In the wake of Death

The landline was the first one to wail.

It was the mother who picked it up. Soon, her body dropped to the floor and she gave a loud, painful shriek… one that would reverberate and haunt the neighborhood for a long, long time….

It was a really chilly morning in November, made colder by the news that circulated from door to door and cell phone to cell phone. A cutting breeze swept through the streets, passing the dead autumn leaves from one to the other. Clouds hung low with dark despair, shedding their tears in between on the somber occasion.

The dogs howled and bayed as I passed the front gate of the house, along with the other neighbors.

It was a large gathering. Some white-clothed, some white-faced. Chairs were brought in by the neighbors from their houses, on which the elderly sat. People were pouring in, cousins, uncles, aunts, distant relatives, friends who skipped college, neighbors, the postmaster; all had come to pay their respects to the deceased. He really did have a buffet of family members.

Indeed, it was a grave and tragic event that had pulled up such a huge crowd. Tragic… for it was death by accident, and grave… because the boy was just 19.

I overheard his uncle detailing the postmaster about what had happened. “The boy had apparently left for college on his bike… so happy and cheerful he was, his mother says…”

“Happy and cheerful…”, well, he was always hyperventilating while talking about college. He was always among the toppers of his batch, and an all-round performer. He was so enthralled the day his band won the youth festival. I remember him reading that story a hundred times to me, which won the regional level competition. No doubt he would have been beaming from side to side while riding to the place.

“And then,” the uncle continued, “just as he approached the New Market Intersection, a speeding truck rammed… it just rammed into my nephew, and he died on the spot.” I thought I heard his voice break at the end there, but he just paused a little and went on, “The matter is not yet cleared up as to who was at fault. The Police have the driver in custody though…” the uncle broke off for a moment and said, “though we know how these youngsters drive these days, don’t we?”

The postmaster nodded fervently with heavy sighs, asking God to grant peace to his soul.

As I stepped inside now, I saw a whole mass of people packed closely together. The sofas and the big table had been left alone to grieve in a corner. It was an interesting assembly, the closer the people sat to the body, the more bitterly were they crying. I squeezed myself in between the strongly perfumed cousin and her well-dressed mother.

The boy, now addressed as ‘the body’, was fully covered with white sheet. The face bore a lot of bruises, so was only shown to the new arrivals, and then covered again. The face that was so well known — in school, around the college, on social networking platforms — a symbol of pride for the family and the relations, now lay, hidden behind a thin stretch of fabric — too ugly… too unnerving for anyone to rest their eyes on.

Just near the wounded boy, was his mother, looking ever so pale…. so worn out…. exhausted off her own tears. It was 4 hours since the accident. I think the tears might have dried up by now for she wasn’t crying. She just stared blankly, numbly at her only child who lay dead before her. Nor could she sit still, just leaning upon the silently sobbing father by her side, who himself carried the expression of not knowing what to do now.

As for me, I could not speak; was at a loss of words, cold and quiet. He was my dearest pal. We had been in touch since a long time. He would discuss all his schedules and plans for the day, the next week, a full month, and the next 5 years. He came to me for advice, for debate, for discussion, to vent, or just for a light chat. I was always there for him, and he for me... a part of me...

It was time now to take the body to the funeral grounds. But there was a slight delay, because his aunt was still on the way from the city.

As the wait prolonged, people were getting a bit restless. There were phones vibrating, an occasional ring or two, and the uncle would be like, “Yes, it’ll just take another hour. I’ll join you guys at the office by 2.” The cousin next to me was texting about being bored to some “Hunny”, and was coaxing him to pick her up from the funeral grounds itself. Her mother opened up the front cam of her cell, and checked if her veil covered her head properly. Good, they did not notice me, peering into their phones.

Finally, the aunt had arrived. The head priest began mumbling prayers. By the time they had mounted him on a wooden stretcher, people had already begun a procession towards the nearest crematorium. It was half a mile from the house, so they decided to go on foot. We used to go to those dead grounds at night when we were kids as “ghost-hunters”.

Well, it wasn’t that childish after all…..

Two able-bodied cousins and two friends carried the lightweight frame on their shoulders. I could’ve given my shoulder too, but my heart alone was heavy enough. The mother was also being “carried” all along the way, much like her son. It seemed like she did not want him to feel all alone, even then.

And thus began the Last Journey of the boy. For someone who wanted to explore foreign lands, travel the globe, half a mile seemed a heavy bargain. One of the morticians lead the crowd, shouting the name of God. “Rest in Peace”, “Have mercy, O Lord”, people would repeat after him like a parrot, glancing from one to another or looking into their phones. And if they exchanged looks at chance, they would put on a more serious face. It was quite an intriguing sight.

We reached the crematorium. It was all very quiet now save for the wind that continued to sough and sigh through the region. Morticians had already set the woods. Amidst the huge congregation, the body was put carefully on the logs and covered by a multitude of white cotton sheets.

Just then a puff of wind swept across and fumbled through those sheets, as if counting them. But then… the left foot of the boy lay exposed. People were forced to look away, for it showed crimson red blood, half-dried all over his foot, or whatever remained of it. It was a terrible sight altogether. The people working on the sheets hastily covered it again.

Maybe God didn’t accept unpackaged stuff too.

Woods were piled up on top of the fragile body and oil was poured all over it. A fire was to be set upon him by the father; the same man who’d jump at his pettiest of wounds. The old man seemed reluctant and hesitant, as if the fire might hurt his son. Ultimately, he was helped on by the relatives.

A huge fire was born. The audience seemed transfixed by how high the flames leapt. The workers had to take a couple steps back from where they’d been standing. And apart from the intensity, it just didn’t seem to end.

It felt like all his big dreams and ambitions were too heavy to be reduced to ashes that easily.

Eventually, people began to take their leave. They hugged the parents goodbye and hurried off on their respective wheels. The morticians had been paid for the day, and they scampered off for lunch too. The parents were the last ones to leave, supported by their brothers and sisters, who had stayed behind.

I was left there, all alone, not knowing where to go from here. I watched the dead and dry, reddish-orange leaves float by and wondered if there was an end to their journey, or if they would just pass on from one street to another.

The cold had alleviated a bit, thanks to the sun that was now shyly shining through the haze. The wind had dropped quite a bit. The dust had settled… for good. Dust… it was all that had left.

Or was it?

The fire was slowly fading out as I walked out of the dead-house. I crossed the busy road just outside it, not bothering about the vehicles. I went straight towards the colony park and settled on a corner bench.

My left foot... aahhh... it had been hurting for a while now... No doubt, it had been a crippling day….

I glanced around for a moment. And just as I rested my eyes on my foot… there it was…

Crimson red blood…. half-dried….

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