by Cyrus Mistry
By rights, of course, I do rank higher than a mere corpse bearer. Before joining service at the Towers, I went through five weeks of training at the fire temple built on an eminence in this vast, forested estate, just a stone’s throw from the Towers themselves. After several days in solitary retreat and ritual purification, after committing to memory several runic hymns in a dead language, I was initiated by the high priest of the temple and formally proclaimed a nussesalar.
This strange word from the ancient Avestan means ‘Lord of the Unclean’. Nussesalars are corpse bearers, too, make no mistake about that, but invested with several ritualistic, priest-like duties. In our faith, dead matter is considered unclean. Segregation of the ceremonially purified corpse, to prevent its re-contamination at the hands of overly emotive mourners, is only one of my duties. More important is the responsibility I have of protecting the living from the contamination supposedly spewed by corpses.
All corpses radiate an invisible but harmful effluvium, according to the scriptures. Through prescribed ablutions, prophylactics and prayers, I’m supposed to protect the general populace—and myself—from the noxious effects of the dead; indeed, you could say the nussesalar shields the community from all that evil and putrefaction by absorbing it into his own being. In return for which noble service, the scriptures promise, his soul will not be reborn. The nussesalar who performs his duties scrupulously, forever escapes the cycle of rebirth, decrepitude and death. What the scriptures forget to mention, though, is that in this, his final incarnation, his fellow men will treat him as dirt, the very embodiment of shit: in other words, untouchable to the core.
Ordinary corpse bearers don’t have it any easier, believe me. That’s how our people feel about their dead—and all who come in contact with corpses. You could say, though, that as a nussesalar, I am a glorified untouchable.
Temoo’s sharp. He’d been rambling on about his father’s time, but is aware I haven’t been listening. Now he stops talking, and won’t resume until he’s sure he has my attention.
‘The plague it was, then, like I was telling you,’ he said, finally taking up his story again. ‘I remember Papa telling Mumma, “Zarthostis are dying like flies; never thought I’d live to see this day. . . And as for the others on these islands, every day hundreds are picked up in bullock carts from the streets—hundreds!—all castes and creeds cremated in heaps at the municipal commons in Parel, Sewree. . .” Come to think of it: that might explain Buchia’s abuses and threats. In times like these, you guys are entitled to an allowance, did you know that? Have any of you seen this special allowance? Now what do they call it?’
My attention had strayed again. Was Farida awake, and crying? No, I had imagined it. . .not a sound from my end of the block.
‘I mean, for us. Our forefathers made provisions for this sort of thing. . .what do they call it? “Pandemic allowance!”’ bellowed Temoorus triumphantly, pleased that his memory hadn’t let him down. ‘Pandemic allowance. . . Trustees have made provisions for this kind of situation—it’s written in the fine print of the Punchayet deed—and Buchia, I daresay, is probably planning to pocket it all himself. Don’t take this lying down, son, I tell you. That warden will eat us alive.’
At the mention of eating, I felt a mild pang of hunger, but noticed there were only two slices left in the rusting bread-box; besides, I had lingered too long over my tea.
‘I must go. Keep an ear open for Baby,’ I said to him. ‘There’s some milk in the vessel on my sideboard. She likes her bread soggy and sweet.’
‘Of course, son, of course, don’t I know that? Saved those two slices just for her. I’ll be listening; don’t worry at all. . .’
Two
Inside the stone cottage, in the centre of the floor lay the dead man, stretched out on an iron bier.
Nearby, a small fire crackled in a thurible on a silver tray. The cleansing smell of smoke and incense and sandal was everywhere. Three sides of the room—Buchia was right: the mourners, present and waiting—were crowded with women of various ages draped in freshly laundered white saris: swans, elegant in their grief. They sat shoulder to shoulder in closely arranged wooden chairs, their hair covered by scarves or the bob-pinned trains of saris, contained, like their grief, in an orderly, well-adjusted decorum. Some of them conferred in whispers.
