Dying is a very dull, dreary affair. And my advice to you is to have nothing whatever to do with it. – Somerset Maugham
A friend of mine stopped smoking, drinking, overeating, and chasing women --all at the same time. It was a lovely funeral. – Unknown
According to most studies, people's number one fear is public speaking. Number two is death. Death is number two! Does that sound right? This means to the average person, if you go to a funeral, you're better off in the casket than doing the eulogy. – Jerry Seinfeld
I treat deaths and weddings the same way, as a reluctant participant.
Last Sunday, around 2 pm, I got the call from Nalini Mutheymachi, ‘Kuttaa, Mutheychan is leaving us…’
After the brief call, I stuffed a change of clothes and toilet kit into my backpack and left home immediately. It took me 45 minutes to drive to my village. I concentrated on the road and the traffic rather than think about Mutheychan.
I parked the car outside Mutheychan’s 3-acre plot. People had started to gather. Standing near the compound wall, I observed his close relatives huddled together in the drawing room, following a rough queue to enter his bedroom situated on the left side of the house.
I looked around and found Nalini Mutheymachi standing alone a little away from the side-entrance on the right of the house. I went up to her. She held my hand tightly. I looked at her gentle delicately featured old face and realized that she had not allowed herself to cry.
She told me about the last moments, ‘He took bath at 11, shaved himself…we had lunch together…and as usual, he lay down to rest around quarter to one. I completed my tasks in the kitchen a little after one and joined him…I must have slept…he woke me up, he could barely shake my shoulder, he didn’t say anything, just smiled…his breathing seemed irregular…I called Dr Priya…do you remember her, she stays here now…thank God, she was at home…she is expecting, you know…she told me to inform everyone…’
‘What are they up to?’ I asked about the relatives trying to enter Mutheychan’s room.
‘Each one wants to give him a sip of water before he dies…he is still hanging on…why, I don’t know…don’t you want to see him?’ she asked.
‘No.’ I replied.
‘He would like it…’ she said.
‘Will he like to take anything from that lot? I hope he is beyond realization…’ I stated bitterly and then added softly, ‘You should be there…’
‘For what…?’ she sighed wistfully and then asked with a slight smile blinking back the tears, ‘Do you know what he might say…’
‘Kazhutha-pennu…’ I replied and she laughed softly, nodding, strands of grey hair escaping from the loose bun and straying onto her forehead. Mutheychan used to reach over and tuck those strands of hair behind her ear, I remembered.
We stood there together for a while before she went inside to help. I went to my position outside the compound waiting for Mutheychan to give up the fight.
I am not related to him, I mean, by way of blood. I can’t even recall how I got to know him. I visit my village at least twice a month and it became a habit or custom to visit him too. Maybe, I started visiting him because his place promised a clean bathroom or, a good meal and a place for siesta. I can’t recall. I do remember that our first meeting happened at least five years after he returned from abroad.
From the tales I heard about him, I have gathered that he was very well educated and that he went to London in his mid-twenties. Nobody knows what he did over there and he rarely visited our village during those twenty five years he was abroad. There was a lot of buzz when he returned. He was about fifty then. I heard rumours that he was mad and that he had to be locked up in his brother’s place. His wealth and ‘outside connections’ helped him scorch these rumours, they say regretfully, and he settled down in our village.
I have known him for more than twenty five years. I have tried to probe about his early life but he evades every question regarding that part of his personal life. He has told me about his travels in Britain and the rest of Europe. He talked about it with ease and without being in awe, quite matter-of-fact, as if he was very much at home there, too. He talked about Paris or Prague and the people there the same way he talked about our village, equal in curiosity and detachment.
While his personal life abroad remained private and a closed affair, his life here was an open book. Long back, in Nalini Mutheymachi’s presence, he told me about their first meeting. It happened two years after his return. Her house is a few plots away from his, a five-minute brisk walk. Every day, around half past ten, she used to walk past his gate to go to the market for the day’s fish and provisions. She could not trust her maid with the fish, Mutheymachi explained. One day, he stopped her near his gate and without any greeting told her abruptly, ‘I think you should read this book.’ Mutheychan gave her his copy of Hardy’s ‘Jude the Obscure’. She accepted it, muttered thanks and proceeded to the market. I asked him why he chose that book. ‘I did not mind losing it…’ he told me frankly. Four days later, she returned the book to him telling him, ‘It is morbid…I read only half.’ ‘Kazhutha-pennu, you should read the whole book…’ he remarked. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘It gets even more morbid…helps you to laugh at everything else…other than the book, I mean…’ he replied earnestly. He admits that she looked at him as if he was a madman.
