I Went To A Funeral

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!

On Friendship

I have come to realize that I am pretty good at making friends and it’s a wonderful realization that I wish to celebrate. I want to make a thousand more before I die! Making friends out of the vast population of strangers spawns a certain passion in me and it’s exhilarating and very satisfying.

B asked, “Do you want me to bring out my collection of quotable quotes on friendship and friends?”

Well, no, but here’s my favourite - “Life without friends is like breasts without nipples – Pointless!”

B cocked an eyebrow (by now you know that’s a cute gesture of B’s) and smiled in agreement. Surely B knows about it all especially being at the forefront of my adventures and advising me here and cautioning me there. The rewards of these adventures are varied and mostly very satisfying. The meeting of minds between my friends and I has opened new worlds. The discovery of tastes, interests, behaviour patterns, dissimilarities, weirdness and the ability to relate to each other has often given me new highs to see me through the day. I believe it has made me a better person, more insightful, sensitive to others, honest, confident and generally happy. The shared topics have definitely enriched my life.

Sometimes you meet someone and pretty soon you feel you have known each other for ages. It's probably a remnant of an earlier life that lay suspended in the cosmic deep-freeze and found an auspicious time to thaw and move with an earthly momentum, connecting two minds. It often makes you wonder what would have been the nature of this earlier life relationship?

A mother and a wayward son, or a child and an impossible father, or a wife and a philandering husband, or just a pet-keeper and his pet gold fish!!! Or maybe a Madam and a ‘hand’ who together ran a sleazy 'boudoir' in the Old West, or a rich Sheik and his favourite belly dancer from his harem. The possibilities are mind boggling.

The fact that we meet people who later become buddies is very significant. It heightens my belief that almost all of life is about meeting people and the events or occasions that brings us together. The events are absolutely meaningful because they allow for a handshake of feelings and emotions and a kind of ‘germ’ transfer from one to the other…. both ways…and from this seemingly innocuous germ-seed we are able to grow, to envelop some aspect of each other. This process of growing or the nurturing of the friendship is by far the greatest wonder of life. It is ennobling to the spirit, bringing forth feelings and emotions that express a love, caring and respect beyond words or actions. It is joyful.

See, we are born into families. We grow up loving, hating, getting attached and getting detached and we find ourselves at a certain place in life. Parents, siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles, grandparents, etc all feature in our lives. We tend to know them by instinct; by what we have learned from others about them and by what we ourselves have learnt firsthand. After all we have fought the battles, shared in the fun, gotten angry, laughed uncontrollably and farted in each other's presence. They have given us memories which are worth two cents a blink or a million bucks a dream. We celebrate some and we shy away from others. And then. And then after all of this we meet someone from literally out of the blue!

“Ah! And then you arer in love, right?” B teases me.

“The truth?”

Let’s not go into love and all that crap. Friends….

When you focus your attention on someone new - talking at length on almost any subject or topic - you go on a journey ...a journey into the labyrinths of the mind and the chambers of the heart and if you get lost, the journey back is fun too. Of course it doesn’t happen with everyone you meet. There has to be some kind of curiosity, a frisson of attraction (especially if it’s the opposite sex) and something inexplicable – the X factor. For example you could have met the same person at an earlier time and there wouldn’t have been even a cursory glance. And yet, this time….you would be smitten beyond repair. So why is this so? Well….perhaps this time you are at the same point in some mental gestation path and the meeting was a matter of perfect timing. And also there is every possibility you could get hooked to this friendship. At least for a time.

“At least for a time,” B repeats and gives me that look which says…”how long is ours going to be”….. I reply, “You’re not getting away from me my dear, this is a lifetime thing, between you and me.”

“B, does one get hooked to a friendship until the process of making a friend is complete? For a period of time at least? Let’s say you have discovered everything you want to discover about this person, do you then reach a Friendship Plateau and then the interest wanes?”

“Have you discovered everything about me? We have been together for over a decade?”

“Oh! C’mon B, you are different…you are not even normal!” and then I see the hurt in B’s soulful eyes.

“You are above us all…. mere mortals like me. You are special, you know, out-of-this-world- special, and that’s sacred,” I add quickly.

B considers me hoping to find a trace of genuineness and finds it. I am sucker for B and all that is B-like in this world. It shows in every smile and every teardrop of mine.

“Perhaps there is a Friendship Curve,” B declares. Perhaps.

With the tidbits of things you learn about a new friend you tend to create a part of this new friend in you. When the chores of the day are packed and the alarm clock is placed on the night table, you take this new creation for a waltz in the soft moonlight under the starry sky or you scrutinize this creation, your eyes closed and turning this way and that under the bright lights in your head, looking for things you could have missed. You smile and remember what you had laughed at and what had hurt a little ….