The men wore spotless white as well, but ambled outside or stood around in random clusters on the crowded veranda. Some of them wore tall, brooding headgear. Most knew each other and exchanged pleasantries—or condolences—in muted murmurs. Everyone’s head was covered, and many bent in prayer. Must have been an important bawa, this big man, I thought to myself, to have attracted such a large and well-decked retinue of mourners.
Standing outside the funeral chamber, I hurriedly untied and re-knotted the sacred girdle around my waist. Fardoon was already there, waiting. He’s a nussesalar, too, though at least twenty years my senior. Presently, we entered the stone cottage together.
Gripping a hefty, three-inch-long iron nail I had collected from the storeroom on my way up, I got down on my haunches, and described a circle on the floor at a radius of about three feet around the supine body in an anticlockwise direction. Fardoon tagged behind me at the end of a long white cloth tape, both of us softly reciting, in tandem, thirty-three Yatha Ahu Vairyos—one of the prescribed ancient hymns that keeps the demon of foulness at bay. This magic circle, once drawn, firmly seals in the invisible contamination emanating from the corpse, or so it is believed. This was all pretty much routine. I wasn’t going to be needed again, until it was time to carry the corpse up to the tower. And I was thinking perhaps there might be just enough time to catch a nap. . .? One of the khandhias—Bomi or Fali perhaps—would have been assigned the task of bringing up Moti the bitch on a leash, to show her the corpse once the priests were through.
But before we could make our exit through the crowded funeral cottage, two robed priests padded in, not willing to wait anymore. They seemed to be sulking, impatient about the delay I had presumably been responsible for.
Holding a long white handkerchief between them, they swayed from side to side, chanting a prayer of penitence beseeching forgiveness from the Almighty on behalf of the large, dead man whose name was Peshotan Pavri.
Meanwhile, a young girl, possibly a granddaughter of the deceased, began wailing. An older woman sitting beside her put an arm around the young girl and squeezed her comfortingly, while another, in front of them, turned in her chair and began whispering urgently:
‘No, no my dear, mustn’t cry like that. . .’
‘Papa’s happy, darling, what’s there to cry about?’ said the other woman.
‘If you shed tears, they’ll only become like heavy boulders pinning his soul down to earth. . . Let him go, let him soar up, Ruby. . .’
Presently, the young girl’s sobbing softened to a whimper, became more sibilant, elegiac.
People never give a thought to death while there’s still time, I reflected, as the priests droned on. And when it comes upon you unannounced, there’s shock and disbelief, and a great gnashing of teeth.
As Fardoon and I withdrew from the crowded funeral hall, the congregated mourners shrank perceptibly, leaving a clear, if narrow, passage for us to walk through. I was thinking of my own little girl, who must be awake now, perhaps sitting in her grandpa’s lap, munching on those two slices of bread. . . Despite my misgivings about the man, I felt grateful for Temoo that he was there to keep her company; that Coyaji had allowed the dotard to stay on in his quarters even though he’s too old for any real work.
Lost in thought, I didn’t notice a particularly lean, cadaverous man with a large mole on his forehead seated on the veranda among crowds of family and friends; nor did he see me approach. Perhaps he was merely inattentive or too abstracted from long hours of prayer? One leg hoisted over the other, vigorously wagging his cocked foot at the ankle while silently moving his lips, he was completely engrossed in a thick, but diminutive prayer book.
As I passed him, my leg brushed against this man’s oscillating shoe. Accidentally, of course, but the man who had seemed so lost in prayer, so oblivious of his surroundings, suddenly sprang to life. With the suddenness of a spring-operated toy he leapt to his feet, and began trembling like a leaf. A few other mourners noticed that something out of the ordinary was going on. Now the bony figure started making loud and insistent buzzing noises, like an incensed bee. He was saying something to me, abusing me in all probability, protesting his defilement at my hands— but all of it wordlessly, without parting his lips which remained tightly pressed together.
