Chronicle of a Corpse Bearer (10 page)

During a funeral I accompanied Mother to in this period, I caught
my first glimpse of her in the far distance. Long-boned and gangly, with a shock of thick uncombed curls, a wild-looking creature about my age. . .who was she? What was she doing there all by herself in the woods?

There was something strangely beautiful and desolate about her. Or perhaps, about the setting I spied her in. Anyway, I was completely fascinated. My pursuit of favour with Sepideh—for that was her name, I discovered later, a name deriving from Persian lore—began that very afternoon; for I went back to look for her, soon after I had seen Mother home.

My courtship of this strange creature of the woods was almost wordless. The dense florescence we were surrounded by—this could well have been a tropical forest in some remote part of the world—only heightened our sense of naturalness, our knowledge of the intrinsic validity of what we were about. We felt happily in-apprehensive of being disturbed by the world of adults. Spontaneously, and quite fearlessly, we discovered together, the tremendous world of sexual love. And we were adult enough not to shrink from it—from the responsibility of it—from understanding, in a complete sense, that from this moment on, there was no going back.

When I went back to Doongerwaadi that afternoon, the sun had dropped low, and the forest was filled with shadows. I spotted her almost immediately, though, reclining on the low-drooping bough of a mango tree with her eyelids shut. Sepideh looked so relaxed, at first I wondered if she was asleep. So raw, so natural lying there in the dusky half-light, I imagined I might have walked into a dream. She must have seen me at the funeral that morning, for she opened her eyes as I approached, and smiled shyly. But on that first occasion, I could not speak to her. A disembodied voice called out from afar:

‘Seppy! O Sepideh! Come home for a minute, will you?’

She did not reply, merely slid off the bough and started obediently towards the corpse bearers’ quarters. She was barefoot. She did not turn back to look at me, nor smile again. I hung around there for a while, but she didn’t come back. Not to be put out, I went there again the very next morning.

It was a splendid day. The birds chirped gaily, light danced and shimmered off every leaf of every tree, the whole park was magically alive, but I couldn’t see Seppy anywhere. Presently,
she
found me, and unassumingly sat herself down beside me, on the convoluted, extruding roots of a large guava tree. We spoke. I asked her name, and told her mine. She told me this was her home, that she lived here with her father. Her mother was dead. For a while, it seemed like we had run out of things to speak about, and remained silent. By then the sun had risen high in the sky, and it was hot, and we were thirsty. She said she knew a place, a secret place where it was very cool and there was natural, icy-cold water.

‘Would you like me to show you this place?’

I nodded, and she took me walking deeper into the woods alongside the hill, no more than five minutes away. Years later, it came to be known among us khandhias as ‘the grotto’, that is after I showed it to some of them as a trysting place; though at the time I speak of, it was indeed Seppy’s own secret lair. Against one side of the craggy hill, stood an immense conical boulder which, when viewed from the outside, appeared to stand flush against the rising incline of the hill; a casual passer-by would assume it was just one of several topographic irregularities of the terrain. But, if one clambered up to the top of this rock—and it wasn’t so sheer; sure-footed herself, Seppy showed me how to do it—behind the curved top edge of the boulder was a drop of about five feet and enough space to land in without hurting oneself. And immediately ahead, the low entrance to a small cave formation, inside which, at a wedge in the rock face of the interior, a natural spring oozed chilled water.

‘Yaah!’ I sucked in a deep breath of cold air, after I had found my feet again, and both of us had slaked our thirst.

It felt almost wintry inside if you came in from the hot sun, yet incredibly calm and pleasant and quiet. A canopy of foliage screened the space between the cave and the rock from light as well as attention. It was impossible to tell from the outside that, for those who sought complete privacy, the hillside offered them this improbable, astonishing asylum.

That morning, in this very hideout, Seppy and I commenced our journey of mutual self-discovery. Both of us, so young and inexperienced, had an unerring sense of how to proceed, of what was happening to us, or between us. This had to be love, we were certain. . . It only took that first physical touch: incandescent, it fused us. She wasn’t shy. After that, nothing could have rent us apart. Even later, when all the disturbances had commenced, all the bickering and interventions by family and world, even then we never lost for a moment that silent understanding we had found between us, like the telepathic complicity of deaf-mute twins. Together, we were defined, happy, ourselves. Alone, we were amorphous, directionless, rather lost.

And every evening, once it was dark, as I wended my way home from Kemps Corner to Forjett Hill Road, I felt alone, and puzzled over that emotional conflict I probably would never have been able to define or verbalize then. The conundrum that lurks behind sexual joy, perhaps behind every form of ecstasy: that ultimately there’s nothing to satiety but emptiness, something not far removed from the void of despair. But this was only an abstract, momentary sensation; in reality, with every meeting, every merging, our love grew more steadfast, inviolable. She was not afraid. She trusted me. We were able to laugh together; everything we did, the whole world, seemed funny. Osmotically, as it were—through touch and caress—she communicated her own strength and fearlessness to me.

How else would I have found the courage during the nocturnal showdown that was about to take place to stand before my father and admit that I was in love with the daughter of a corpse bearer; and at that, as I was to discover later, of a man who was his sworn enemy from the time when I was practically an infant.

