Chronicle of a Corpse Bearer (3 page)

At the mention of eating, I felt a mild pang of hunger, but noticed there were only two slices left in the rusting bread-box; besides, I had lingered too long over my tea.

‘I must go. Keep an ear open for Baby,’ I said to him. ‘There’s some milk in the vessel on my sideboard. She likes her bread soggy and sweet.’

‘Of course, son, of course, don’t I know that? Saved those two slices just for her. I’ll be listening; don’t worry at all. . .’

Inside the stone cottage, in the centre of the floor lay the dead man
, stretched out on an iron bier.

Nearby, a small fire crackled in a thurible on a silver tray. The cleansing smell of smoke and incense and sandal was everywhere. Three sides of the room—Buchia was right: the mourners, present and waiting—were crowded with women of various ages draped in freshly laundered white saris: swans, elegant in their grief. They sat shoulder to shoulder in closely arranged wooden chairs, their hair covered by scarves or the bob-pinned trains of saris, contained, like their grief, in an orderly, well-adjusted decorum. Some of them conferred in whispers.

The men wore spotless white as well, but ambled outside or stood around in random clusters on the crowded veranda. Some of them wore tall, brooding headgear. Most knew each other and exchanged pleasantries—or condolences—in muted murmurs. Everyone’s head was covered, and many bent in prayer. Must have been an important bawa, this big man, I thought to myself, to have attracted such a large and well-decked retinue of mourners.

Standing outside the funeral chamber, I hurriedly untied and re-knotted the sacred girdle around my waist. Fardoon was already there, waiting. He’s a nussesalar, too, though at least twenty years my senior. Presently, we entered the stone cottage together.

Gripping a hefty, three-inch-long iron nail I had collected from the storeroom on my way up, I got down on my haunches, and described a circle on the floor at a radius of about three feet around the supine body in an anticlockwise direction. Fardoon tagged behind me at the end of a long white cloth tape, both of us softly reciting, in tandem, thirty-three Yatha Ahu Vairyos—one of the prescribed ancient hymns that keeps the demon of foulness at bay. This magic circle, once drawn, firmly seals in the invisible contamination emanating from the corpse, or so it is believed. This was all pretty much routine. I wasn’t going to be needed again, until it was time to carry the corpse up to the tower. And I was thinking perhaps there might be just enough time to catch a nap. . .? One of the khandhias—Bomi or Fali perhaps—would have been assigned the task of bringing up Moti the bitch on a leash, to show her the corpse once the priests were through.

But before we could make our exit through the crowded funeral cottage, two robed priests padded in, not willing to wait anymore. They seemed to be sulking, impatient about the delay I had presumably been responsible for.

Holding a long white handkerchief between them, they swayed from side to side, chanting a prayer of penitence beseeching forgiveness from the Almighty on behalf of the large, dead man whose name was Peshotan Pavri.

Meanwhile, a young girl, possibly a granddaughter of the deceased, began wailing. An older woman sitting beside her put an arm around the young girl and squeezed her comfortingly, while another, in front of them, turned in her chair and began whispering urgently:

‘No, no my dear, mustn’t cry like that. . .’

‘Papa’s happy, darling, what’s there to cry about?’ said the other woman.

‘If you shed tears, they’ll only become like heavy boulders pinning his soul down to earth. . . Let him go, let him soar up, Ruby. . .’

Presently, the young girl’s sobbing softened to a whimper, became more sibilant, elegiac.

People never give a thought to death while there’s still time, I reflected, as the priests droned on. And when it comes upon you unannounced, there’s shock and disbelief, and a great gnashing of teeth.

As Fardoon and I withdrew from the crowded funeral hall, the congregated mourners shrank perceptibly, leaving a clear, if narrow, passage for us to walk through. I was thinking of my own little girl, who must be awake now, perhaps sitting in her grandpa’s lap, munching on those two slices of bread. . . Despite my misgivings about the man, I felt grateful for Temoo that he was there to keep her company; that Coyaji had allowed the dotard to stay on in his quarters even though he’s too old for any real work.

Lost in thought, I didn’t notice a particularly lean, cadaverous man with a large mole on his forehead seated on the veranda among crowds of family and friends; nor did he see me approach. Perhaps he was merely inattentive or too abstracted from long hours of prayer? One leg hoisted over the other, vigorously wagging his cocked foot at the ankle while silently moving his lips, he was completely engrossed in a thick, but diminutive prayer book.

As I passed him, my leg brushed against this man’s oscillating shoe. Accidentally, of course, but the man who had seemed so lost in prayer, so oblivious of his surroundings, suddenly sprang to life. With the suddenness of a spring-operated toy he leapt to his feet, and began trembling like a leaf. A few other mourners noticed that something out of the ordinary was going on. Now the bony figure started making loud and insistent buzzing noises, like an incensed bee. He was saying something to me, abusing me in all probability, protesting his defilement at my hands— but all of it wordlessly, without parting his lips which remained tightly pressed together.

