Today, I attended a Sradh ceremony of a person who lived down the road. I had known him for years as a person who ran a business. We had nodded at each other, talked of nothing in particular on the few social gatherings we had attended together, and had invited each other on the ceremonies at our respective houses. I had seen him grow up, marry, have children ,reach middle age and then grow old.
When I reached, the ceremonies were over and a few family members were finishing lunch. His photo was displayed with lots of flower garlands all around. The incense sticks had died out. The photograph was of his younger days where he looked much younger than what I remembered. His son, head shaven, energetically tried to drag me for lunch.
I place the white rajanigandhas on the platform and fold my hands before his picture—an action that I had not done at any time when he was alive. A few feet away, groups of people talked about the latest news—Telengana, Gorkhaland, cricket and the deceased in that order.
His wife , wiped a tear away, but was soon chatting away about his last moments. I mouthed a few responses. She then called upon her acquaintances to talk about their back pain. She was proud of her son and his achievements, displaying a memento given by an association for a work well done. She then brought out an XRay to take an opinion on. She wanted to fix an appointment.
Inside ,children ran here and there. A DVD of a Hindi film played on. The ladies of the house were sipping tea and chatting away. The incense sticks burned on.
Suddenly, I felt claustrophobic. The narrow corridor started closing in on me. The windows started constricting and I suddenly could only see people talking, though I could not hear them. The sky had disappeared. Only a cold wind blew in through the open doors.
The chair in which the deceased had sat on a couple of weeks ago, the dining table which he had selected and had bought lovingly himself years ago, the stairs which he had gone up and down a countless times---all stared back at me. The deceased had gone--remembered now in snippets of conversation, photographs and his old clothes, watch and rings.
This fate awaits all of us—maybe tomorrow. I walk towards my car. The driver opens the door. I sink into the seat, and look at the roads teeming with the evening crowd. As I sit here penning these lines, I try very hard to remember the deceased’s face. But all I can bring back is a faded outline, blurred and washed out. The process of forgetting has started.
| The Will To Death.... |
On my computer, I clicked on the play button above. This haunting song played on and on……
1 comment:
i never knew my doctor would be such a great observer, a writer of such calibre. proud to be treated under you sir, soumyajit[ st.xaviers - mass communication and videography]
Post a Comment