A FUNERAL

PART ONE: TWO DEATHS IN ONE

I

The electric incinerator is an ironic piece of machinery. It replaces traditional wood pyres to an even more traditional way of cremating people. Placed on a

wooden stretcher, buried under sheets of clothing, topped with garlands and holy flowers, the body has to be trolleyed down in a metallic container, into a giant metallic furnace that’s combusting at a temperature of nine hundred degree celsius. In an electric crematorium, you will have twenty of these machines sprawled out, connected centrally via ducts and chimneys making it look like no

less than a manufacturing plant. Death is a business. As the trolley rolls closer to the flames, the cotton threads of the clothes start tearing apart at the seams, creating tiny holes from which the heat enters and sears the skin, as a giant metal gate drops on the scene, leaving you with your imagination of what comes next. In under two hours you’re left with a cocktail of bone fragments and ash.

Environment-conscious, not of your feelings. It’s grotesque, but efficient. You’d be in the wrong business if you were still operating traditional cremations.

Sourcing all that wood, the manual labour and the sheer amount of waste to be disposed of. For the heat in which it operates, death is a pretty cold business. The same overheads, balance sheets, profit margins and volume. And business cannot afford to be slow.

One man’s death is another man’s paycheck.

If you don’t believe it, ask why Gangajal (holy water of River Ganges) is sold for 20 bucks a pop and not distributed free; or why ambulance drivers are bribed in exchange of more business to hospitals; or why emergency services triple their profits in a disorganised, lawless market. Death is expensive. Death is the worst form of debt, the one which is owed and never repaid. A financial one, and an emotional one. Something that was owed big time to Anekhi.

II

Anekhi was at work when the phone rang. She was in the break room, on the 12th floor of the National Syndicate Bank, that handled savings and investments, swirling a small, silver spoon in a cup of pale-brown tea. It was the branch manager’s 4 o’clock tea, the one with more ginger and less sugar. That’s when the phone rang. She couldn’t answer it the first time. The second time it seemed to ring with even more intensity, as if knocking louder on your door because the message was urgent. The voice of the clerk on the other end burst through the receiver, “Madam, this Navjyoti hospital, you’re Anekhi na?”

“Yes”

“Yes, come quickly then... it’s your husband”

She ran with the cup of tea, and kept it on the manager’s desk, spilling a little on the sides. The manager wasn’t there. She left without telling anyone.

III

Anekhi didn’t know the meaning to the words she was listening to, but she knew what they meant.

“Resuscitate…” “CPR…”

The nurse shoved a clipboard in her face. It had a consent form that required her signature approving her husband to be put on a ventilator. She signed it.

Anekhi was in the room when he was being put on the ventilator.

Anekhi was in the room when he was being taken off the ventilator.

Anekhi was in the room when a group of doctors had huddled around him. Anekhi was in the room when the doctor tried performing CPR.

Anekhi was in the room when the ECG flat-lined.

Anekhi was in the ambulance as they drove his mortal remains home.

“It’s COVID time. We don’t have any place to keep him” the doctor had said. Anekhi politely agreed.

IV

Anekhi remembered how her father had been proud of their marriage, and how Ustad had won them over by giving them a ride in his rickshaw in central-town. He loved his rickshaw. And sometimes joked about how he loved it more than Anekhi, and how she would play pretend-angry till he said sweet things that

always won her over. He was an earnest man who didn’t drink, or smoke, or ‘sin’ of any kind. He was one of the very few such men in the area, who were eligible bachelors, and interested in marrying the daughter of a pujari (hindu priest). She remembered how they had gotten married in the temple with people throwing marigold flowers on them as they exchanged marigold garlands, and was rudely pulled back to the reality of marigold garlands being out around his dead body.

V

Inside the old government quarters, two men grunted as they carried a heavy electrical freezer and kept it with a bang against the floor, at the door of the elevator. It was an old, compact lift with zig-zag sliding doors, that played a monotonic tune of Beethoven’s Fur Elise when opened. The men clumsily tried fitting the freezer in the lift, but got stuck midway. They came back out and slid the door shut, cutting Beethoven in between his melody. They reluctantly took it up the staircase, on the third floor, and landed it with a thud in front of Flat 32. “Freejer”, one of them said, looking inside the main door that was open. Pujariji signalled to bring it inside. But the men didn’t move.

“Extra”, said the man, rubbing his forefinger and thumb. “For what?”

“Labour charge”

“You find such unique ways of looting people during their majboori.”

“We walked up four floors with it… in this heat… it won’t fit in the lift… who’ll pay for that”, the man said, wiping his face with his banyan.

Pujariji protested feebly, but he realized this wasn’t the time for these things. He angrily gave them a wad of 100 rupee notes and a warning that he would come after them later on. The men got the ice-box inside and connected it to the main power source. As the men were leaving, Pujariji requested them for another favour. He gestured towards the room where a lifeless Ustad lay.

“Body needs to be kept in it”, he said.

