Before dawn, the rice is set out on the temple ground

The sky is still dark, the air holding the cool of dew and the damp of earth. Outside the temple people already crouch on the ground, carefully setting out little parcels of rice and dishes wrapped in banana leaf — at the foot of walls, under trees, by the edges of stone steps — the leaves glistening, soaked with morning dew. No one speaks, only the soft knock of bamboo baskets, the rustle of leaf parcels opening, and a cockcrow or two far off. Standing aside, watching these portions of food laid one by one along the ground, a quiet line in the faint light, one suddenly understands: they are not food for the living.

Boon Khao Pradap Din is how the Isan people of northeastern Thailand dedicate merit to the dead, on the fourteenth of the ninth lunar month, about a month after the start of the Rains Retreat. Legend says that on this day the gates of hell open, and departed kin, hungry ghosts, and all the lonely souls no one offers to, return to the world. So before dawn people set little parcels of food on the ground and under trees, so that all may receive a share — this festival takes especially to heart "those whom no one remembers." The offering need not be lavish; what matters is the very fact of "still remembering."

An old woman crouches under a tree, arranging for a long time, her movements slow, as if afraid of waking someone; setting down the last parcel, she presses her palms together and murmurs a few words, unintelligible, yet plainly meant for someone not here. She lays out more portions than anyone else — perhaps more of her family have gone, perhaps she only thinks: set out a few more, for those whom truly no one remembers.

The sky slowly brightens, monks come out from the temple to chant, the low sound flooding the whole compound, covering the rustle of baskets and leaves. Dawn light falls on those rows of leaf parcels, the dew not yet dry, the whole temple as if just gently wiped over. No one weeps, no one laughs; everyone simply stands quietly, waiting for this dawn meal to be received.

Inside the banana leaf is glutinous rice, grilled fish and a little sweet, the scent faint, mixed into the morning mist, almost beyond smelling. A thin dog weaves slowly among the offerings, and no one drives it off — on this dawn even it seems one of the tacitly permitted guests, come to receive a share.

Carrying no offering, only standing and watching. Yet standing there, one remembers the people in one's own life who can never be seen again. And then one suddenly grasps the tenderness in this gesture: it makes no fuss, asks no grief of anyone, only says, once a year with a dawn meal, softly — I still remember you. I think if you too have stood through a dawn like this once, what surfaces in your heart will likely be some face, long unseen.