by Unknown
And then, colour. The flare of the fire that burns in the small silver urn before which the priests sit cross-legged on the floor.
The grey of the smoke that rises from the urn, obscuring Babu’s face at times. The brown fur of the dog that is led into the funeral home and made to witness Babu’s still body. I tense up at that, my body turning into stone and Jesse, sitting at my side notices immediately. ‘It’s nothing to be afraid of,’ she says, taking my hand in hers. Her hand is a warm nest, a welcome relief from the cold that has nestled in my heart since the moment I touched Babu’s feet at the hospital. Jesse is still talking. ‘Just see the dog in anthropological terms. It’s just a ritual that’s meant to act as a diversion, something to take the mourners’ minds off their grief.’ And it actually works, so that I can feel my body relaxing as I think of the genius who invented this diversionary ritual. I am so grateful for Jesse’s analytical, rational presence at this moment, that I could kiss her.
But then my body tenses again. It is time to say goodbye to Babu forever. The skinny, hollow-eyed corpse-bearers stand in their tattered, dirty clothes, ready to hoist the body and take it to its final path to the big well with the circling vultures. For a moment, the pallbearers themselves look like vultures to me and I hate them for their greedy eagerness to get started and finished with their task. But then I remember the stories of how these men drink in order to be able to perform their unpleasant task, I think of how their sunken, sad eyes must witness the unwitnessable—the sight of the dark-winged birds descending like death into the huge well into which the bodies are laid. I think of how their nostrils must be filled with the smell of death, a smell that must cling to them at all times, a smell so irrefutable that why bother showering or shaving or wearing clothes other than the rags that they dress in? I think of their dirty, wax-filled ears trying to block out the sounds of tearing flesh and cracking bones and suddenly I am heaving, heaving and then my heaves turn into choked sobs, my mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Everybody is crying now, Mehroo with her piteous cries of ‘Bhai, bhai’, Freny with tears streaming down her cheeks, stunned at becoming a widow at fifty-one, Mani aunty bawling like a baby for the brother-in-law whom she loved like a brother, my dad looking as dazed and lost as a boat out at sea, the old men from the nearby apartment buildings shaking their heads at the irony of their being alive while the man they called the prince of the neighbourhood is dead, the old women remembering how he used to flirt with them and make them laugh with his bawdy irreverence, the destitute widows telling stories of how he would press a five-or ten-rupee note in their hands whenever they saw him on the street and how he treated everybody, from a king to a beggar, the same. And everybody saying how he was too young to die, that this was not the proper age to die and me being confused by that because at fifteen, Babu’s age of fifty-four seems old to me and besides, I wonder what the proper age to die is? No age is the proper age to die, I say to Jesse and she looks at me for a minute because she hears the rawness in my voice and then she nods understandingly.
Dad follows the pallbearers as they carry Babu’s body out and down a trail. I want to go with him but someone puts out a restraining arm and whispers that only men are allowed to accompany the body from this point. Several of the other men walk desultorily behind the pallbearers, so that the large room now holds clusters of white-clad women, many of them bent with osteoporosis, whispering and murmuring in small, hunched groups. I walk aimlessly from one group to another, introducing myself to those who don’t know me as Freny’s younger daughter. They look startled until someone else explains to them the closeness of my bond with Babu and Freny and the peculiar geometry of my family alliances. But I am already walking away. The rawness in my throat, the rage that I feel at the events of the last few days is so strong that I feel that I will vaporize if I stand still.
‘Bechari Freny,’ I hear one of the bent old women say to another, as I approach another cluster oftsk-tsking mourners.
‘Poor Freny. Widowed at such a young age. What will happen to her now, the poor thing? Who will care for her and her daughter?’
And finally, my rage has found a path. ‘Bechari Freny, nothing,’ I say. ‘No need to feel sorry for her. And what do you mean, who will take care of her? She has her whole family with her. We will take care of her, who else? Just because Babu has died, doesn’t mean she’s not part and parcel of our family.
