When She Was Queen

by M G Vassanji

  “Did you tell them of Karim’s wish?”

  “I didn’t know what to say. I was waiting for your advice.”

  “What do your children think?”

  “I’ve told all three of them. The older ones want to meet with you.”

  We agreed that I should go to meet her and the children early the next morning at her house.

  The house is in an area of north Toronto called Glencedar Park, a locale so devoid of coloured faces—except for the nannies pushing strollers—as to appear foreign to the likes of me. A cul-de-sac, with access to it limited by one-way streets, the neighbourhood might remind the cynical minded of a fortress. There are not many such neighbourhoods left. I have taken clients to inspect houses in Glencedar Park, who after a single drive through it have instructed me simply to hasten out to somewhere else. Having parked my car and come out on the sidewalk, I met the curious though not unfriendly eyes of a couple of heads of households in long coats, each with a briefcase in hand and a folded paper under an arm, striding off to catch the subway on Yonge Street. I told myself this is where Bharwani had come to seek refuge from his people.

  “How do you like the area?” I asked Yasmin when she opened the door.

  “Very much,” she said. “We’ve had no problems. Some of the neighbours are rather nice. The others keep to themselves.”

  All three children were waiting for me in the living room. The oldest, Emil, was a broad, strapping young man, conspicuously crowned with a crop of thick black hair slicked and parted in the middle, which reminded me of his father in his youth. He was at university. The second, Zuleikha, with the slim and toned looks of her age, resembled neither parent; she was finishing high school. The third child, Iqbal, was nine and rather delicate looking. They stood up and I went and embraced each in turn. I reminded myself that this was their time of sorrow, they had lost a father, who to me was only Bharwani, from a shared past, calling upon which he had put me in a delicate spot.

  I muttered some inanities in praise of their father, my arm around the shoulders of little Iqbal, beside whom I had sat down, when Emil, after a nod from his sister, went straight to the point. “Mukhisaheb,” he said, “our mother has told us about Dad’s desire to be cremated. We would like to know what you think.”

  “Your father expressed that wish to me and your mother. I believe the ultimate decision is the family’s.”

  “I think cremation’s the best way,” Zuleikha spoke up, sounding frivolously like an ad, which wasn’t her intent. She had evidently not had much sleep, and she had spent time crying. There was a mild look of defiance in the glare she then awarded me. I have come to believe, in the few years I’ve held communal office, that to the young people I am a little like a cop, whom they would like to come to for help but whom they also resent.

  “I differ,” Emil said stiffly. “But of course Dad’s wishes matter.”

  “I don’t want Dad to be burnt,” broke the quivering voice of young Iqbal beside me, and I held him tight at the shoulders as he gave a sob. His mother, saying to him, “Come,” took him from me and out of the room.

  This is a close family, I observed to myself. I thought of my own son, who had left home soon after graduating from school and was now in Calgary, never quite having looked back; and of my daughter, the same age as Zuleikha, who had grown distant from Farida and me.

  “The problem is,” I told Emil and Zuleikha, “that cremating is not in our tradition—you know that. It might even be forbidden on theological grounds. The community will not allow it. And there are other family members—your father’s mother, and his brothers and sisters. They will have something to say, too.”

  “But he was our father, we have the right to decide,” the girl said emphatically.

  “What can the community do?” asked her brother.

  “They can refuse the final rites to the body,” I told him.

  “Does that matter?” asked Zuleikha. “It wouldn’t have mattered to Daddy. He would have refused them anyway, if he could.”

  “Your mother wishes the final rites and prayers.”

  Their mother brought in fresh brewed coffee and a plate of cookies. “He’ll be all right,” she told me, with a smile, referring to Iqbal. “I’m trying to explain to him that his father lives on in spirit.” She quickly averted her eyes, so expressive of the turmoil and grief beneath her surface. In a cream cardigan over a dark green dress, she reminded me of how young women used to dress back in Dar a long time ago, during the cooler hours of the day. She had been trained as a librarian, as I was aware, and now worked in government. Ever since her call to tell me that her husband had closed his eyes for the last time while in the midst of chatting with her and Iqbal, she seemed to have kept her emotion in check.

