Let's meet at the funeral

It was Sunday. And as usual he woke up earlier than weekdays. Whenever he gets up, he never sits on his bed for a few seconds. Instead, he prefers to get up in haste, and starts folding his off-white coloured bed sheet, which is untidy at some places and torn at the edges. A stream of thoughts starts reverberating in his mind; especially of his elder daughter’s marriage. It’s been ten years; his hunt for a bridegroom is still on.

At 66, his physique is flimsy, but whenever he speaks, his voice reaches to the maximum. A natural tenor that most of the lean personalities possesses. His is a mercurial behaviour that he has inherited since childhood. Often, he gets tense and furious over matters that are related to his life as well as of those he is not familiar with. The subject to get strained could vary. From a political fury to products price rise to unethical practises to company workers rights to irregular water supply to potholes during rains to sweeper’s absenteeism. The list is endless. Like a concerned citizen, he wants everything systematic, while reclining within the realm of his 550 sq. ft. territory.

He gargled for a few seconds at the wash basin that was fixed in the passage, connecting living room with the other rooms of the house. He took some steps towards the living room’s door to check-out that day’s newspaper. His was a typical middle class lifestyle, where living room is used as a bedroom by night. So to pick up the newspaper, he had to find a way through the small alley that was formed due to the bed laid on the living room’s floor, where his wife, son and daughter were sleeping.

His footsteps were no less than the bass drum – thump, thump, thump! He opened the main door, excluding the security-door; as the paperboy had stuck the newspaper in-between the railings of the security door. But as he opened the main door, the papers slipped down to the floor.

For him Marathi was a bit dear, as the language is a close relative of his mother tongue, Konkani. English was a long-distant relative. Being born and brought up in Goa, he got a chance to learn Portuguese, but as the rulers left the colony to the secular India, so did the language bid adieu from his life. He kept English paper on the shoe-rack, which was kept next to the main door, took Marathi paper and then thumped back through the alley to sit on the sofa that was placed near the living room’s window.

He opened the sliding door of the window. And with that a bunch of morning rays that were smashed on the window’s glass surface, found an opening to travel every nook and corner of his house; giving everyone an indication to wake up.

Most of the headlines that he read turned-out contentious; invited various undulating thoughts within the realm of his mindset. They often caught hold of his ruffling thought process, but couldn’t grab them longer, as his freakish demeanour never allowed them to overpower. Meanwhile, his wife gets up and asks him to get some milk, bread and butter for the breakfast. A little while later, his son leaves the made-to-order bed, except his elder daughter, who preferred to sleep for some more time.

Taking a dose or two of the day’s headline, he quickly went back to his bedroom to put on pant and shirt that were tucked on a plastic hook. He visited a nearby provision, gets all the stuff and comes back in some time.

At home, everyone was busy doing their morning ablution. The made-to-order bedroom turns back into a drawing-room. The bed sheets and pillows were back in stack.

As he removed his shirt to tuck it back, his mobile rang. “Hallo”, he answered with a stretch on the word ‘Ha’. An agitated voice, though familiar, replied from the other end, “Hello Ashok, Rao here.”

He felt glad after listening to his old colleague’s and senior’s voice. Rao and Ashok, both used to work together for more than thirty years in the same port trust company. They shared a nice camaraderie. For Ashok, Rao was more than a colleague, as his practical approach towards life, and the confidence that he often portrayed while conversing, impressed Ashok. For him he was a friend who shared good opinions and advises. Which is why he got elated. But it’s been years he got retired from his job. To get an advice or to talk with Rao was a ghost of a chance. Though they used to call and chat with each other, but that was only a matter of minutes on phone.

Ashok showcased a concerned face, as it was too early to get a call from him on a beautiful Sunday morning. His curiosity to know ‘why the hell he called me so early’ increased. “Yes Rao. How are you? How come you called so early? Hope everything’s ok at your end?” said he.

“Hmm, ya ya... (With a brief pause) the thing is... our friend Furtado passed away last night”, replied Rao with a serious tone.

“Is it? Was he not keeping well?” asked a worried Ashok.

“No. He was absolutely fine yesterday till late afternoon. But our friend Vichare, who stays in the same building, called me and told me that everything happened abruptly. He got a heart attack last evening.” replied Rao and then continued with a pause, “Listen, I’m going for the funeral. Will you be able to come down?

“Yes Rao, I’ll... till what time should I reach?” replied Ashok with a pity. 

“See... his body is kept in the morgue, because some of his relatives are yet to come from Mangalore. His son might bring him home at around 12 pm. So I think that would be the perfect time to reach”, replied a passive toned Rao.

Ashok cuts the call. His wife looked at his agitated face. She understood what has happened, as she could listen to whole conversation clearly because the volume of both, the mobile and her husband was to the maximum and clear to hear. He looked at his wife’s face and murmured in Konkani without making too much movement of his lips, “Baro aaslo jeevaan toh manees”, he was a good healthy man.

Within an hour, Ashok reached station to buy a local train ticket till Andheri. He’s been living in Mumbai for the past forty-two years, but twenty years ago he shifted to a suburb of the city. Of which, thirty years he spent working with a port trust company. Over the years, he learned by heart the localities favourite, Bumbaiya language and the trick of how to catch a running train touching the CST station’s platform.

He still lives with that alacrity to catch a train, even when there is less number of people at the station to get into. Grabbing the pole with the right hand, springing up the left leg, so that the right leg remains in the air for a few seconds to land firmly on the train’s footboard and then whizz pass inside the compartment without giving a glance at the commuters standing near the door to find a seat to sit.