Having once trained for priesthood myself, I was familiar with this routine practiced by the most devout: the hallowed chain of prayer they have been so diligently weaving must not be interrupted by the profane utterances of everyday speech: hence, the buzzing. In a ferocious dumb charade the man was urging me to keep my distance, to take my unholy self out of his sight, disappear from the very face of the earth (if I read him correctly)—all the while flailing his arms and fists in the air like one possessed. Other mourners stood up too, shocked. The man whom I had thus desecrated by the graze of my shin against his polished leather shoe seemed angry enough to strike me, but fear of further despoilment rendered him impotent, and apoplectic with rage.

I felt an urge to break into guffaws of laughter. I felt like embracing this strangely awkward man so terrified of the ‘demon’ of putrefaction; smothering him in a friendly bear hug, and saying:

Do you seriously believe you won’t need me one day? Astride those emaciated shoulders rides the ghost of a corpse. You don’t see him now, but it’s only a matter of time, believe me, before your blood turns to ice, your limbs harden like wood. Then, ask yourself, will your near and dear ones wash and clothe you for the final goodbye? No, sweet man, you’ll have to depend on one of us. And then, we’ll have to rub you all over. . .

Of course, I didn’t dare deliver that tirade; instead, only mumbled contritely:

‘Forgive me, please. My mistake, bawaji, please forgive. . .’ and bowing low, quickly took my leave of him, as the rest of the grim congregation on the veranda glared at me.

I had witnessed instances of corpse bearers being fined by Coyaji, or even thrashed by self-important and wrathful members of our tribe for sitting on a bench intended for public use, or merely leaning against a wall in one of the pavilions during large funerals that teemed with mourners. Infringing the strict rules of segregation could be dangerous for us corpse bearers. Greatly relieved to have got away so lightly, I allowed my mind to relax, feel once again the silence and peace of the woods.

I had been feeling rather queasy and unwell all morning; what I wanted to do most of all was get back to my quarters and catch some sleep. But while cutting through the casuarina grove I found myself intercepted by Buchia. How the news of the tiny furore I had caused got to him so swiftly I’ll never know, but he’s not one to overlook such blunders. Without any qualms, spiritual or otherwise, Buchia thought nothing of laying hands on us corpse bearers. By close association, I suspect, he sees himself as completely sullied anyway.

‘Can’t see where you’re going, behnchoad? Bumping into all and sundry, instead of minding your own fuckin’ work?’

Buchia wore long sideburns that flowered into a sort of fleecy half-beard. He had a high dome of a forehead with very little hair on his head. Something about him never failed to evoke a sense of revulsion in me. It wasn’t just his unpleasant foul-mouthedness, or his oddly androgynous voice always startling to hear. Something about the very core of the man was unmistakably malodorous, if not malignant.

Short and stocky, but very strong, all of a sudden he slapped me on the back of my head. There didn’t seem to be much force behind the blow, but for a few seconds I was seeing double.

‘Don’t you dare lift your hand on me!’ I protested, reflexively raising my bunched-up fist.

‘And what will you do, my dear Piloo?’ he laughed. ‘Box my ears?’

His tone was no longer threatening, but teasing rather, almost affectionate in its use of my abbreviated name. No one else ever called me that. He put his arm around me, tickling the nape of my neck with his index finger, as if I were a kitten, but I shook him off fiercely with my elbow.

‘Your dad used his influence to get you this job, you know that,’ he purred. ‘But is he here now to protect you? I let you have a good snooze until so late this morning, kept everyone waiting so you could wake up fresh, didn’t I? Answer me, Piloo, didn’t I? Now cool off, and get some more rest while you can. Only make sure you’re back in forty-five minutes to take the corpse up to the tower. And immediately after that, be ready to start moving again. I’ve already informed the others.’

‘What?!’

Clearly, there was no redress against this unpleasant man’s manipulative authority.

‘What on earth are you staring at me for?’ continued Buchia. ‘The three others on duty will accompany you. They’re washing the bier. And Jungoo as well.’

‘But where to, now?’

‘Colaba. Cusrow Baag.’

‘Colaba! Oh God. . .!’

‘Take the address from my office before you leave. Groaning and moaning won’t help when there’s work to be done.’

‘We’ll start straight after lunch, then?’ I asked.

Was there a hint of assertion in my voice? Perhaps, but it was already a quarter to ten, and I was famished.

‘Don’t act cocky with me! Didn’t I just tell you, immediately after this body has been consigned to the tower?’

I saw him raise his hand, as if to smack me on the head again, but I glared at him so fiercely he checked himself.

‘Next funeral has to start at four. If you wait for lunch you’ll never make it back before sunset. It’ll take you two hours just to reach Colaba.’

‘This is too much, saheb. . .even we need to eat some time. And rest. It’s heavy work. What’s happened to the hearse?’

‘Never mind the hearse. These are trying times for everyone. Just do as you’re told, Piloo. There will be other times, later, for rest. And recreation, too. Don’t you think I, too, could use some of that once in a while? What do you say. . .?’ And he scratched the nape of my neck again.

Sickened, I walked away without saying another word. Buchia had a reputation for liking boys, of bringing young men up to his quarters at night. If he had touched me again, I swear I would have struck him; but the truth is, I was completely off-colour that morning, ruing my previous night’s indulgence. A pint of country would have served us better than the full bottle that we’d glugged down at top speed: truth to tell, a most dreadful exhaustion had made us greedy for self-effacement.