So I went to a funeral. Attending this one was of no significance to me. I have never known or met the deceased and wouldn’t know her from Jane. Then why did I go? Well, because hubby insisted and he said because all the other wives were going. Oh God, how I hate this ‘because all the other wives….’ reason!
I grumbled and almost threw a tantrum but eventually obeyed and went under protest. I had very good reasons for not wanting to go. First and foremost, the husband of the deceased was someone I disliked. I had sensed he was the insincere and malicious type. Sometime later I came to know that he had done and said things to undermine hubby while pretending to be supportive of him in his presence. It only proved once again that I was and am always right!
I am contemptuous of people like him but hubby seemed to have forgiven him and I couldn’t. No, I am not generally a vengeful person but perhaps this is due to the fact I meet more genuine people than hubby does and after a while his ‘tolerance levels’ must have upped to limits I couldn’t understand or fathom, while my remained the mean accepted standard for normal people.
My second reason was, my knee. I had stopped playing badminton with regularity since my knee had started to trouble me. How the hell was I going to sit cross-legged for about an hour or two on the marble floor, even if it was carpeted? I wasn't family to slip into some area where I could find a chair or stool. I didn’t want to sit or stand with the men outside the hall and I certainly didn't want to make an announcement and ask for some sort of special treatment. Third, I had some very pressing deadlines to meet. And fourth, I might not meet anyone I know and would have to do with my own silent company. Not that this is a big problem because I am quite adept at amusing myself and am very comfortable with my own company even in big crowds. The agreeable level of comfort amidst alien crowds is something I have perfected over the years, first out of a need to overcome my shyness and then later to pleasure my mind during meaningless episodes in public life.
I sat there amidst the many, many ladies of various sizes and ages and there were enormous bouquets of white, yellow and even red flowers lining the walls of the entrance hall and living room. A big photograph of the deceased was on my right, with an oil lamp that was burning, and a teenage girl was keeping vigil that it didn’t run out of oil. Since I had no idea how the deceased looked I studied the portrait for a few moments. She had a huge bun that haloed her head. Her complexion was dusky and her features made her pretty in an unconventional way. The ruby necklace she wore with matching earstuds gave the impression she was wealthy. The red and gold sari complemented the look and I thought she must have been a woman who must have lived well.
“Why don’t I see you in a bun like that,” B asked quietly. I looked again at the picture. Perhaps that was the hairstyle in vogue when she took her picture, which I was sure, was taken several years ago. I wondered how I would look in something like that.
“No, not for me. I would look like a Tami School Inspectress. Don’t ask me why I think that, but that’s what I would look like,” I replied B.
My perception of me was that I was someone who would look good in anything sporty and trendy, not a matronly bun! Ya, I know I haven’t caught up with my age yet, especially in my perception of me.
“B, do remind me to have my picture taken at a good studio for such a purpose, you know, for display at my funeral. A photograph that could stand up to my own critical assessment before other people’s. Now would be a good time and age. What do you think?” I asked B.
B seemed a trifle perturbed, I thought. Perhaps next week I shall visit the studio and so made a mental note not wanting to depend on B’s reminder.
“Do you have to be morbid now?”
“What do you mean?” I challenged B. “After all this is a funeral and it isn’t as if I am thinking this up while at a wedding!”
More and more people were coming in as it neared the time for the burial.
One of my deepest delights in holidaying is sitting in a park, or bistro by the roadside, and watching people. Of course a funeral is not the same, but then I was not overcome with emotion nor feeling terribly sad and in all honesty watching the people kind of entertained me and kept my mind off the slow throbbing pain in my knee. I wondered why some of them dressed so colourfully. I know some of you might think that if you forced yourself to dress in black when you don't feel bleak that makes you a hypocrite, but surely there is something known as decorum. At least something sober? Like grays or browns?
If the attire was not important then why does one wear that Look of Loss? I could tell from where I sat that it was all just an act, a performance or pretense that was put on to seem appropriate for the occasion. I know I am mean, but I sat there grading each one's ‘performance’. Facial expression, the look in the eyes, the physical demeanor, all of it counted. I looked for details - how drawn their faces were, how big a frown they were wearing, if they did have any tears, if they seemed distracted, if their body language was appropriate, etc. I could detect those who were close family even though their faces didn't reflect dark, endless grief. This could be because they had drained themselves of all the sadness throughout night and were simply too tired to express anything at all this morning. They went about like half-zombies performing tasks and answering some query or other. I could also tell those who wanted desperately to make an impression. For what purpose that pretense, I had no idea…er….I could think up a few but B forbade me with one glare.