He got the fourth seat. As he sat he took out a local Marathi newspaper from his shirt, whose first two buttons were unbuttoned revealing his white-washed half-sleeve vest, followed by a ball pen from the front pocket of his half-tucked, bulging-out sky-blue coloured shirt. He removed the paper not to read, but to solve the crosswords, which he does to kill the time since he got retired. In fact, that was the only pass time for him to get rid of unwelcome thoughts.

Travelling by a local train is the greatest nightmare for most of the commuters in Mumbai. The hustle-bustle, the cacophony, the din and clamour on the way can make one to gasp for breath in the train known as the veins of the metropolitan city. Ashok too became a victim of this painstaking travel. To reach Amboli, a locality in Andheri East, he had to change two trains and then had to run behind the snooty rickshawwallahs to reach the destination on time.

At the Furtado’s, the ambience was dead serious. Heat wave of emotions was bustling across every person, who came to attend the funeral. Hindus, who never experienced a Manglorean Christian’s funeral, were surprised to see all the relatives, who decked themselves in neat white attire, as if the carnival will start at any moment.

They were unaware that unlike the Hindus who believe in rebirth, Christians believe in life-after-death. The Bible says that there is not only life after death, but eternal life so glorious that “no eye has seen, no ear has heard, and no mind has imagined what God has prepared for those who love him” (1 Corinthians 2:9).

But for Ashok, who belongs to Goa, a region popularly known as the native of the Indian Christians, knew a bit about the requiem and thereafter the interment.

Those who knew each other stayed in a herd showcasing solicitous gesture for the Furtado’s. Some preferred to stand aloof, while some neighbours took the support of the compound wall by resting their back on it, standing one-legged and folding their hands. Relatives were moving on and off the floor to make the last funeral arrangement. As the ambulance van brought the body from the morgue, and even the undertaker reached at the same time with a coffin that was cordoned intricately on all the sides.

The mourning congregation seemed like a reunion of families, friends and neighbours. Ashok met almost all of his ex-colleagues to whom he bid goodbye ten years ago. He got a bit excited after seeing them, as they worked cheek by jowl in the same company. But considering the situation he just greeted them casually, folded his hands and stood next to Rao. He still remembered how his friends felicitated him with a shawl, coconut and a bouquet for the contribution that he made to the company. But today, they brought the wreath to bid final goodbye to one of their good old friends.

In a grand cassock, the padre joined everyone. Under his guidance the undertaker’s men placed the body carefully in the trapezoidal form casket. The scene reduced almost everyone from the family to tears. It was a heart-touching moment. Even Ashok broke down, but quickly managed to keep his woeful feelings with himself. The priest recited some psalm from the Holy Bible and then crossed the hands of the body like swords on a wall. Looking at the disturbance in the heart of everyone and the unstoppable outburst of tears, the padre without any further delay closed the casket. On the coffin it was written ‘May your soul fly to our saviour Jesus’.

For Ashok and his friends, the casket closing moment was an eye-opening experience. After all they all were of the same age as that of the deceased. They shared an intense look and without uttering a word they just moved on with the community who stood in a decorous line, three in a row.

At the graveyard, the community recited a beautiful solemn psalm along with the padre. A ritual they’ve been practising for ages, so that the Lord absolves all the intentional or unintentional sins of the deceased and ennobles the soul to rest in peace.

Though Ashok and his friends went inside the graveyard, they observed the last rituals from a distance. They had no inkling about what was happening. As they realised that the rites are over, they expressed their condolence to the Furtados and came out with a sigh of relief.

There was a certain amount of obvious silence as they kept walking. It was clear that their feelings were eagerly finding words to release themselves. But their throats were choked and their lips were sealed. The mind was precarious and the thoughts were jumbling. Expressions were lost in the labyrinth, while their consciousness was getting trapped in an unconscious state of mind. They had just experienced the inevitable truth of life.

They reached at a nearby junction to catch a rickshaw to go back to the station. The silence continued for some moments. But then suddenly something stuck Rao’s mind. Looking at Ashok he said, “Tu Goa jaake rehne waala tha, uska kya hua? Bhenchod tu har roz bolta tha, retire hoke tu gao rahega. Dus saal se toh tu idhar hi sud raha hai. Kab jaayega?” You said you’ll settle in Goa, what happened to that? Every day you used to say that once you’ll get retire you’ll shift to your native place. It’s been ten years you’ve been rotting here only.

For Ashok, it was an unexpected falsetto. Gathering his consciousness he replied, “Arre jaake aaya re. Aate jaate rehta hun”. I just came from my native place. In fact, I keep travelling to and fro, replied Ashok bashfully in his usual high-pitched tone.

“Dekh bhai bolna zaroori nahin hai, lekin tu abhi dekha na life mein kaise twist aata hai. Ek din tereko aur mereko uparwaale ko milna hai. Jo karna hai abhi kar. Warna kal tak hum kisi function mein, ya apne bachcho ki shaadi mein milte the; ek din aisa aayega ki hum ek dusre ki mayyat mein milenge!”

“See, needless to say, life’s got its own peculiar way of revealing its true colours. One day we all will be accountable to our deeds. So before death do us part, do, what you wish to do. Else, till yesterday we used to meet at some auspicious occasions but now, one of us will call each other and will say let’s meet at the funeral”. Said Rao with a smile on his face.  

Ashok was taken-aback with those words. It was not just a suggestion but a statement that made him realise that how life’s brutal reality Rao portrayed in a simple, yet compelling way.