When she met Mutheychan, she must have been in her mid-forties and he must have been at least five or six years older. She had married at the age of 17. By twenty, she had two kids and a wastrel for a husband. At that time, her maternal uncle was looking after the affairs of her joint family. One fine day, a few months before her 21st birthday, when that uncle returned for lunch after toiling in the fields, he saw her lazy husband sleeping, snoring loudly, on the uncle’s armchair. The uncle grabbed her husband by the arm and pushed him out of the house, bellowing ‘Get out…till you work and earn on your own, stay away from this house…’ She never saw her husband after that day. With the share she inherited (she is richer than Mutheychan, I think) she did not face any major difficulty in taking care of the house, educating her kids well and getting them married.
So, when she looked at Mutheychan as if he was a madman, she admits that it was a very pleasant diversion or curiosity.
Nalini Mutheymachi told me that it was quite difficult for her in the beginning, especially because she had never experienced such interaction or attention and if she had ever thought about it earlier, it must have been when she was just an adolescent. Anyway, the curiosity slowly developed into companionship and they became partners in life. Each had their own house and land but they shared without inhibition, without being bound to do so. A few loose tongues tried to wag or protest but it was nothing really new.
‘He was such a peculiar character in the village…’ she used to recollect.
To say that he was peculiar was actually putting it mildly. Though he was capable of talking to me and others about any topic (including his travels) in a highly cultured way, I also knew that he was capable of being extremely abrasive.
Some time back, I went along with him for a relative’s wedding. That was the last time I went for a social function with him. During the wedding feast, the service was extremely slow and it tested the patience of most guests seated there in that dining hall. Mutheychan started criticizing loudly, even making casteist remarks like ‘That is what you get if you attend weddings of such people…kuravaru…’ I guess we escaped without getting hurt physically or verbally only because we belong to the same lowly caste as everyone there.
Of course, he went further than his own caste. Each time we used to walk past Ibrahimkutty’s provision store, he would tell me loudly, ‘Never buy stuff from there…maytharu…cut-throat rascals…he gets richer and I am poorer day by day…’ In the city where I live, he would have been lynched, I am sure. I guess everyone in the village knew that Ibrahimkutty was Mutheychan’s beedi-mate. Ibrahimkutty used to get these special beedis from Orissa, which he liked to describe as ‘pure tobacco…thick…long…what a kick…’ The stench was strong and overpowering. I used to go Nalini Mutheymachi’s place when those two used to sit on the verandah, sucking greedily at their beedis, exchanging village news or talking about the market.
I must have been recollecting all these memories when I heard the first wail.
Someone inside was crying, ‘Ayyo, Ammava…what will I do without you?’ I tried to recognize that voice. I did not know of a relative who was ever allowed to be ‘with’ Mutheychan when he was alive.
I watched people get into action quite fast, like well-oiled machinery. The ‘funeral-caterers’ took care of the arrangements for setting up the funeral pyre within the compound. ‘They are usually available within an hour…,’ said a young man standing near. An older man added, ‘Now, it is not like old days when we had to dig a six-by-four pit. They dig pits less than a foot deep these days.’ The young man explained ‘Just for a few thousand rupees…you don’t even have to cut a tree for the wood…they bring everything…’ The older man looked at me with a bit of regret and a lot of envy, ‘Of course, for you in the city, it is electric, isn’t it?’ Everyone seemed well-versed with the show – the bathing and dressing of the corpse; the bed, the right direction to place the corpse and the stage-setting for the final procession of people paying their last respect; a group of ladies were ready with prayer songs; and, there were other ladies who provided the mourning and the crying. I did not see Nalini Mutheymachi in that crowd. She must have been standing far from those near and dear ones. I remained outside the compound wall and moved further away from the crowd.
