Our Favourite Indian Stories (42 page)

Indira Parthasarathy

The sound of the newspaper landing on the
verandah
woke up Babu. It was daybreak and the golden sunlight was streaming in through the curtains.

Was it all right to read the newspaper, he wondered? What had happened in the Calcutta Test?... Couldn't listen to the commentary at all yesterday! Why didn't they have a radio in each ward in the hospital? Why did grandmother's condition have to worsen yesterday when the Test was at its most interesting stage! Does that thought mean I was not attached to her? If I had been, why wouldn't the tears come yesterday evening when she died?

This had been my first encounter with death. It was the machines that had kept her alive.... The oxygen cylinder, the iron lung... She was quite cheerful till the day before, but the whole situation had changed yesterday.

She couldn't speak but her eyes were eloquent. The doctors were amazed that she had not lost consciousness...

But then she had always been a stubborn person. Had she not refused to come and live with father until last month when she had relented? Was that why I couldn't cry?

When grandmother drew a deep breath and closed her eyes for the last time, father left the room abruptly, his handkerchief covering his face. It was much later that father could shed tears.

Mother just stood there, looking at father. Her problem appeared to be the same as mine. The tears would not come, however hard she tried....

What was funny was that mother's aunt, Periyamma, instantly set up a howl. No doubt she had been one of our family for years, but how could granny's death have affected her so deeply? It is indeed an extraordinary feat to be able to demonstrate strong feelings one moment, to recover the next and become matter-of-fact immediately after.

Periyamma said in a low voice, 'It is our misfortune, Lakshmi, that she couldn't live to see Babu married.... Hmmm. It was God's will.... Now, how do we remove her bangle?... Thanks to those horrible doctors and their injections, her wrists are puffed up:

Father's friend Venu, the Income Tax Officer suggested, 'Do you have a pair of scissors? We can cut it.'

'Ask the nurse,' said Periyamma.

With brisk professional efficiency, the nurse was removing the oxygen cylinder and covering the body with a white cloth. It was then that she noticed the wrist. 'This bangle...'

'Looks like we cannot take it off.... Do you have scissors?' asked Periyamma in Tamil. The nurse was a Malayalee, but knew Tamil.

'That won't be necessary.... You take hold of her hand.... It is easy...'

Periyamma took firm hold of the hand and the nurse pulled the bangle off.

'It is not the modern 16-carat stuff. It is solid old gold,' said Periyamma.

Venu weighed it in his hand.... 'Must be six sovereigns.'

'Babu, tie this bangle up carefully in your handkerchief,' said Periyamma.

'Are you taking the body home? Have you talked to the doctor?' asked the nurse.

'You keep it yourself,' I told Periyamma and gave the bangle to her. Tying it up in the
pallav
of her
sari,
Periyamma answered the nurse. 'How can we take the body home? We have a rented house... And an upstairs flat at that.... Can't they keep it here? We can take it from here tomorrow morning straight for cremation.'

'That is right.... I shall arrange with Dr. Satyanathan for it to be kept in the deep freeze,' said Venu.

'It will be difficult to secure room in the deep freeze,' said the nurse.

'Let me see,' said Venu.

'Shouldn't we consult Babu's father?'... asked mother. 'I shall tell Gopal. He will understand,' said Venu and went in search of father.

Father said nothing. He signed wherever he was directed to do so.

His eyes were red and his face appeared swollen.

On our way home, Venn said, 'It was not easy. Finally they threw out a post-mortem case and put the old lady in the deep freeze.... It became possible only because of my friend Dr. Satyanathan...'

'Granny was lucky'... I wanted to say. Perhaps I would have, if father had not been with us in the car... That seemed the only possible reply to Venu.

Father looked as if he had not slept at all last night. There he was now, sitting on his bed. He got up, walked to the window and remained there....