  Emil said: “Mum, what would you like to do, regarding Dad?”

  “It sounds silly, I know, but I only want to do what is right.”

  “What is right is what he wanted,” her daughter insisted, and tossed another glare at me. I could imagine her as Daddy’s favourite, always ready at his defence during conflicts.

  “Let’s all give it a few more hours,” I told them. “The funeral is tomorrow. Meanwhile … if you wish, you could inquire about cremation procedures and costs….”

  By that evening the community leadership had caught wind of Bharwani’s last wish, and I received a stream of phone calls, all intended to sound me out regarding rumours already in circulation. No, I was certain, I replied, that the family was not considering alternative funeral arrangements. The ceremony would take place tomorrow, as announced. And, yes, I had seen Karim in hospital, delivered chhanta to him, he had not been out of his mind, ranting ignorant things. Finally came the call from the very top, the chummy but very commanding voice of our Chairman. “What is there to these rumours, Shamshu—something about the deceased’s wish to be cremated. Word is that he spoke to you before he died, and that you are close to his family.” I explained to him what the situation was and told him that since I was a witness to that last wish of the dead man, I felt somewhat obligated by it. The last remark was wilfully ambiguous, and I waited for his response. “We understand your personal predicament, Shamshu,” the Chairman answered impatiently, “but first and foremost you are a mukhi; not just a présider but a representative of God. You know what is right. Just because the deceased had deviated from the right path—that’s what I hear, he had become a communist—does that mean it is not our duty to try and save him? And it seems to me that this is the perfect opportunity, when he has fallen back into our hands. You said he let you do chhanta; that means he had a semblance of faith still left in him. Then let’s save him. Otherwise he dies without the prayers of his people to go with him.”

  His was the kind of pompous, authoritarian voice that prompts one to rebel. What did the man know of the right path except that it was the official path, I caught myself asking, echoing Bharwani perhaps.

  “It’s his wife’s and children’s desire to fulfill his wish,” I said.

  “Then obviously they are misled. You can convince them as to what is right, can’t you? If not, I’ll give them a call myself.”

  He didn’t wait, though, for twenty minutes later, while I prevaricated and sounded out Farida on what to do, Yasmin called.

  “Mukhisaheb, the Chairman himself called. There doesn’t seem much choice now….” Her voice petered out.

  All she wanted was to be told what was right. The Chairman had done that, but she wanted to hear it from me. At that moment I made up my mind.

  “Listen, Yasmin,” I told her. “You and the children should decide for yourself. I can’t advise you what to do. But the funeral ceremony will happen tomorrow. It’s up to you and your children whether you choose to bury or cremate their father.”

  She took a long moment before saying, “All right.”

  Emil called that evening, and we talked for a while. Then Zuleikha called and said, “Thank you, Mukhisaheb. I know my father was right to depend on yo
u.” She added, just before hanging up: “You know what? Some of my uncles have found out about this, and may try to stop us. But we are ready. The law is on our side, isn’t it?”

  “I believe so,” I answered, having checked with my legal expert Jamal in the meantime.

  “If your conscience wills it that way,” was Farida’s response to my decision. Bharwani’s desire to be cremated had appalled her, actually; she saw it as mischievous and divisive. But she, if anyone, knew that my resolution had not been an easy one to arrive at; and we both were too aware that the final outcome tomorrow was far from certain, and repercussions in the days ahead would yet have to be faced.

  Laid out before me and my associate performing the funeral rites, Bharwani looked a meagre, helpless rendition of his old self in the funeral casket. In small groups selected members of the congregation came and knelt before him, on his other side, and went through the ritual in which the dead is forgiven of sins. Earlier on I had spotted Iqbal and gone to give him a comforting pat on the shoulder. I had developed a possessive, protective instinct for him. We stood together, and when I went to take my place for the ceremonies he came and sat down beside me on the carpet, watching people come and kneel before his dead father.

