"Death is perfect happiness," rejoiced my grandmother when celebrating her 90th birthday on the occasion of one of those macabre farces that only her family could stage.
Happiness also seems perfect in the 1943 images shot by her and her relatives, refugees in Chambon-sur-Lignon. As if being playful and laughing at death were the only way to exorcise the phantom. It is this obsession that I brought with me to Benares, in India, where the living and the dead share the same territory.
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