And then you assimilate and become a part of, an extension of this friend and in the great privacy of our Mind you are having great discourses on matters as diverse as politics and cooking. Then you wonder, “Will this friendship come to pass?”

Maybe it will and maybe it won’t. You take a break but the break only serves to make you acutely aware of the very special flavour of this new friendship and then you realize, this one will be a friend for life even if there are silences in between. And you are sure this friendship will at first ground your soul and then prepare it for a flight to a happy eternity. Friends.*Sigh*

The Rain Dance

"Haven't you been spending a lot of time here?" asked B. "You soak in here with all those wonderful smelling aromatherapic oils...heck! even I am beginning to smell like lavendar or bergamot or nutmeg or patchouli or whatever...and I am not particularly proud of that. Quite frankly my dear, I prefer my own pheromones to dominate"

"Oh?"

"Come now, while you languish in the warm soothing aqua tub, ...er...jacuzzi with eighteen jets seductively massaging the muscle fibres in your body (and I am wondering if its massaging seductively your moral fibres as well) I notice that look of deep sensual pleasure expressed without any shame on your face. And those soft moans, they don't escape me either...And when you flutter open your eyes, I have seen that look in them ....perhaps I should morph into one of those Epicurean Forms.....errr....a man .... like Mr Pitt or Mr Clooney or Mr Bond....?"

"Oh shaddup and leave me alone. Do you have to analyse the simple pleasures of my life...it's so dammm hot outside and I don't see that an extra hour of soaking in my very own personal space could harm anybody...""

"Tsk, tsk, did I wake you rudely from one of your corporeal makebelief bohemian somatic sensually gratyfying flights of fancy?"

"Wait. Did I hear pheromones?!....B you don't have a gland or even a pore in your body that can produce anything that can even vaguely excite me....Oh NO! ..what's that glint in your eyes....."

This is where B usually imitates the truimphant laugh of a villain and starts morphing into ..... well, it's about the best time to retreat and call for peace and declare vanquished, or one would have to battle B's phallic form...mocking the intellect as much as the body!!!

I say, "A margarita for me and a vodka for you, my dear B and let's toast to my Unending Laundary Rendevouz," to distract B from any induced malice.....

"You smell good, delicious even....these pheremones...doesn't anyone market these...I have seen some of your spam mails...gives me ideas...."

"B, sometime ago I wrote to a very special friend about a draught season - no rain and scorching heat.... hot, very hot ...while in college. Let me share this ...." *Sigh* Must have been the late 70s...how time flies...

.... I remember one year in Madras (for it was Madras then, not Chennai) when it was an awfully hot summer and there was no sign of rain for entire months. Most of us were afflicted with prickly heat and we would, after classes, strip down to our undies and coat ourselves with calamine lotion....its here we learnt the rudiments of wall painting. This was of course at an all female hostel and any male who dared to venture where no other had, would do it at his own risk! We were such terrors collectively and I bet the guy who did dare enter our holy territory - one Mr Nath, who was in fact a Dirty Old Man - never had another erection in his entire life! And rightfully so too. He was tormented with words no man should hear.

Eventually on this particular occasion when we were all at an extreme low point and were contemplating a tribal rain dance ...a dramatic sweep of black foreboding darkness appeared as if from nowhere and in an equally dramatic explosion of loud thunder brought forth torrents of huge raindrops the size of wine goblets. The sight of these ... falling on a ground which was already gasping with thirst, right before our eyes drove us to irrational lenghts. We were intoxicated with euphoria. As the leader of the pack, I forgot myself and dashed out into the rain...everyone else followed suit. We forgot ourselves and like kids were drenching ourselves, falling on the ground, muddying our bodies and creating a blissfull ruckus that went on for a while under its own momentum....until....UNTIL the old hag of a warden came out and almost fainted at the sight she saw. Thankfully the mud had clothed most of our nakedness but she was scandalised nevertheless. Her shreiking brought us down to earth. We feigned a shame that was definitely never felt.... just so her wrath would be lessened.

Well, we were suspended for two days but it was of no consequence because we were all sick to the bones for almost the whole week! It was probably due to Acid Rain.

If Van Gogh had been there, he would have understood the Sane Madness of Nymphs and captured it all on canvass......and it would have been a masterpiece.

"Would I dare repeat this dance in the streets of my housing estate now ? Good Grief, never...No, not because of some hoity-toity position in society but simply because the neighbours should be spared the visual impact of my scantily-clothedness..."

B quickly added, "No my dear, you are perfect the way you are." And I was waiting for the not-so-innocent rejoinder "at least for me"

But it never came. "You are perfect too B. What will I ever do without you?" Yes, what will I ever do?