Please don’t worry about her—and please don’t call her bechari any more.’
I have never spoken to an older person this rudely and I’m unsure who is more shocked. In either case, the effect is electric.
The poor woman looks aghast. ‘Hah, yes, no…,’ she stammers.
‘I was only saying…so glad to hear. May God bless you, deekra.’
But I am already moving away, looking to find Freny in this crowd. I finally spot her, sitting on a chair in the front row, staring at the spot where Babu’s body was a half hour ago.
There are several people standing around her but Freny seems completely alone. I stare at her for a moment, struck by how young and beautiful and wistful she looks. Then, I make my way through the crowd and go sit on the chair next to hers. I take her hand in mind and make her look at my face. ‘Kaki,’ I say, using the honorific I use when I’m talking to her. ‘Listen to me. You have always had two daughters—Roshan and me.
But from today, you will also have a son. From today, I will be a son and a daughter to you. I will take care of you, I promise. You don’t worry about anything.’
I am so intent on looking Freny in the eye, wanting her to see how sincere I am, that I am startled when I feel the splash of tears on my hand. Freny is crying hard and she puts one hand around my neck and grabs my head to her shoulder. We stay this way for a minute, holding each other hard. ‘Thank you,’ she whispers when she can talk. ‘I will never forget these words. Pesi and I have loved you as our own from the day you were born.’
I want to cry then, want to cry as hard as Freny is crying but this is not the time. I have to be strong for Freny’s sake, for Roshan’s sake, for all of their sake. I have to keep my composure, I have to fight with God, battle with the moon. I must be strong, I must be strong. I have responsibilities now, I have a family to support, whose burdens I must carry. I am a coolie, my job is to lift their burdens. I am no longer the baby of the family.
There will be time for tears later.
We do not observe the customary period of mourning. Two weeks after coming home from the funeral home, dad insists that we turn on the stereo and television. There is enough sorrow at home, he says, and he wants to do everything he can to alleviate it. Nobody contradicts him though mummy makes noises about how Babu deserves more of a mourning period and how heartless we all are. Still, she watches TV with the rest of us.
Ever since we moved Babu to Jaslok, mummy has been talking about what a mistake it was to take him to that cheap Masina Hospital in the first place, what a tragedy it was to let that hajaam, that barber, Dr Sethna operate on him. I know the words are calculated to wound dad, to make him feel that he put money over Babu’s well-being. The words have their intended effect. Dad goes around explaining that he wasn’t thinking of cost, not really, that they picked Masina Hospital because it was convenient and close to home and also, he had no idea that a kidney stone operation was such a big operation. He points out how casually Babu had come home one day and announced that he’d put up with the bastard kidney stones for long enough and had decided to get rid of them once and for all. Dad mentions that it was Babu’s choice to go with Dr Sethna, after he’d done such a wonderful job with my appendix surgery, a few months earlier.
None of the adults know that I feel guilty about the choice of Dr Sethna. At the time of the appendix surgery we were all so happy that everything went off without a hitch.
Now, I wish there had been some complication, anything that would’ve made us think twice before using Masina Hospital and Dr Sethna’s services again. I secretly believe
that I killed Babu so that the next time mummy brings up the issue when the two of us are alone at home, I turn to her, eyes flashing with anger, and tell her to please shut up about this. She is startled into silence but then her lips get thin and she accuses me of asking her to not speak the truth just to protect my dad.
‘Everybody knows that this could’ve been prevented,’ she hisses. ‘Everybody knows that if they’d all listened to me Babu would’ve still been here.’ Her words are so wounding that I turn away from her and lock myself in the bathroom until I trust my emotions enough to step back out.