Most of the time, I knew my father as a preoccupied and mild-mannered man; but that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of yielding to bouts of great rage. As a child, I had seen him once deliver a ferocious slap to a young chaasni boy who had consumed the choicest pieces of consecrated fruit he had been assigned to deliver to the home of a family, and then, when questioned about it—after the family complained of receiving a much depleted chaasni—lied outright, first to Ardesar, and then to my father as well, while he was questioning him.

‘Did your elders never warn you not to tell lies?’ I could hear him yelling at the boy, furious. He was probably just a few years older than me. ‘Never let a falsehood slip through your lips, even by mistake, do you understand?’

Father had a complete horror of the act of deliberately uttering a falsehood. He saw it as a terrible sin, a willingness to play ball with the Devil! Unable to efface the memory of that backhanded wallop he once delivered to the chaasni boy, I was petrified that night. I trusted his love enough to know that he would never strike me, and all through childhood, he never had: yet the enormity of my crimes of commission and omission were now in the balance and, I feared, could easily tilt it.

Yes, I do recall that season of my vagrancy and call it apt, insomuch as it was fully congruent with what was to follow soon after. When this eight-month period ended, instead of attempting to answer my exam as I had promised Father I would, I abruptly relinquished everything I held dear, embracing instead a completely new chapter in my life: narrow and segregated, cut off from most people and family, microcosmically cloistered, yet beautiful in its own fashion; even uplifting, you could say, for the very seclusion it enjoined on me.

The choice was thrust on me, and I embraced it with both arms—because that was the condition Seppy’s father stipulated: if I wanted to be with her, I was to marry her first, and be willing to live and work at the Towers of Silence. I didn’t take long to discuss or debate this proposal with my elders, or even with myself. My response was: if that’s the choice, so be it.

That night, when I got home quite late, I should have been surprised to see Father still up. He was seated at the small square marble table in the front room where the rest of us usually took our dinner, long after he was already in bed. But tonight, he was seated there himself, staring at the floor. Was he unwell? Mother and Vispy were there, too, standing behind him. My mother was hugging herself as though she were feeling cold, or frightened. Vispy had his arms akimbo, in the manner of a severe taskmaster. The expressions on both their faces, their refusal to meet my eyes, except in fleeting, reproachful glares, convinced me—that the game was up.

‘Where were you?’ asked Mother, in the hurt-filled voice she reserved for such occasions.

‘The usual,’ I answered, trying to sound as casual as possible. ‘Classes. Then I went for a stroll with Rohinton. Before catching the tram back. Have I come home so late?’

‘See? See?’ yelled Vispy, glowering, unable to contain himself. ‘God knows where he’s learnt to tell lies like that. . .or maybe Ahriman, more likely.’

My father spoke sternly to Vispy:

‘Shut up! You stay out of this. . .’

Then he looked at me, and asked:

‘Have you been studying, son? We heard something else. That you’ve been spending a lot of time at Doongerwaadi?’

Now look at that, I thought to myself, the very place I had assumed would be a safe haven—compared to walking the streets, which I had been doing for so long prior to that—had been my undoing. Caught off guard, I averted my eyes to the floor, which both Mother and Vispy all-too-promptly seized upon as an admission of guilt.

‘But why?’ asked Mother, even more agonized by her sense of hurt, as if my unworthy behaviour had cast a slur on her own parenting. ‘Don’t you
want
to study, be like your brother, and finish your matric? What did we do wrong? I never treated you differently from Vispy. Both my sons are equal, I always said. My eldest may be smarter in studies, but don’t underestimate my younger. Don’t you
want
to finish with school, get ahead in life like Vispy? It’s okay if you’ve failed once. Second time you’ll definitely pass. Nothing to be disheartened about. Just don’t—’

My father, who had been silent all this time, spoke rather roughly:

‘Hilla, please!
Jara bolva bhi desay ke nahi
?’ his deep guttural voice, seethed with irritation. ‘Let the boy answer!’

There was a moment’s silence, while I collected my thoughts.

‘I can’t study, Daddy. It’s too difficult. . .’

‘I told you I’d help. Only try your best, didn’t I say?’ he reprimanded me.

‘I can’t, Daddy, I know I won’t make it. I know my best just isn’t good enough. It’s too difficult. . .for me, at least,’ I said, sneaking a glance in Vispy’s direction.

My father looked away. Now
he
was hurt for my deficient faith in the power of his prayers.

‘If I felt I had any chance, I would, I would have tried my best. . .’ I mumbled apologetically, ‘but I’m not making any headway. It’s all meaningless to me. You see, I feel I should simply start working, begin my life. . .I can’t do this. . .I don’t want to be a burden on you-all anymore.’

My mother, who had been waiting to interrupt, couldn’t contain herself.

‘Have you gone completely—Work? You’re so young still, and what will you
do
? In today’s world, without being a matric-pass no employer will let you even stand before him, let alone give you a job! Are you going to start muttering prayers day and night, like your poor father here? Didn’t I tell you?’ she said, addressing Framroze now. ‘All peas in a pod are not the same. We should be thankful that God has given us one bright boy. Studies were never Phiroze’s cup of tea. How much I have struggled, year after year, just so they wouldn’t hold him back, make him repeat the class. . .Maths, English, Science. Every evening after school,
I’
ve been sitting with him, trying to drill a smattering of knowledge into his head, hoping he would retain it until the next morning. Sometimes, his studies were too difficult even for me to grasp. I won’t deny it—the same things that were smooth sailing for Vispy. But what do you know about all that? What do you
want
to know about all my struggles?’