaz (34), a shopkeeper from Hazratbal, this invisibility is disturbing. “I grew up friends with my neighbour, a gravedigger. It is strange how society treats them as if they don’t exist. Why aren’t they recognised in government employment lists? Not even an ID card. What if they get injured during work? No one even knows their names.”In Habak, locals estimate that three to four men work as gravediggers. In Budgam and Baramulla, the numbers are similar, with each locality relying on a handful of regular diggers.Waiting for recognitionGravediggers told 101Reporters they have lived with these problems for decades, but poverty and lack of social standing prevent them from raising demands. “We can’t afford to leave work to protest or go to government offices,” said Dar. “We are already looked down upon. No one will fight for us.”There is no fixed institution that pays them, and no union to represent their interests. “We tried to talk to the masjid committee two or three times,” Dar said. “But no one responded. We are poor, we don’t have connections. We don’t even know who to approach in the government.”A panchayat member from Baramulla, speaking on condition of anonymity, confirmed there are still no schemes or budget allocations for gravediggers. “We know their condition, but without a policy from higher authorities, we can’t give them salaries or benefits.”In a rare move, the Habak mosque committee is planning to appoint one gravedigger officially and pay him monthly. “Since each locality sees only three or four deaths a month, one is enough,” said Ahmad. “This is the least we can do for someone doing such sacred work.”He added: “Everyone should know how to dig a grave at least once. When people see this work as holy, not shameful, maybe those who do it every day will stop being treated as outsiders.”For many gravediggers, though, the future remains uncertain. “It is not the digging,” said Adil Bhat. “It is the way people look at me after.”This story is part of our series, 'Last Rights, Lost Rights,' about death in rural India and what it reveals about caste, class, migration, governance, and ecology.Cover photo - Picture of a gravedigger from behind (Photo - Parsa Tariq, 101Reporters)