Having once trained for priesthood myself, I was familiar with this routine practiced by the most devout: the hallowed chain of prayer they have been so diligently weaving must not be interrupted by the profane utterances of everyday speech: hence, the buzzing. In a ferocious dumb charade the man was urging me to keep my distance, to take my unholy self out of his sight, disappear from the very face of the earth (if I read him correctly)—all the while flailing his arms and fists in the air like one possessed. Other mourners stood up too, shocked. The man whom I had thus desecrated by the graze of my shin against his polished leather shoe seemed angry enough to strike me, but fear of further despoilment rendered him impotent, and apoplectic with rage.
I felt an urge to break into guffaws of laughter. I felt like embracing this strangely awkward man so terrified of the ‘demon’ of putrefaction; smothering him in a friendly bear hug, and saying:
Do you seriously believe you won’t need me one day? Astride those emaciated shoulders rides the ghost of a corpse. You don’t see him now, but it’s only a matter of time, believe me, before your blood turns to ice, your limbs harden like wood. Then, ask yourself, will your near and dear ones wash and clothe you for the final goodbye? No, sweet man, you’ll have to depend on one of us. And then, we’ll have to rub you all over. . .
Of course, I didn’t dare deliver that tirade; instead, only mumbled contritely:
‘Forgive me, please. My mistake, bawaji, please forgive. . .’ and bowing low, quickly took my leave of him, as the rest of the grim congregation on the veranda glared at me.
I had witnessed instances of corpse bearers being fined by Coyaji, or even thrashed by self-important and wrathful members of our tribe for sitting on a bench intended for public use, or merely leaning against a wall in one of the pavilions during large funerals that teemed with mourners. Infringing the strict rules of segregation could be dangerous for us corpse bearers. Greatly relieved to have got away so lightly, I allowed my mind to relax, feel once again the silence and peace of the woods.
I had been feeling rather queasy and unwell all morning; what I wanted to do most of all was get back to my quarters and catch some sleep. But while cutting through the casuarina grove I found myself intercepted by Buchia. How the news of the tiny furore I had caused got to him so swiftly I’ll never know, but he’s not one to overlook such blunders. Without any qualms, spiritual or otherwise, Buchia thought nothing of laying hands on us corpse bearers. By close association, I suspect, he sees himself as completely sullied anyway.
‘Can’t see where you’re going, behnchoad? Bumping into all and sundry, instead of minding your own fuckin’ work?’
Buchia wore long sideburns that flowered into a sort of fleecy half-beard. He had a high dome of a forehead with very little hair on his head. Something about him never failed to evoke a sense of revulsion in me. It wasn’t just his unpleasant foul-mouthedness, or his oddly androgynous voice always startling to hear. Something about the very core of the man was unmistakably malodorous, if not malignant.
Short and stocky, but very strong, all of a sudden he slapped me on the back of my head. There didn’t seem to be much force behind the blow, but for a few seconds I was seeing double.
‘Don’t you dare lift your hand on me!’ I protested, reflexively raising my bunched-up fist.
‘And what will you do, my dear Piloo?’ he laughed. ‘Box my ears?’
His tone was no longer threatening, but teasing rather, almost affectionate in its use of my abbreviated name. No one else ever called me that. He put his arm around me, tickling the nape of my neck with his index finger, as if I were a kitten, but I shook him off fiercely with my elbow.
‘Your dad used his influence to get you this job, you know that,’ he purred. ‘But is he here now to protect you? I let you have a good snooze until so late this morning, kept everyone waiting so you could wake up fresh, didn’t I? Answer me, Piloo, didn’t I? Now cool off, and get some more rest while you can. Only make sure you’re back in forty-five minutes to take the corpse up to the tower. And immediately after that, be ready to start moving again. I’ve already informed the others.’
‘What?!’
Clearly, there was no redress against this unpleasant man’s manipulative authority.
‘What on earth are you staring at me for?’ continued Buchia. ‘The three others on duty will accompany you. They’re washing the bier. And Jungoo as well.’
‘But where to, now?’
‘Colaba. Cusrow Baag.’
‘Colaba! Oh God. . .!’
‘Take the address from my office before you leave. Groaning and moaning won’t help when there’s work to be done.’
‘We’ll start straight after lunch, then?’ I asked.