A very elderly lady who had to be helped up the two steps walked in with her mouth agape, like as if she was going to continue her words from mid-sentence, a sentence that she had left home a week ago or maybe even at an earlier funeral. She seemed lost and had to be guided to the coffin. Once there, as if by cue she burst out wailing loudly, much like a professional mourner. I had not witnessed this in a long while and became attentive. In fact I was waiting to catch the 'lyrics' which would tell quite bit of history of the deceased and her relationship with her but was disappointed when one of the family members put a stop to all of that. If a funeral is not a place for melodrama, then what is, I wondered.
There were those for whom the funeral was another social occasion. Exchanging hugs with beaming smiles in the hallways and catching up on ‘news’ and sometimes sharing a joke even – they were like me, I guess, having no feeling for the deceased. But at least I sat very quietly and blended with the crowd.
I know I am the least qualified to criticize all of this because my mind was at its usual footloose rollick. There was this huge guy in a sweeping dhoti who waded across the hall like a duck skirting a wet cloth and making it’s way across a stream. I was wondering what if he tripped, what if his dhoti came off, what if he fell on that frail looking lady near the entrance?
“I am quite ashamed of you,” B admonished reading my mind as always and I sighed and looked elsewhere. This was neither the time nor place for me to conjure images that may elicit a giggle from me. Fortunately for me, while I have this ability at ridiculous surreal conjecture, I can in a nanosecond flip to the other extreme.
I pondered the whole idea of mourning. I recalled a family tragedy. My sister-in-law had died a year earlier and I had witnessed how devastated my hubby had been. His display of sorrow and uncontrolled grief came as a surprise because I have never seen him cry before. I have seen him emotional but never like this - totally breaking down, his body quivering with the stifled cries that came from deep within him. It had shaken me as it did the countless people who had witnessed it. When in the final moments he had called her name out loud, it was as if he was struggling for a final say, a closure that would somehow steady him from loosing all control. It was very sad. There was an echo of heartbreaking cry from her children and close relatives. It had also brought a flood of tears to my eyes. Vasu, my sister-in-law, was a wonderful lady, excellent mother and an almost perfect friend. Her death had been tragic and her children were now orphans, having lost their father several years earlier. My eyes grew moist. Then I thought of my father.
I looked at B and said, “Oh no! I am not going down that lane, not here and not now.” Dear, dear Dad.
With a forced smile I nodded at someone next to me and we exchanged greetings. Perhaps she recognized me but I wasn’t going to be more social than necessary.
Everyone stood up to make space, as it was time for some rituals. This was an escape. My poor knees were sore and with much effort I stood up, pins and needles, numbness and all. I saw quite a few women grimace and it was consoling to know my misery had company.
The close family members were paying their last respects to the deceased. As the son encircled the coffin and ended it by placing flowers at the head of his deceased mother he cried. There is no doubt that he felt the loss. Being an adult doesn’t guarantee that you won’t miss your mother. The same can be said of the husband. He cried saying, “ You have left me and gone away. How can I survive? “ These simple words struck a chord in almost all of us who were there. Death is not easy on anyone. He had shared his life with his wife, and together they had begotten children, brought them up and seen grandchildren and through it all they must have supported each other, especially emotionally. He must have started to feel the loneliness already. He will have to bear the emptiness that will greet him from now. Life goes on.
Most women would scrutinize the rituals and then actually pass comments right there and then or over the next few days, usually finding fault on how incorrectly the ceremony was conducted. I wasn't interested and quite frankly I had no idea about all of these. Somehow, somewhere, no matter how distant you are, funerals touch you in the most unexpected way. I figured since I was in a sober mood it would be a good time to leave.
I don't have anything against attending funerals but I don’t want anyone attending mine because they were forced to. I will excuse those with twisted minds, much like mine, who see more humour than sorrow at my death. In some roundabout way it would help to cancel out some of my own earthly errors I owe some of the innocent people, people I had poked fun at in my own mind.