  Yasmin was wearing a white shalwar kameez, a dupatta covering her head—a mode of dressing that was never traditionally ours but, ironically, has been recently acquired in Canada. Beside her sat her mother-in-law pulling at her beads frantically, her head lowered, and the sisters-in-law. Bharwani’s two brothers and other male relations sat grimly in a large group directly in front of me, ready for battle; somewhat to the side and quite distinct from them sat Emil with a few young men. It took me a while to find Zuleikha, also sitting away from her family.

  The ceremony over, I stood up, motioning for the casket to be left as it was, and made a short speech. I said that our brother Karim Bharwani had made his wish known at his death bed that he wanted to be cremated. Karim, who was a classmate of mine, was a deep-thinking and not frivolous man. I had been told that his wife and children wished to respect our dead brother’s last wish. Whatever our own beliefs were, we should open our hearts and respect their decision.

  I motioned to the funeral committee to pick up the coffin and begin the chant, so that the male family members and congregation could carry it away. The women of the family began to weep.

  “We do not cremate our dead, it is a sin!” boomed a deep voice from the back of the hall. It was the Chairman.

  For moments nothing moved, there came only the moaning, sobbing sounds of the women. I was the person officially in charge, and the weight of all stares was upon me. I nodded to Emil, whereupon he and two hefty friends stepped forward to lift the casket. They gathered at the front end, somewhat nervously awaiting reinforcements, when promptly the dead man’s brothers and a third man came and took hold of the back. The coffin was raised—and there ensued a tug-of-war.

  At first, equal forces applied from the front and the back, the coffin hung still. Then it lurched forward, where the greater strength of the younger men lay. But these boys relaxed their hold and a sudden pull came from behind, where two large women had now joined forces. A fair crowd had gathered and was pulling aggressively at the back, having sensed victory for that side, ready to hand it charge—but two or three of those at the very back tripped and fell, bringing their end of the coffin with them. Poor Bharwani, after being buffeted this way and that in his box, was brought to rest at a forty-five-degree angle.

  There was stunned silence, and then the eerily thin quivering sound of a snicker that turned heads. It was Yasmin, caught in a hysterical fit. Tears streamed down her face as she laughed, Zuleikha holding on to her shoulders. The women around them had moved away in fear.

  In disgust I turned to Bharwani’s relations: “Is this what you wish for him, this circus? To what holy end?”

  Shamefaced, they retreated from the coffin, which was brought back to rest on the floor. Then Jamal, Nanji, and the rest of the classmates at one end, and Emil and two pals in front, unescorted by anyone else, the coffin bearing Bharwani slowly made its way to the door, outside which two hearses awaited to carry the dead to either of the two arrangements which had been made for him.

  Bharwani, you won, I muttered, as I closed the door of my car on Iqbal, who was accompanying me to the crematorium. There were four cars in the procession that left the mosque, far fewer than would normally have accompanied the cortège, and our escorting policemen sped us through the traffic in no time.

  My new friend Iqbal was chatty in the car. “When a person dies, he leaves the body, isn’t that so? So the body is just flesh, and even begins to smell and rot.”

  I nodded. “Yes. That’s why we have to bury it or … cremate it, as soon as possible.” Or leave it exposed for vultures to eat, I said to myself.

  “My dad is alive somewhere, I know.”

  “I know that too.”

  Is It Still October

  Is it still October, he asks, turning around wide-eyed and apprehensive, as if the month passed while he was trying to sleep.

  Yes, my dear, it’s still October, I say to him in the dark.

  And so it will remain for you, always, and for me; and many of your friends will not see much of the new month either.