I was lost in reverie when I heard a woman say ‘Chetta…’ It was Dr Priya. Twenty or more years since I saw her last and she looked the same to me, of course, she was then minus the obvious pregnant state. Dark searching eyes, the deep dimple on the right cheek, wavy tangled hair…she was fourteen when I noticed all that for the first time.
She had worn a half-sari for the first time and came running to my room from her house next door. She modeled innocently, twirling on her toes slowly, striking poses and then she had asked, ‘How do I look, Chetta?’ I had adjusted her blouse a little, helped her with a hook and then I had told her truthfully, ‘You look great.’ She looked so glad. I realized that the girl I had treated like a kid sister or a childhood friend was becoming a young lady. Her folks also realized that and it was all fine till two years later when I decided to pursue an education outside mainstream professional courses. During my first year in that college far away from home, we exchanged letters twice or at times even thrice a week. Then, during the first summer holidays, she sent word through a friend that I should not contact her again. Her parents had given strict instructions, the mutual friend tried to explain. In the years that followed, she could have contacted me. She met other men and she married one of her new loves, I assumed. I had little to do other than to forget her.
I must have been staring blankly at her while I thought about all that. ‘How are you, Chetta?’ she asked. ‘Good…and you…second one? ’ I indicated her tummy. ‘Third…’ she replied. ‘Quite late, isn’t it?’ I enquired for want of something more sensible to ask. ‘Ten years gap since the last one…’ she said. ‘A mistake…?’ I probed tactlessly. She stared at me without saying anything. I decided to change topics, ‘Did Mutheychan go without pain?’ ‘Oh yes…a lovely death actually…it was so peaceful…’ I remained silent though I wanted to mutter, ‘Quite unlike him to go like that...’
‘I have to go…kids must be back from school…’ she said. I did not say anything. ‘Chetta…do you remember those times…’ she asked. ‘Hmm…’ I admitted. ‘Every now and then, I wonder about those special years…the intensity and attachment…why I haven’t had that since…’ she said. ‘Requires a lot of thought…and affection…’ I said blandly without looking at her. I did not want to see if she had tears in her eyes or whether she remained untouched. She stood with me for some more time before leaving. We did not even tell each other ‘See you…’
Half an hour after she left, it was time for the cremation. Shankaran-master, one of Mutheychan’s rare friends, came up to me and said, ‘He told me that you should do what a son should do…’ I walked inside, past the unwelcome glares of the near and dear. I realized that by choosing me, an outsider, Mutheychan managed to irritate his ‘near and dear’ even after his death. I suppressed my mirth. I changed and prepared for the last rites. Shankaran-master and another crony were the masters of ceremony and I followed their instructions with a blank expression. I did think of putting on an expression of sadness or humble respect but I felt nothing towards the corpse.
I had completed the first round around the pyre with the clay pot of water leaking on my shoulder when the silent crowd and I were surprised by a loud bawdy song. It was a mobile ringtone. We located the source. It seemed to come from the corpse lying within, covered with wood and flowers on the unlit pyre. One of the funeral-caterers came forward sheepishly, ‘I think my mobile fell out of my pocket while we were arranging the wood…’ It took some time to shift the wood and the corpse, to retrieve the errant mobile with the insistent caller and the ringtone still entertaining or irritating the gathered lot and then, to ‘repack’ everything. I was glad when that function got over.
I stayed with Nalini Muthemachi till the fifth day. For every meal, we went to Muthechan’s place and as per custom we shared food with the ‘near and dear’ and other mourners. With each passing day, our presence there met with less and less acceptance. There appeared to be a lot of resentment and chattering behind our backs. Once or twice, I heard some of the close relatives say stuff like ‘Why should these outsiders be here?’ ‘They will only leave after grabbing everything…’ I noticed that Mutheychan’s immediate neighbor ‘PaaRa’ Vaasu was also doing his bit goading the others and instigating trouble against us.
