Week 24 (2010): The Last Post

     

From Bombay, you drive five hundred kilometres south to reach Belgaum. Then you reduce speed and drive through the forest area honking at the curves. Occasionally you stop to carefully bypass the cows that refuse to move from the middle of the road. Tall trees, blossoming bamboos and shades of thick green run along with you on both sides. After an hour of driving, you see a small stone plate on the ground: “Burbusa”. The name makes no sense in the languages you know; neither do you know what it stands for. If you didn’t know somebody lived here inside the jungle, your car would simply continue its journey. But if you knew, you would turn left at the stone plate. The road now on is made of clay and cobbles. The world of asphalt and concrete is behind. You keep going, and going, wondering if there is anything at the other end. After all, this is part of the forest. Then, like the establishing shot in Hitchcock’s Rebecca, a palatial house stuns your senses. The gates are open, the house is open and all its doors and windows are open. There are no locks and no guards.

Today the compound is filled with simply dressed villagers and fancy cars. On the right and in the background you can see the tasteful garden with yellow, maroon, red, white flowers; tamarind, mango trees; giant thorny jackfruits, tall coconuts. The drizzle since morning has made the garden look greener and younger. Considering it is only noon, the sky is dark. Monsoon has arrived.

If you enter the house through its main arch, where the stone sculptures are, you see a shield and swords on the wall. The ceilings are too tall for the time we live in. On the left is the living room, filled with Persian carpets, a hearth and wall paintings. If not for the satellite television, this could have been a hall in some museum. The grand veranda behind faces the central part of the garden. Sat here, you wouldn’t know which country you are in.

But without turning left, if you take the narrow corridor on the right you reach the simplest room in the house, with a single bed – on which uncle is lying now. The position of the bed makes sure that its occupant can see the portrait on the wall as well as the garden through the window. From across, a standing Ganesh statue, probably a gift, is staring at the bed. On uncle’s left side is a giant two-in-one, on which he used to listen to classical music and the BBC news. World Space was his constant companion, which with a sense of foreboding stopped its operations this year.  The side table has several clocks, mostly antique but functioning well. On uncle’s right is a wooden walking stick, one that he reluctantly used in his nineties. On the corner table, a single candle is standing but not burning. The cane chairs in the room are all taken up by elderly visitors today. The servants are moving around.  

A servant calls me out of the room and takes me to a bespectacled gentleman.

“You will give shoulder, won’t you? Since you are the relatives, you and Raja should be where the head is. I’m telling you in advance so as to avoid confusion later. And those two...” he points out... “will lift from the other side. See you first walk in that direction, then turn it the other way... you must carry it for the first few steps, then you can pass it on. And yes, who’s doing the seven rounds around the pyre?  Sorry we need to decide all these matters now, to avoid confusion later. Two months ago, when...” He suddenly stops talking to me, turns around and gives different orders to two or three people. This gentleman is a self-appointed funeral director. Today, his resume will vastly improve by having uncle’s name listed amongst the clients he has serviced.

I notice several unknown faces chatting on the veranda. This house has never seen so many people on a single day, I don’t think. People make a far greater effort to meet a person once he is dead.

I go back to uncle’s room. A small, chubby man storms in. He is carrying a bunch of photocopies.

“See I wrote an article on him, see the date, a month ago. Take this, this is in Marathi... and this one in Kannada. Yes, please take both, both written by me.” He distributes the copies to everyone in the room. “You... you are from Bombay? Yes, it appeared in our Bombay edition on the 9^th of May.” Standing right at uncle’s feet he punches a number on his mobile.

“Yes. Yes. Mr Manohar Malgonkar passed away, in the night.” He turns to his right and asks “what time? Exactly what time?” Someone says 11.30. Somebody else corrects 11.15. “Yes. Write 11.15. Write: after a brief illness. A great novelist, international yes. We should give the news before Tarun Bharat. And tell them I gave the news. I am here, right here. Don’t forget to tell I was the source.” I look at uncle. I am glad he can’t listen any more.

The chubby man takes out his camera. I reflexively move between him and uncle.

“I want to take a few photos.”He says.

“No.” I say.

“Ok, just one or two for my collection.” He says.

“No.” I say and wave him out of the room.

The dead can’t defend themselves.

I suddenly realise Moti and Angel, the three-legged Angel, are not here. Whenever we come here, they bark with joy, jump on us, want to play with Devyani. Today so many strangers have entered the house, and I haven’t heard a single bark. In another room, I find Moti sat on a sofa looking vacantly ahead. His eyes are open, but they don’t seem to notice anyone in the room.

Two doctors are sat in that room.

“It’ll take longer.” One of them tells me. This is an elderly family doctor. “You see when the body has lots of flesh, it burns more easily. When there are only bones left...” I nod. Doctors are entitled to talk like that.

The self-appointed funeral director calls me back. “Who is doing the last rites?”

“Mena, I suppose” I say. “She is his niece, and uncle was fond of her.”

“No, she can’t. A man has to do it. Why don’t you take over that responsibility?”

“We are in the twenty-first century.” I try to say.

“Raja can do it. He is on his way from Pune.” I am told. Raja is a nephew, not as close to uncle, but he is a male.

Outside the house, villagers are making a wooden stretcher to carry uncle. It’s a bamboo ladder kept horizontal, now getting wrapped in a white cotton sheet. Close by are flowers, incense sticks, and auspicious colourful powders. Raja’s car arrives. It’s still raining. But the time has come to take uncle out of his room. Out of his house. Everything must happen before the sun sets.

Meanwhile, uncle’s son-in-law confirms uncle wanted Mena to do the last rites. Uncle’s word still has force in this house. We reach a last minute compromise whereby Mena and her male cousin would share the rituals.

Then we go inside. By now uncle is wearing a few sandalwood garlands. Villagers bring the bamboo stretcher inside. We shift uncle on it. As delicately as possible. Outside, I am one of the four men who carry that stretcher on the shoulders. As instructed, I am where the head is. We walk carefully. The ground is wet, and in places muddy.

It’s a short walk. Uncle wanted to be cremated at the same spot where aunt Cukoo was. At that spot, in front of the house, a bed of crisscrossed wooden logs is made ready. We deposit uncle on it. The thought of how uncomfortable this bed must be crosses my mind. Cans of butter are lying next to the pyre. Kerosene is brought in makeshift containers.

Uniformed army men now come forward. An army truck is standing on the lawn. Most of the people gathered today either can’t read English or, if they can, haven’t read uncle’s books.  The servants possibly judge his stature by the celebrities who visit the house; villagers by his photo in the news flash on television. For many villagers, he may simply be a landowner with the local grapevine talking about his hunting episodes; and for the army men he is Colonel Malgonkar.

Firecrackers go off. This is the army salute. We notice two uniformed men holding bugles in their hands. All the noises stop and create an all-enveloping moment of silence. The bugles begin the music. That music defines uncle’s stature. That music brings serenity to the atmosphere. That music reaches inside us and stabs our hearts. The raindrops falling on the cheeks mask the tears.

The music stops. The men from the infantry now move forward and lay down the wreaths at uncle’s feet. They bring their feet together and give a ceremonial salute. Villagers start putting additional logs on the pyre. So as to cover uncle completely. Mena lights the pyre up. More butter gets added, more fuel poured. The incenses burn. The final journey begins.  

We hear the phone ringing in the main hall. People are in a hurry to call today. Soon there will be nobody in this house to offer condolences to.

Ravi