The two men carried the body just like they had carried the ice box. Little

instructions, mild grunting and an exclamation of ‘Jai Bholenath’ right after keeping it in place. Pujariji handed them another slice of green as they joined their hands together and left.

VI

The doctors hadn’t told her that he had died in an ‘accident’, but that’s what

Anekhi had told herself. Which she then told others. And when the two men had come to keep the electric freezer, their small talk in between them had given it away.

‘No can do’ aren’t the exact words that Pujariji said, but it was something to that effect. He outrightly rejected the idea of having funeral rites for someone who

was assumed to have killed himself. “It's bad death”, he said.”There’s no good karma for bad death.” After all, he was a pandit himself. With justifiably good

experience at the temples near the ‘ghats’, in the holy cities of Varanasi and

Allahabad. And there’s nothing Anekhi could do. The buck always stopped at her father’s word. Nearly 3 million Indians were cremated every year, making a business of Rs. 1500 crore, and her husband wasn’t going to be a part of that statistic.

PART TWO: LORD KNOWS

VI

Pujariji’s assertiveness had made things quite clear that he wouldn’t be performing Ustad’s funeral rituals, nor would anyone. Pujariji himself was an ascetic who was well-versed with the labyrinthine funeral industry, which was unorganized and heavily monopolised. He had continued to study sacred Hindu texts and taught foreign cultural exchange students the ‘shastras’ at the Indian Cultural Society. His word was assumed to be final. No one would hold a Hindu funeral ceremony for someone who had committed suicide. Because the texts

said that it was ‘bad death’, and it would bring a lot of bad karma in the afterlife to the family.

In his last session before colleges shut for COVID, he was teaching them about cosmic balance. That day, in a class of thirty five students, there were sixteen present. Two American, two European, one Sri Lankan and one African, along with ten Indian students from other classes whose teachers hadn’t shown up. “Agni. Vayu. Prithvi. Jal.”, he announced as he wrote on the board, as chalkdust fell on his glasses again.

"That is, Fire, Air, Earth, Water… Any guesses what the fifth element is?" "Love", someone from the back said.

The class laughed. Pujariji himself couldn't resist a smile.

"Someone's been romancing in the time of COVID", he remarked. The class roared.

He turned and drew a dash on the board.

"The fifth element… is open to interpretation. But in your exams, you’ll write

Aakash, that is Space. And this, boys, makes up the Pancha Bhoota, or the five elements that are the basis of all cosmic creation. Copy it. And we’re done. Next class, when college reopens.”

The students promptly pulled out their phones and took a picture of the board and packed up and left.

VII

Anekhi knew that her father was a man of theory more than practicality. She was the opposite. A simple Google search gave her the results of everything that needed to be bought for the funeral. She called her brother home. Uday said he was at the shop and that he would come around 4:30pm.

When he did, she told him her plan and said, “Let’s go to the market”. He didn’t mind. But his concern was how they would take the things back on his scooter. “Ustad’s auto is still lying here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Haan, why not? Wait, I’ll bring the keys.”

She sat behind, as Uday took the wheel ahead. With three strokes of the handle, the rickshaw started and they were on their way. Anekhi remembered how Ustad used to keep telling her about getting a new rickshaw that had an electric start.

She always thought electric meant better.

“It’s so much better to drive it,” he used to say. “Oh? And where will we go?”

“To the beach”

“First take me to that pani-puri wallah next lane and then we’ll see”, she said, teasing him. She loved the breeze caressing her cheeks as Ustad used to drive her around in his auto. It always set her thoughts in order.

Now the breeze had triggered a storm of agonizing emotions within her. It brought the turbulent realization that Ustad was no more with her. What was she going to do now? She didn’t know. She had never lived alone all her life.

VIII

At the market, she took out her list on the phone and read it out loud to the shopkeeper as he gathered all the things, in his small, loaded shop. “Cotton, Gangajal, Ghee, Garland, Diya, Gulaal, Haldi, Chandan lakdi,

Beetlenut...”

The shopkeeper was polite enough to not ask a customer, let alone asking a woman what she needed the things for. But here, everyone knew everything. He’d get to know sooner or later. And if he assumed correctly, she would need his help finding a pandit too. So he slid a pamphlet in the bag that had the number of a local funeral director.

He handed Uday a big, white polythene bag, which had another big, white polythene bag inside it, with everything she had asked for. He stuffed it in the back of the rickshaw as they charted their way back home.

IX

The pandit was staring impatiently into his smartphone, standing at the bus-stop, where buses passed by every thirty seconds. He called Anekhi to check on his pick-up. She said Uday was on his way. Then she called Uday to check on him, but Uday said he had been waiting for him for 15 minutes, at the place they had decided. Uday called the pandit directly, but his phone was engaged. He cursed technology. On the other side of the road, he saw the pandit, staggering between the passing buses and . He took a sharp U-turn and stopped the auto right at his feet. The buses honked angrily.

“Sit sit”, Uday hurried.

“Very quickly you arrived”, the pandit said with cutting sarcasm.

“Why are you standing at the bus stop? You don’t have to catch the bus no?” “Are you telling me where I’m supposed to stand now?”