I told Nalini Mutheymachi about all this and how I felt like leaving immediately. She requested, ‘Stay till the fifth day…Shankaran-master told me that we should be there…’ ‘That Vaasu, I feel like giving him a thrashing…’ I protested. ‘Don’t mind that idiot…’ she tried to soothe my frayed nerves before adding ‘your Mutheychan felt the same way, too, you know…’
Vaasu is Mutheychan’s relative (a nephew once or twice removed) and he stays in a small hut next to Mutheychan’s plot. He is a drunken uncouth lout who works as manager in a quarry (hence the nickname, ‘PaaRa’). When he is not drinking and hanging around in the village, he abuses his wife Revathy and their two kids. Without income, savings or any source of support, she had no choice other than death or being her husband’s punching bag. Every one knew about the frequent loud and violent abuse. We could only watch or listen feeling disgusted and helpless.
On the fifth day, we gathered at Mutheychan’s house. That morning, there was a small prayer and other religious stuff after which all the people, relatives and other well-wishers who had attended the funeral were invited and served a light breakfast. After the guests had left, Shankaran-master requested everyone else to gather in the front room.
He explained that he had been instructed by Mutheychan to inform the concerned people about the last and final will. He also explained how Mutheychan had taken extra pains to get certified that he was with sound mind while he prepared the will. The near and dear bristled at the last announcement anticipating bad news and to be without recourse to legal challenges. Mutheychan had spoiled their game even before it started.
The near and dear ones directed undisguised animosity at us, that is, Nalini Mutheymachi and me. We were seated safely away from them. ‘PaaRa’ Vaasu made some unpleasant comments about us to the others. I could only stare. Nalini Mutheymachi kept a gentle hand on my clenched fist.
Shankaran-master took his time. He cleaned his spectacles, asked for a glass of hot water to drink, and then explained that the will’s terms and conditions were quite simple. By then, one of the close relatives shouted angrily, ‘Just read it…and get it done, will you?’
Shankaran-master cleared his throat and explained that a trust has been created for the sake of the beneficiary. The trust will take care of the wealth and safeguard the interests of the beneficiary. The trust also had the added power to protect the beneficiary from external sources of threat and danger. After the death of the beneficiary, the trust would take care of the kids of the beneficiary.
Then, Shankaran-master told the gathering that the sole beneficiary of Mutheychan’s wealth is Revathy.
Someone in the crowd wailed, ‘Ayyo, Ammava…what will I do without…?’ I think it was the same voice as before. I looked at ‘PaaRa’ Vaasu. I watched him realize quickly that he was losing control over his wife. Revathy was standing near the doorway leading to the kitchen. Nalini Mutheymachi had brought her that morning to help with the cooking, serving and cleaning. I watched Revathy take in the news with a dead-pan expression, following the disappearing back of her husband with cold determined eyes. In the days to come, there will be new rumours and much chatter in the village about how she managed to get everything from Mutheychan. Even that will die one day.
I laughed loud, turned to Nalini Mutheymachi and gave her a hug. She was crying with joy. Her man must be laughing wherever he is.
Notes:
Mutheychan/Mutheymachi : Strictly, these apply to father’s elder brother and his wife; or mother’s elder sister and her husband. Here, the protagonist uses the same in a ‘foster’ relationship.
Kuttaa : An affectionate way to call a boy.
Kazhutha-pennu : Donkey-girl.
Kuravaru : Low-caste people.
Maytharu : These days, that is also a politically incorrect way to refer to Muslims, I think.
Beedi : Indian cheroot.
‘Ayyo, Ammava…’ : An anguished cry meaning ‘Oh, Uncle…’
Chetta : It is derived from ‘jeshtan’ meaning elder brother. This mode of reference or endearment is also commonly used by women with older unrelated but affectionate men (wife and husband, too).
PaaRa : Rock.
Village scene : The stereotype of an Indian village is a place with large landowners and nearly landless bonded labourers in abject poverty. Such a stereotype might be truly representing the majority. But, there are also villages where the divide is less between the rich and the poor. Here, in this account, we have one such village. In such villages, it is also not uncommon for the lady of the house to do the daily shopping at the market, especially for fish. Well, it used to be the case during my grandmother’s and mother’s era. I am not too sure if my generation and those that followed enjoy such activity.
Weddings and deaths : The rituals vary a lot depending on the community. For some, it continues for days; for others, it is just a ten minute affair.
Disclaimer : The characters and events described here might bear some resemblance to real ones. It could be a coincidence. Or, it could be as considered to be as false as history; or, as true as a priest’s confession. Blame it on my limited imagination.
