The span of forty days recurs across many traditions and religions. Jesus spent forty days in the wilderness, and in some Hindu traditions the 40th day is marked by a family gathering where the loved one’s favorite things are assembled. During those forty days of mourning, the eldest son is expected to shave his head and body and remain clean-shaven throughout.

For a time I worked for a company that produced 3D visualizations. I was living with most of my family in Dhaka, the capital of Bangladesh, and traveled frequently to Singapore to present our capabilities to various firms.

For weeks I had been bombarding a director at a large shipbuilding company—Keppel Singmarine—with emails, and we had finally agreed to meet. One day I arrived at his office, eager to show him our work on my laptop. He was a tall man, as tall as I am, and his background was impossible to place—he could have been from anywhere. I tried several times to catch his interest, but nothing landed. He remained impassive, asked no questions, offered no comments, and let me talk. It was odd, and I struggled to keep up the energy.

Out of the blue he asked if I lived in Dhaka, which I confirmed. He then told me he was also from Bangladesh but hadn’t been home in twenty-two years. Ah, I thought. He would, however, be in Dhaka the following week and asked if we could meet there. Sensing a better chance to connect, I said yes and suggested dinner at the Nordic Club. We had a deal—though his interest in my professional pitch hadn’t budged an inch.

That Thursday he called, and we set a time. We met outside the club, went in, and took a table in the small restaurant. We each ordered a gin and tonic and some food, and we talked about everything but work—more personal matters and how we saw the world. He turned out to be a deeply philosophical man who seemed to relish serious, reflective conversation.

After an hour he told me he had come to Bangladesh for his mother’s funeral—a mother and a family he hadn’t seen in the previous twenty-two years. No wonder the conversation had run deep, I thought. He then asked if I would like to come along. Absolutely, I said; I would be honored to attend his mother’s funeral. We agreed to meet at his hotel the next day, a Saturday, and set off for Barisal, a day’s drive from Dhaka. His family came too, so we traveled in two cars—my driver and I in one, the family and my new friend in the other. It was a long, difficult journey, crossing several rivers and inching along roads that demanded the utmost caution. Late in the evening we finally reached Barisal and checked into a place that, with some generosity, could be described as a hotel.

The next morning we arrived early at the house where the funeral would be held—a private home with a large tent raised in the front garden. I met the entire family and suddenly felt I’d stepped into something profoundly intimate.

I considered it a privilege to meet people who, with such openness, allowed me to take part in something as personal as a funeral rite. As it turned out, it wasn’t the Muslim funeral I had expected but a Hindu observance—and not the burial itself, but the conclusion of the forty days that had passed since the interment.

Inside the tent, the mother’s bed and her belongings had been arranged. On the floor before them a rug was laid out, and upon it sat the eldest son—head and body shaved—otherwise naked, clothed only in a simple robe.

Laid out before him was an array of bowls and plates, each holding its own offering—spices, oils, salves, incense, and fruit. Opposite him sat the officiant—a priest, perhaps a healer, whatever his exact role.

He chanted prayers while striking small brass cymbals, pausing now and then to stir something on a plate and then anoint the brother with it. At other moments the brother himself would take something from a bowl and eat it, or hold it between his joined hands. The rite continued—and would go on until sunset. I stayed for only about half an hour, after which my seat was taken by another guest.

A Hindu ritual I will never forget—unique in itself, and all the more striking in Bangladesh, where the population is overwhelmingly Muslim and the Hindu community is only a small minority.