Uday realized there was no point to this. The Brahmins had been flashing their badge of privilege since centuries, and one pithy argument in the 21st century won’t change history. He kept to himself and haggled through the city’s peak morning traffic.

X

“Mummy Papa won’t be joining”, Anekhi told Uday in hushed tones when he got there with the pandit.

“What? Where are they?”, he asked.

“They just left for the temple. Papa said if stays here he’ll be punished by God, and he didn’t want to be born a Piśāca in his next life.”

“Piśāca?”, Uday wondered.

“Someone who is cursed into existence as blind and deaf, and deformed and ugly, who is unable to breathe, eat or drink.”

Uday instantly wished he hadn’t asked her at all.

She continued, “Both of them have gone to do purification rituals at the temple in central-town.”

“It’s okay Anu, they’ll take a while to come around.” “And if they don’t?”

“If they don’t, they don’t”

XI

Anekhi greeted the Panditji whose first question was about when the rest of the family was arriving. He complained to them about having several other poojas

lined up because of the ongoing festival.

“We can start Panditji. COVID is there no? So everyone’s scared to come.” “Then sit, let’s get started.”

The fire burnt strong as the pandit added a few more spoonfuls of ghee into it. He was used to seeing a room full of people when performing funeral rites, but today there were only five - including Anekhi’s friends, and Uday and his wife.

Traditions dictated only men could perform the rituals. Uday obediently carried out the pandit’s instructions.

“Pour ghee here.

Sprinkle Gangajal.

Take a leaf and put it in the mouth of the deceased. Put a red tika on his forehead.

Hold the janoi by the thumb and the forefinger. Sprinkle Gangajal.

Pour ghee again.”

The prayer was loud for the space they were in. Neighbours peeked out of their homes to look at what was happening. No one came close.

“Say om” “Om”

“Say om” “Om”

“Say om” “Om”

“Shanti shanti shanti…”

His cellphone rang. It was a popular Bollywood dance number. “Coming, ten minutes.”

He said a few mantras and told everyone to rise, and instructed them to come to him one by one, take blessings and leave a little donation. He wasn’t subtle about the donation bit. Then, making eye contact for the first time with a woman in that house, he asked Anekhi to bring him his designated meal.

According to tradition no one in the house could eat till the Brahmin ate. Anekhi arranged a humble meal of dal, rice and vegetables for him.

He asked for ghee. She poured ghee on the rice. He ate sumptuously. ‘His meal is lasting longer than the pooja’, thought Anekhi.

When it was time for him to leave, he expected Uday to drop him to his next client.

Anekhi told Uday to eat and go. Uday told Anekhi to start eating and serve the guests while he would go and drop the pandit. ‘Oh god’, Anekhi thought, ‘Why is following tradition so complicated’.

PART 3: THE FIFTH ELEMENT

XII

The auto-rickshaw stopped right in front of Anekhi. It was Uday, holding two mud cups out for her.

“You’ve become an auto-wallah in two days?”, she asked, smiling weakly. “Take. I got for you… falooda.”

She took a bite and let the taste touch her soul. The healing had begun, she thought. There are some things that you’re just intuitive about, even when you’ve never experienced them before. She dug into her purse and took out a mud pot, that was thrice the size of the cup with falooda in it. In it was the man she had travelled so often with, eaten falooda even, on these same roads.

“Let’s go”, she said as she quietly sat at the back of the rickshaw.

The auto breezed past the tall skylines interspersed with busy markets. It came to a conclusive stop in 20 minutes. Anekhi didn’t realize how the time had passed. Her senses were overwhelmed by the smell of the sea, and the

sea-breeze that swept by on her face. A humid day as usual, sweat beads formed on her forehead. She adjusted her dupatta and hung the handbag around her shoulder as she got down. Uday parked the auto and pulled out a pack of beedis.

“You go ahead…”

Anekhi pointed towards the far end of the beach suggesting that she was going upshore. Uday struck the matchstick and set the beedi aflame, and Anekhi set off, her dupatta fluttering vigorously with the wind.

She walked and she walked. All the way to the far end of the beach that was tranquil. She walked as far as the sands of time would take her, even into the golden sun that engulfed her whole. She maneuvered herself closer to the water. At the point where the receding waves met her soft feet, she stood, and took the mud pot out of her handbag, and tilted it ever so slightly. The ashes were of the body burnt by the fire, scattered by the wind, swept away by the water and consumed into the earth. All four elements of nature had come together to give birth to a new life for Anekhi. And the fifth element was what gave meaning to it all. ‘It was love, then. It is hope now’, she thought. Just when she felt she had lost everything, she began to appreciate the little things.

Anekhi sat next to the rock and made a small burrow in the sand. She pulled out a conch and cleaned it off the wet sand particles. After spending 20 minutes there, she walked back the sandy route that led her back to the main area and the entrance of the beach by the time it got dark, where she met Uday and got

into the auto. Off she went this time. Home.

To Renee.

To a new, same old life.

***