But the fact is, none of us know what killed Babu. His death is an unresolved mystery in our lives and it makes amateur detectives out of us. Dad even makes appointments with other doctors just to question them about what could’ve possibly gone wrong but their instinct is to protect their colleague. There are rumours and speculations and conjectures that come back to us. About how the anaesthesiologist screwed up. About how the operating room was not properly sterilized. About how Dr Sethna accidentally left a pair of scissors in Babu’s stomach before he sewed him back up. Mehroo makes frequent trips to Masina Hospital, trying to chase down all the rumours, arranging to meet with off-duty nurses to get them to spill the beans but she invariably comes back empty-handed. The code of bewildering silence holds.
I am with Mehroo the day we accidentally run into Dr Sethna at the local drugstore. It is the first time we have seen him since the funeral. Dr Sethna’s appearance at the Tower of Silence had created quite a stir. Half the mourners were awed and touched by his presence; the other half said he had something to hide and guilt had brought him to the funeral. Sethna himself had a simpler explanation—Babu was his friend, he said. And although he was an atheist and didn’t believe in all the religious mumbo-jumbo he was here simply to pay his last respects. (While I was recovering from the removal of my appendix, he had visited me one evening and engaged me in a discussion about religion to get my mind off the pain. ‘Christ is not even a historically accurate figure,’ I remember him saying. ‘There’s no public record that he even existed.’)
And now we were face-to-face with Sethna at the pharmacy.
Here he was, the man Mehroo was no longer sure was still a family friend or her brother’s killer, leaning on the glass counter and laughing and chatting with Behram, the store-owner.
Sethna was short and stockily built like Babu and I remembered Babu in almost the same pose—leaning casually on the counter and talking to Behram. All of these men were around the same age and had grown up around each other and despite the different paths their lives took—Behram joining his father’s business, Sethna serving as a surgeon in the army for years, Babu joining my father at the factory after flunking the exam to join the Merchant Navy—they talked to each other easily, with cuss words and slang liberally sprinkled into their language, their friendship forged during endless hours spent in their youth working out at the Parsi Gymkhana.
As his eyes fall on us, Sethna stops in mid-laugh and immediately makes his way toward us. He glances quickly at me and then moves to hug Mehroo. When he lets go of her, both’s eyes are wet with tears. ‘Kem che, Mehroo?’ he asks. ‘How are you keeping?’
Mehroo shakes her head. ‘So-so. Still missing Pesi a lot.’
Sethna nods. ‘I understand. He was a great person.’
This is the encouragement Mehroo needs. ‘The worst part is, not knowing what happened. I lie awake at night wondering…when I’d last left the hospital, he’d looked so good. Told me he’d see me tomorrow.’ And now Mehroo’s tone is openly beseeching: ‘Doctor,’ she says, ‘just tell me the truth about what happened. You know our family, we are not interested in revenge or lawsuits or anything. We won’t do anything, I promise. This is for our satisfaction, only. I just need to know the truth about what happened to my brother.’
Sethna’s face is kind and his eyes red. ‘Mehroo, try to forget it,’ he says gently. ‘I myself don’t know what went wrong. As far as I’m concerned, the surgery was a success. Now don’t ask me this question again. Just get on with your life. I’m very, very sorry about your loss. It’s my loss, too. Pesi was my friend.
This is one of the biggest blows of my career.’
We leave the drugstore that day with different interpretations of what Dr Sethna has said. I think that he has admitted to not knowing what went wrong. But Mehroo insists that he made it clear he didn’t want us to know what had really happened, that we wouldn’t be able to handle the truth. Sethna as good as admitted that there was a cover-up, she says, and said that we should let sleeping dogs lie. I also leave the store convinced that we will never know what happened that day.
Mehroo leaves convinced that the truth is out there and it is only a matter of digging for it. Dad looks from one of us to the other, torn between wanting to arrive at the truth but not sharing Mehroo’s obsessive need to know. ‘Well,’ he says finally, ‘whether we ever find out or not, it won’t bring Pesi back.’