  What a bore, this Halloween that’s now over. And it’s not because I wasn’t born here, didn’t have trick-or-treat! as a kid: where is the passion in this festival, I ask you? It’s all mechanical, merely duty. Six p.m., the toddlers are the first to arrive at the door, the cute angels pushed forward by an anxious parent; seven, the pirates and witches come, and at eight a few teenage louts in garish rubber masks, with pounding footsteps and heavy breathless voices, loaded with garbage bags containing candies. Six in the morning the next day, tomorrow, the pumpkin chucked out in the garbage. Business as usual, all’s forgotten, and on to another theme, in this ongoing conspiracy between shopkeepers who’ll sell a condom to your grandfather and teachers devoted to work-free “theme” days. And the tons of candies in this tight-assed Frigidaire of a community best characterized by a certain insect with a sting. A clear half of the sweets is dumped out with the pumpkin, at least in this household. That’s dollars and cents sacrificed in the name of neighbourhood relations, much good that’s done. And what do those tooth-sharpeners the dentists say about this candy madness?—nothing, simply rub their hands in glee, seeing the down payment on the Jag or that Cessna…. Who wants gum?—I do, I do….

  Ouch, the tooth hurts, but damn if I’ll go to one of those rapacious drillers—not now, anyway. Live with the pain, die with the pain.

  Poisons and painkillers. A poison is a painkiller, ultimate. And the weapon of a thinker, a schemer, as opposed to a gun. Like chess is to football. Like a certain nitrosamine compound. Tasteless, odourless, with cousins abiding safely in your homely and much maligned spinach; or adding zap to jet fuel. The wonders of chemistry. (The wonders of poison.) Replace one radical in your vegetable extract with another and you make yourself a first-class killer, cooler than a Beretta. Satanic, spreadable. Have death, will travel. That’s all it takes to make a killer—a small change, an emendation. Inject a smidgin in the bloodstream and all the elaborate machinery of evolution, this pinnacle of organized matter, this genius of chemistry and electric impulses, comes to naught. Unrevivable. Biodegradable. Slime into dust, worms into flesh. Fertilizer. But suppose this elaborate circuitry, these electric impulses, can be revived, memory and all? Then God will not exist, for there will be no one to answer to. And killing will have to be more thorough. But that’s too far away, today and tomorrow bodies will decompose.

  In my mind’s eye I hear a scream; if I let this mind tarry, then a blood-curdling scream, yes. I feel grief, a bit, a residue, deep somewhere—who wouldn’t?—but most of me stays cold. Because I have crossed over, to the evil, the satanic; the painless. I know there is no good or evil. There is only possibility and experience, there is curiosity and numbness; bitterne
ss, anger, calmness, vindication; and bemusement, we all have to face death, it comes unannounced, knows no night or day, child or adult, coldly plucks out its appointed victim—isn’t that what we were always told? And—if you ever believed it—we all live out our appointed share of life. I never did believe that, even as a child in a religious household. But this much I know, to the dying, death comes without notice. And this case, at least, this present case evolving even now as I think these thoughts sitting on the floor beside my angel’s bed, will be without violation of the purity of innocents, will be truly nonviolent in the most important way.

  There are two kinds of poison—those that strike the nervous system, and those the circulatory system. So said my first snake book. Snakes? Ur-rurr! Who would want to study snakes, the devil’s own creation, coldblooded terror slithering silently underfoot … well, what’s wrong with finding out? Most snakes are, well, nonviolent, and those who can will hurt you when frightened. I got interested in them because of what I’d heard. The chhatu—python—so big and powerful, just by opening its mouth and drawing breath it could pull in and ingest a dog at, say, twenty feet. And the cobra, my mother would say, the black naag who if you kill its mate will follow you to the end of the earth and seek revenge in your veins—and so the fate of a man who had been followed by a she-cobra all the way from India to Africa, over the black waters. A story to make you shudder and dream in terror afterwards. And then of course, still talking snakes and poisons, Elizabeth Taylor—Cleopatra—and the viper, oh what tenderness toward a snake, what dignity to death. And Eve and the serpent. On thy belly shalt thou crawl, but the snake had the last laugh, spine-shaped, hairlike, penislike, smiling its toothless smile that sends shudders down the … well, spine.

  But mother didn’t talk about scorpions—except how one got into one of her cousin’s ears. Nothing about how the female stings and kills its mate after mating…. Does the male scorpion actually find the female beautiful?