Connecting with my Ancestors — a personal journey

Connecting with Ancestors

I’ve been meaning to put down these thoughts for a while, to explore a path I’ve found myself walking: the path of connecting with ancestors. Can we truly form these connections with those who have passed? And perhaps more importantly, does it really help us, those of us still here?

My own journey into this realm began subtly. For many years, my great grandparents (and even my grandfather) were figures I hadn’t truly known, their stories pieced together from hearsay. Then came the more immediate losses — my father, my uncle.

As I settled into my new life in the village (found my Walden), slowly, a new practice began to weave itself into my days. During my evening ritual, the Sandhya — a Bengali tradition of showing a lamp as twilight deepens, a gentle marking of day’s transition into night — I would look up at the darkening sky. In those few sacred minutes, I imagined them, my departed loved ones, present. I would talk to them, a silent, personal chat — sometimes an apology for a past misstep, sometimes just recollecting shared moments.

What began as a simple act of remembrance soon “took a grip on me.” I found myself looking forward to this communion. Gradually, the gathering in my mind’s sky grew. First, my direct relatives: my father, my uncle. Then, my grandfather, and his father, and eventually, the patriarch of our family in this ancestral place where I now live — my great-great-grandfather, a man I’ve never seen, yet for whom a “cocktail image” has formed in my mind. I’d imagine discussions, offer my respects. To my right in this celestial assembly, relatives from my mother’s side would appear, their numbers growing over months from a few to a small cohort, each with their own “fix lot” in my imagined vista. To my left, those from my father’s side, especially from our village, people with whom I shared direct memories. Even a brief, ten-second remembrance felt important. Soon, it became a “huge crowd up in the sky.”

There are days, especially when my mind is in turmoil or rushed, when this connection feels faint, almost absent. But on other days, when I am focused and at peace, when the ritual feels truly meaningful, the connection is palpable. I can almost see smiling faces, feel their appreciation, as if they’ve all come down, happy that I’ve returned to our roots and am tending to these moments.

I’ll be the first to say, in a conventional sense, this might have “no meaning.” And yet, the experience is profoundly real to me. My scientifically-trained mind often nudges in with its own questions:

What kind of chemistry is unfolding in my brain to make this happen? Is this simply thought manifesting, my mind creating what it seeks? I don’t have the answers to these, not in scientific terms.

What I do know is the feeling it brings. It has become easier, in my own way, to connect. Thinking about them brings a warm, fuzzy feeling, a distinct sense of security. It’s as if a host of well-wishers are out there, perhaps appreciating the path I’m on, even if some of my life choices post-60 might have been met with disagreement by some, like perhaps my mother, while others, like my bachelor uncle who lived here, would have been “super happy.” These connections have stabilized over time; some days strong, some days elusive. In a way, they have become my “personal Gods.” Having been exposed to Vedantic philosophy, the idea of a formless, ultimate God appeals to my logical brain, yet I find reasoning with, and connecting to, my relatives in this way more accessible. The “Jnana Yoga” of Vedanta resonates, but this personal communion (infused with bhakti/love) is where my heart finds its immediate solace.

I once wrote .. To lead a conscious life in a material world, one needs to calm the mind and kill the ego that drives negativity; and for that we have two great levers: (a) connecting with nature, and (b) connecting with our ancestors.

(Reference to that article here — The Conscious Living Framework)

I believe there are gateways to this connection, not through seances or planchettes (for which I have insufficient data or evidence, despite an unexplained childhood experience I still can’t fathom), but through the careful cultivation of memory. It’s like building layers on a silicon chip: starting with faint traces, adding memories, developing relationships with these remembered figures. For some, like an aunt who passed tragically young in a fire, it’s just a single, strong image — a smiling face, no words exchanged. With others, it feels like a chat, sharing how things are, acknowledging how their lives somehow led me to this place.

The elders in my village, with their ingrained, unread philosophies, often say my return here wasn’t entirely my decision, but part of a “grand design,” a result of my ancestors’ good deeds and wishes for me to find peace. It’s a perspective I’m still reconciling, but it adds another layer to this unfolding connection.

Preserving material memories also plays a part. Little notebooks my mother scribbled in, postcards from my father, the very table I now use for my work — a table once used by my grandfather for his legal practice, then by my father for his business. Sitting there, sometimes under their pictures, brings an amazing sense of calm. These tangible links seem to cradle the intangible connection.

Even formal closure rituals, as prescribed in Hindu philosophy, have shaped this. After performing the final rites for my parents at Bodh Gaya, I found a marked difference. The feeling of my mother’s distinct presence around the house, where she used to sleep, magically disappeared. Perhaps it was my state of mind, the ritual aiding the closure of a chapter. Yet, paradoxically, I feel I’ve fallen even more deeply in love with her in her absence, her memory becoming more distilled and cherished.

So, as the days roll by, as little bits and pieces of memory surface and assimilate, this evening ritual of looking up at the sky feels like a huge, quiet opportunity. It’s a space where I can connect with people on an ancestral plane and derive a profound sense of peace and calm.

This leaves me with lingering questions, not of doubt, but of wonder: Why does this connection happen, and why does it bring such peace? Why are these ancestral memories so important to our well-being? And in a world that often rushes past, what can we do to preserve these vital memories and connections in a better, more conscious way?

It often bothers me when I see how easily these links can be forgotten, or perhaps not valued. I feel that if we are not engaging in some form of remembrance — be it through personal ritual, the preservation of material memories, or simply taking the time to actively remember — we are missing out on a significant opportunity for inner peace and a deeper understanding of who we are.

That’s the stream of my thoughts for the day, a personal story more than a definitive answer. But perhaps in sharing, we find common threads and a collective appreciation for these quiet, enduring bonds.