In some ways I am glad we have the mystery of Babu’s death to distract us from the dark grief that is stalking us. At home, we listen automatically for Babu’s dry cough that would announce his return home at the end of the day and when it hits us that we will never hear it again, the realization feels like a fresh wound. Freny has resumed going to work and she still returns from work on payday loaded with the usual treats—bars of Cadbury’s chocolates, Kelvator’s raspberry syrup, packs of Tiny Size Chiclets, Kraft cheddar cheese in a blue tin, copies ofStardust andFilmfare —but it is not the same without Babu there to make some joke or comment about what she brings home.
‘Do you remember how he used to tease me?’ Freny asks me one evening and I know immediately what she is talking about. At the start of every school year, Freny, my mom, Roshan and me would go shopping to Colaba Causeway.
Roshan and I would feel like queens on that day. Freny would buy us everything new, top to bottom, from the ribbons in our hair to the patent leather shoes on our feet. Salesmen lit up when they saw us approach, stocks of goods came tumbling down from the shelves because Freny was legendary for her generosity. Later in the day, loaded down with our new shoes and socks and dress materials and school uniforms and schoolbags, even new soap dishes, we would take a cab to Paradise for a lavish dinner. Then, another cab to take us home, where all the adults would gather to admire our spoils. Amid the oohs and aahs, Babu would stay silent. Winking at me, he would turn to Freny and in a deceptively soft voice ask, ‘This is all fine and good, all the things you’ve bought for Roshan.
But have you bought the same things for my Thritu?’ No matter how often Babu repeated this line, the effect on Freny was electric. ‘How can you even ask me that? You know I love both girls equally. Each one owns half my heart. I have never treated Thritu as anything but my own daughter. I may not have given her birth but…’ And then Freny would stop, knowing that she’d been had, while Babu and I would erupt in peels of laughter.
Now there is nobody who calls me his first darling of the morning. And anyway, that time of youth and innocence has long past. We are all drifting now, dark patches of grief walking around each other. Now it is up to me to step into Babu’s shoes, to make sure Freny still has someone to take her to the movies, to make my dad lose that hurt look that has muscled its way onto his face, to distract Mehroo from trying to solve the riddle of Babu’s death. Even months later, the grief is so strong at times that I revisit the idea of drugging all of us until this time has passed. I want to cry in dark, private corners like the rest of them, want to sit huddled in the living room talking about Babu like the rest of them do. But there is no time. Grief is not a luxury I can afford because I have a drowning family to rescue.
There will be time for tears later, I assure myself.
My chance finally comes six months after Babu’s death. Roshan is out with her friends; the adults are attending a late afternoon funeral service for an elderly acquaintance. I am blissfully, unexpectedly, alone at home. As soon as
I realize that I will have about two hours to myself, I resolve that this is the day to shed those tears that I’ve held back so many times, to mourn Babu in a way I’ve never allowed myself. No more fighting with the moon—this will be a day of surrender.
At the appointed hour, I sit in the living room, clutching a picture of Babu and await the tears. Nothing happens. I force myself to remember details of Babu’s face and hands. I can feel the muscles in his forearms as clearly as on that day a month before his death when he and I had walked home from the factory, with me holding his arm all the way home. Still no tears. Not crying has become a habit, a reflex. This calls for drastic action, I realize. I look through my record collection and pull out every sad song that I can find. Terry Jacks’Seasonsin the Sun . Neil Diamond singingIf You Go Away . I am very aware of time slipping away, knowing that my time alone at home is limited. Any minute now there could be a knock on the door that could end this private time.
It may be months before such an opportunity arises again. But my tear ducts remain unconvinced. I cannot shed tears for the man who had literally given me the last ten-rupee note in his wallet, a man whose face was one of the first ones I’d seen after being born. I am a freak, a cruel, heartless bitch, a frigid, emotionally constipated piece of shit. I had finished my dinner when the rest of the family had left their plates untouched upon learning that Babu was ill. I had been mean to him, had looked down on him once I’d gotten myself some intellectual friends.