As I was walking back to the car I was wondering how my children would cope with my funeral. And being the ‘eternal’ mother I was considering the things I could do, the advance arrangements I could make so that when the time comes they will not be put through too much difficulty! Mothers!
I grumbled and almost threw a tantrum but eventually obeyed and went under protest. I had very good reasons for not wanting to go. First and foremost, the husband of the deceased was someone I disliked. I had sensed he was the insincere and malicious type. Sometime later I came to know that he had done and said things to undermine hubby while pretending to be supportive of him in his presence. It only proved once again that I was and am always right!
I am contemptuous of people like him but hubby seemed to have forgiven him and I couldn’t. No, I am not generally a vengeful person but perhaps this is due to the fact I meet more genuine people than hubby does and after a while his ‘tolerance levels’ must have upped to limits I couldn’t understand or fathom, while my remained the mean accepted standard for normal people.
My second reason was, my knee. I had stopped playing badminton with regularity since my knee had started to trouble me. How the hell was I going to sit cross-legged for about an hour or two on the marble floor, even if it was carpeted? I wasn't family to slip into some area where I could find a chair or stool. I didn’t want to sit or stand with the men outside the hall and I certainly didn't want to make an announcement and ask for some sort of special treatment. Third, I had some very pressing deadlines to meet. And fourth, I might not meet anyone I know and would have to do with my own silent company. Not that this is a big problem because I am quite adept at amusing myself and am very comfortable with my own company even in big crowds. The agreeable level of comfort amidst alien crowds is something I have perfected over the years, first out of a need to overcome my shyness and then later to pleasure my mind during meaningless episodes in public life.
I sat there amidst the many, many ladies of various sizes and ages and there were enormous bouquets of white, yellow and even red flowers lining the walls of the entrance hall and living room. A big photograph of the deceased was on my right, with an oil lamp that was burning, and a teenage girl was keeping vigil that it didn’t run out of oil. Since I had no idea how the deceased looked I studied the portrait for a few moments. She had a huge bun that haloed her head. Her complexion was dusky and her features made her pretty in an unconventional way. The ruby necklace she wore with matching earstuds gave the impression she was wealthy. The red and gold sari complemented the look and I thought she must have been a woman who must have lived well.
“Why don’t I see you in a bun like that,” B asked quietly. I looked again at the picture. Perhaps that was the hairstyle in vogue when she took her picture, which I was sure, was taken several years ago. I wondered how I would look in something like that.
“No, not for me. I would look like a Tami School Inspectress. Don’t ask me why I think that, but that’s what I would look like,” I replied B.
My perception of me was that I was someone who would look good in anything sporty and trendy, not a matronly bun! Ya, I know I haven’t caught up with my age yet, especially in my perception of me.
“B, do remind me to have my picture taken at a good studio for such a purpose, you know, for display at my funeral. A photograph that could stand up to my own critical assessment before other people’s. Now would be a good time and age. What do you think?” I asked B.
B seemed a trifle perturbed, I thought. Perhaps next week I shall visit the studio and so made a mental note not wanting to depend on B’s reminder.
“Do you have to be morbid now?”
“What do you mean?” I challenged B. “After all this is a funeral and it isn’t as if I am thinking this up while at a wedding!”
More and more people were coming in as it neared the time for the burial.
One of my deepest delights in holidaying is sitting in a park, or bistro by the roadside, and watching people. Of course a funeral is not the same, but then I was not overcome with emotion nor feeling terribly sad and in all honesty watching the people kind of entertained me and kept my mind off the slow throbbing pain in my knee. I wondered why some of them dressed so colourfully. I know some of you might think that if you forced yourself to dress in black when you don't feel bleak that makes you a hypocrite, but surely there is something known as decorum. At least something sober? Like grays or browns?
If the attire was not important then why does one wear that Look of Loss? I could tell from where I sat that it was all just an act, a performance or pretense that was put on to seem appropriate for the occasion. I know I am mean, but I sat there grading each one's ‘performance’. Facial expression, the look in the eyes, the physical demeanor, all of it counted. I looked for details - how drawn their faces were, how big a frown they were wearing, if they did have any tears, if they seemed distracted, if their body language was appropriate, etc. I could detect those who were close family even though their faces didn't reflect dark, endless grief. This could be because they had drained themselves of all the sadness throughout night and were simply too tired to express anything at all this morning. They went about like half-zombies performing tasks and answering some query or other. I could also tell those who wanted desperately to make an impression. For what purpose that pretense, I had no idea…er….I could think up a few but B forbade me with one glare.