Gopal came back in, and drew the curtains. How different, he thought, was today's daybreak from yesterday's. I had a mother yesterday... Today she is gone. No, not gone.... Safe in the hospital deep freeze... How on earth did I acquire a philistine like Venu for a friend? He must have mentioned the old lady's deep freeze luxury at least a hundred times yesterday... But what would I have done without him yesterday? Preparing a list of those to be informed, sending off telegrams, arranging for the priest.... I couldn't have managed all that. For Lakshmi's aunt the whole event was routine. She had been married at the age of eight, widowed at ten.... had lost her parents before she was twenty... She was the first to appear whenever there was a death in the house of any relative.... A tear or two, then free advice on whatever was to be done... Babu told me that she had sent for the priest yesterday afternoon 'just in case'... Babu is a curious chap.... Assisting with the same enthusiasm at a marriage as well as a funeral. No ceremony, auspicious or otherwise took place in Delhi without Babu. And here I was, thinking of all sorts of things when trying to think of mother.

I do not have mother's grit. She said she would never come to Delhi and finally came only to be cremated on the banks of the Jamuna — died within a month of coming — she must have known. How many books she had read in this one month! I could not supply them fast enough for her — Four books a day — She never used to devour books like this — Why didn't I realise the meaning of her hurry?

Is there an appointed age for the loss of one's mother? The umbilical cord is cut at birth — Does the mother-son attachment come to an end with this physical severance? Can any pair of scissors cut the chain of memories that is one's heritage? That look mother gave me before she died.... What a history was contained in that look... a history that only she and I could understand.... That one moment was to me a glimpse of eternity.... I could not stay in the room after that.... My tears were the only answer I could give to that look of mother's. When my tears stopped, she was gone.

'I am sorry Gopal.... How sudden!' It was Raghavan's voice and Gopal turned.

Raghavan's mother had died last month. I was not able to manage the natural voice he used now. I have always been self-conscious.

'What was wrong with her?' asked Raghavan.

'Did he expect a reply?' Babu started to answer him. Lakshmi was wiping her eyes now and then to keep up appearances. But not Babu. He was probably upset that this grandmother had passed away during the Test match. He did ask his mother whether he could bring the transistor to the hospital but I had glared at him... Perhaps I need not have done so.... Why doesn't it occur to people that it is the decent thing to show respect to death even if they do not grieve for an old woman?

But then, it is only when the human being is respected as an individual that one can expect respect for the fundamental decencies of life... This is a democratic world. We function in groups. We kill each other in groups.... The achievement of the human intelligence is the power to destroy a whole city with one bomb — What a joke then to talk of respectability in the presence of death? Where's the individual man? We kill him in the name of democracy. So what if the man dies, democracy must survive!

'Mr Gopal, I am so sorry,' it was Bhardwaj, trying to look grief-stricken.

'She was all right last week....'

Babu was perhaps tired of repeating the sequence of things. He went out of the room....

Babu picked up the paper from the
verandah
and went into another room. India had lost the Test. He was angry. He threw the paper away.

'Babu,' it was Periyamma. 'The priest has not turned up. Will you go and see if he is coming?'

'He is sure to come. It is only half past seven,' said Balu, who came in just then.

'Is he coming here or did he say he was coming to the hospital?'

'He said he would come to the house at eight.... If he is not able to make it, he said he would go straight there to make the arrangements and then come back to the hospital.'

'That is right. Why should be come here?'

Balu sat down and placed his bag on the floor. He took five or six packets tied up in handkerchiefs.

'I have brought change in four anna, eight anna, twenty paise and ten paise denominations,' he said.

'You have put yourself to a lot of trouble,' said Periyamma.

'Oh, no! This is nothing.... It is getting colder, isn't it? Particularly in the mornings?'

'Yes, we felt the cold last evening while coming back from the hospital. Thank God the old lady didn't die in mid-winter. Think of having a dip in the Jamuna in December...'

'Gopal bathes with cold water in winter also. He would have had no problem.'