Was there a hint of assertion in my voice? Perhaps, but it was already a quarter to ten, and I was famished.
‘Don’t act cocky with me! Didn’t I just tell you, immediately after this body has been consigned to the tower?’
I saw him raise his hand, as if to smack me on the head again, but I glared at him so fiercely he checked himself.
‘Next funeral has to start at four. If you wait for lunch you’ll never make it back before sunset. It’ll take you two hours just to reach Colaba.’
‘This is too much, saheb. . .even we need to eat some time. And rest. It’s heavy work. What’s happened to the hearse?’
‘Never mind the hearse. These are trying times for everyone. Just do as you’re told, Piloo. There will be other times, later, for rest. And recreation, too. Don’t you think I, too, could use some of that once in a while? What do you say. . .?’ And he scratched the nape of my neck again.
Sickened, I walked away without saying another word. Buchia had a reputation for liking boys, of bringing young men up to his quarters at night. If he had touched me again, I swear I would have struck him; but the truth is, I was completely off-colour that morning, ruing my previous night’s indulgence. A pint of country would have served us better than the full bottle that we’d glugged down at top speed: truth to tell, a most dreadful exhaustion had made us greedy for self-effacement.
Three
‘Make way! Make way for the corpse. . .’
By the time we reached Kalbadevi, Rustom’s resounding bass had lost some of its operatic flair, his cries feebler and less frequent. My own legs felt tentative and wobbly. Nonetheless, people stepped aside respectfully, some even muttering to themselves—‘A Parsi corpse!’—as though impressed that death had actually touched a member of that privileged and idiosyncratic community.
This was going to be a long and tedious trudge, we all knew, even though we were taking the straightest possible route—past Flora Fountain and Dhobi Talao, through Girgaum and Hughes Road, then on to the Towers. Once, under the sun, I stumbled, nearly losing my grip on the bier.
I had had nothing to eat since last night. Just before leaving the house in Cusrow Baag, kindly neighbours of the bereaved family had handed us an earthen pot of fermented toddy—tart as hell, but I drank thirstily, my mouth was parched—and brown lumps of sweet jaggery tucked into rounds of soft white bread; sustenance for the long walk back.
For a while, the weight of the bier and corpse seemed entirely manageable. In fact there was a spring in our step. On certain streets, which were practically deserted, remembering Buchia’s admonition about the next funeral having to start at four o�
��clock, we raised the tempo and jogged. There, Rusi’s sporadic, breathless bellow actually helped us find our rhythm, but we couldn’t keep up that pace for long.
‘Let’s slow down a bit,’ gasped Boman.
‘Slow down, of course, slow down. . .’ seconded Rusi, wheezing and heaving, ‘we’ll make it back in time, not to worry.’
But it was already half past two. We had lost a lot of time almost at the start of our return journey when we were held up by a commotion in the street caused by a large group of rowdy nationalists, who were yelling anti-imperialist and pro-Swadeshi slogans outside an emporium for clothes near the Army and Navy Stores. It was a place called Crawford and Allen: Importers of Fine Apparel. The protestors were taking exception to the dress shirts, jackets, jodhpurs, derbys or whatever was contained in a large number of parcels a wealthy man and his wife had just walked out of the shop with; browbeating them to show allegiance to the cause of India’s independence by consigning every last parcel in their arms to a large bonfire blazing on the macadamized public road.
Traffic had slowed down, there was smoke everywhere. Several Anglo-Indian officers in white stood by, glowering under their sola topees, none too pleased with the sweltering summer heat, smoke, fire and the sloganeering of nationalists. The protesters were cordoned off from the general public by a posse of Indian sepoys. Then something happened, what it was I didn’t see.
Perhaps somebody threw a stone. The officers barked a directive, and immediately a fracas ensued. The sepoys, in their baggy blue shorts, began caning the vociferous protestors. Many were arrested, and bundled into a waiting police van. Moti was barking her head off. Finally, one of the officers noticed us waiting patiently with a corpse and dog, and gave instructions to let us pass.