A very elderly lady who had to be helped up the two steps walked in with her mouth agape, like as if she was going to continue her words from mid-sentence, a sentence that she had left home a week ago or maybe even at an earlier funeral. She seemed lost and had to be guided to the coffin. Once there, as if by cue she burst out wailing loudly, much like a professional mourner. I had not witnessed this in a long while and became attentive. In fact I was waiting to catch the 'lyrics' which would tell quite bit of history of the deceased and her relationship with her but was disappointed when one of the family members put a stop to all of that. If a funeral is not a place for melodrama, then what is, I wondered.
There were those for whom the funeral was another social occasion. Exchanging hugs with beaming smiles in the hallways and catching up on ‘news’ and sometimes sharing a joke even – they were like me, I guess, having no feeling for the deceased. But at least I sat very quietly and blended with the crowd.
I know I am the least qualified to criticize all of this because my mind was at its usual footloose rollick. There was this huge guy in a sweeping dhoti who waded across the hall like a duck skirting a wet cloth and making it’s way across a stream. I was wondering what if he tripped, what if his dhoti came off, what if he fell on that frail looking lady near the entrance?
“I am quite ashamed of you,” B admonished reading my mind as always and I sighed and looked elsewhere. This was neither the time nor place for me to conjure images that may elicit a giggle from me. Fortunately for me, while I have this ability at ridiculous surreal conjecture, I can in a nanosecond flip to the other extreme.
I pondered the whole idea of mourning. I recalled a family tragedy. My sister-in-law had died a year earlier and I had witnessed how devastated my hubby had been. His display of sorrow and uncontrolled grief came as a surprise because I have never seen him cry before. I have seen him emotional but never like this - totally breaking down, his body quivering with the stifled cries that came from deep within him. It had shaken me as it did the countless people who had witnessed it. When in the final moments he had called her name out loud, it was as if he was struggling for a final say, a closure that would somehow steady him from loosing all control. It was very sad. There was an echo of heartbreaking cry from her children and close relatives. It had also brought a flood of tears to my eyes. Vasu, my sister-in-law, was a wonderful lady, excellent mother and an almost perfect friend. Her death had been tragic and her children were now orphans, having lost their father several years earlier. My eyes grew moist. Then I thought of my father.
I looked at B and said, “Oh no! I am not going down that lane, not here and not now.” Dear, dear Dad.
With a forced smile I nodded at someone next to me and we exchanged greetings. Perhaps she recognized me but I wasn’t going to be more social than necessary.
Everyone stood up to make space, as it was time for some rituals. This was an escape. My poor knees were sore and with much effort I stood up, pins and needles, numbness and all. I saw quite a few women grimace and it was consoling to know my misery had company.
The close family members were paying their last respects to the deceased. As the son encircled the coffin and ended it by placing flowers at the head of his deceased mother he cried. There is no doubt that he felt the loss. Being an adult doesn’t guarantee that you won’t miss your mother. The same can be said of the husband. He cried saying, “ You have left me and gone away. How can I survive? “ These simple words struck a chord in almost all of us who were there. Death is not easy on anyone. He had shared his life with his wife, and together they had begotten children, brought them up and seen grandchildren and through it all they must have supported each other, especially emotionally. He must have started to feel the loneliness already. He will have to bear the emptiness that will greet him from now. Life goes on.
Most women would scrutinize the rituals and then actually pass comments right there and then or over the next few days, usually finding fault on how incorrectly the ceremony was conducted. I wasn't interested and quite frankly I had no idea about all of these. Somehow, somewhere, no matter how distant you are, funerals touch you in the most unexpected way. I figured since I was in a sober mood it would be a good time to leave.
I don't have anything against attending funerals but I don’t want anyone attending mine because they were forced to. I will excuse those with twisted minds, much like mine, who see more humour than sorrow at my death. In some roundabout way it would help to cancel out some of my own earthly errors I owe some of the innocent people, people I had poked fun at in my own mind.
As I was walking back to the car I was wondering how my children would cope with my funeral. And being the ‘eternal’ mother I was considering the things I could do, the advance arrangements I could make so that when the time comes they will not be put through too much difficulty! Mothers!