'That is a bath under the tap at home. It is different bathing in the Jamuna.... Will this change be enough today?'

'More than enough.'

What did that mean, thought Babu. Enough for one more death? Balu had covered his head with a muffler. His bare torso was covered with a thick towel. He was smiling when he said, 'More than enough.' Perhaps he was admiring his own feat in securing so much loose change. As he counted the change, he looked up at Babu.

'Is he going to ask me also to count? Perhaps I had better leave the room!'

The hall was full. There were a number of father's friends. Venu was telling Rajagopalan about the deep freeze. Was it his regret that he had not been able to manage it for his mother who had died when he was ten? Poor thing, she had not been able to derive any benefit from her son's friendship with Dr. Satyanathan.

There was a sudden silence. Each looked at the other.

'Gopal!' called Balu from the next room. Father went in.

'The priest has fixed his time for reaching the hospital — after eleven,' informed Venu.

'It will be very warm after eleven,' said Vedagiri.

'Have you arranged for the van?' asked Krishnamurthi, looking out of the window. Perhaps he was making sure his scooter was safe.

'Oh yes.... From the hospital.'

'The hospital van is better than the N.D.M.C, van. All the vans in the municipality are rickety and old,' said Rajagopalan.

'But they go on increasing the taxes.... The water tax was 75 paise per 1000 gallons. Now it is three rupees.... Who shall we complain about this to?' grumbled Chakravarti.

'It is not the N.D.M.C. that levies the water tax. It is the Corporation. You are all mixed up,' Vedagiri corrected.

'Also, Rajagopalan was wrong in saying that the N. D. M. C. vans are old and rickety.... They are first class, new vehicles,' clarified Krishnamurthi.

'Are they better than the public transport buses?' asked Chakravarti.

'After all, it is a long distance journey. So it better be a better vehicle,' said Vedagiri.

Babu could not help smiling. Venu saw this and said, 'Babu, please call your father.'

In came a gentleman in a black suit. He was holding a walking stick and looked about sixty. Babu had never seen him before. Sitting down hesitatingly, he said to Chakravarti, 'I am sorry Gopal... How old was your mother?'

Chakravarti grew red in the face. 'I am sorry. I am not Gopal.'

'You are not Gopal? Who is Gopal here...'

What was this and why had he come if he did not even know who Gopal was?

Babu went inside and told his father about this stranger. Periyamma peeped into the other room, came back and explained, 'It is Vaikuntam Iyengar.... Lakshmi's mother's cousin. I sent word to him since I knew he was here.'

Babu explained about Chakravarti's embarrassment. Gopal said nothing but walked into the next room with his hands behind his head. He was sick of nodding his head in response to the words of condolence from perfect strangers. Why should Chakravarti not be Gopal for a short while? He was just a money making machine — no sense of humour whatsoever! Why couldn't this Periyamma mind her own business? Who on earth had heard of Lakshmi's cousin?

'This is Gopal,' declared Venu.

'I am sorry Gopal,' said the black suit. 'How old was your mother?'

Chakravarti got up and went towards the
verandah
. His face looked as though he was perpetually grieving over the loss of someone. I wondered how many times he had been asked this kind of question before? He seemed to have come to a halt near the balcony. Was he going to jump? They talk of transplanting all kinds of organs. Is it possible to transplant the face? Why, even the
Puranas
have stories of transplants! What about the
Puru-Yayati
story? That was a case of transplantation of the whole body! When I grow older, my face too will look like mother's did yesterday. I have to consign that body to the flames today... What a cruel joke... I do not remember father's death.... Why shouldn't we bury the dead? That would not be so heartless. But it is our belief that only if the body is sanctified by fire can the soul go to heaven.
Agni
is the purifier.... That is all the value attached to the body... Is it this body that was my conception of my mother? Or is it the chain of permanent memories that pervade my mind like the soft fragrance of joss sticks?