Trigger warning: Mention of death.
My phone started shivering under the denim. It was rare for anyone to call me during classes. Mr.Rao had a strict “NO PHONE USE!” policy during his lectures, and it is Dad, probably, I thought. I didn’t bother checking since I presumed the vibrations would perish soon, but they didn’t. It is a custom for Dad to stress about my existence if I miss his early morning call. Whenever I do pickup, the conversation mostly lingers around the weather in Delhi and what I had for dinner and breakfast.
The buzzing had become sporadic, and this change in pace drew my attention further away from Mr. Rao’s “Intro To Thermodynamics.” I stomped out of class into the vacant corridor and slid the phone out of my pocket. A hoard of notifications fell down from the top. “Pick up the call, please!” the text from Dad read. A few more texts and calls were bleeping at the bottom, but I preferred to respond to this one first.
“I want you to come home as quickly as possible. Dadaji is unwell,” Dad said, stuttering and shivering.
“Tell me the truth. What happened?”
“Just come home. I’ll tell you everything,” the stammering continued.
“Give him the phone if he is there,” I protested.
He couldn’t hold back the truth any further and gave in, saying, “I can’t. He is no more. Just come home.”
I froze for a moment of silence and then whispered, “I will be there.”
The call ended, and a deep sigh followed. I returned to the classroom where Mr.Rao had transcended his lecture into dimensions beyond my comprehension. I sat down, staring at the alien language written in chalk dust; Mr. Rao’s voice, though coarse and heavy from years of teaching, was impervious to the silence in my ears. The letters went spinning across the black canvas. Failing to process this circus in all its glory, I shut my eyes.
I woke up to the sound of honking; the city borders are always congested with impatient traffic. The three-hour road journey had been an excellent opportunity to steal some hours of sleep; undoubtedly, even the backseat of a cab is more cozy than a dorm room bed. My phone had been on silent for a long time. It was now flooded with more texts and missed calls, mainly from Dad, Saloni di, family friends, and relatives; I chose to scroll the news app to endure the remaining trip. Traffic was eventually subsided by the emptiness of mid-July afternoon, and the gilded streets got the better of my attention over: “Dead body of a girl recovered in chopped up pieces in Geeta Colony.”
The sidewalk had been covered with all sorts of vehicles, and the main gate to the house was flung open. Middle-aged men in their mourning uniforms that comprised dull white shirts and dark pants, had infested the veranda. The cab stopped at the entrance, and the driver held the door open; I tipped him extra for not being a chatter, but before leaving, he inquired, “Did someone pass away?”
“Yes, my grandfather.” I regretted the extra tip.
I walked in with my backpack hanging from one arm and my phone from the other. The feminine cries from inside the house grew louder. Dad was surrounded by distant relatives on the veranda, his voice now sturdy and even. He glanced at me and said, “Saloni is upstairs. She hasn’t come down since morning. See Dadaji first and bring her down. We have to leave for the cremation before evening.”
An unknown relative helped me with the backpack as I made my way from the veranda into my late grandfather’s room. Dadaji always liked sitting in that room to read the newspaper and sip his morning tea. He probably chose this room for a better view of the main gate and keep a watch for thieves that might try to barge in. I am convinced the distraction from the window never let him complete reading his previous reading before the next one showed up.
The room led me to the hall where the corpse was lying. The surrounding floor was covered by women in sarees, whimpering under their veil-covered faces. The crowd seemed to know me and expected me to join in but I failed to recognise everyone. The loud noises and the excruciating monsoon heat had blurred my vision. The corpse, too, was unidentifiable; it looked like a skeleton seen in labs, covered with a tight shiny rag of skin, all its fluids evaporated and ready to be mummified.
I decided to exit this chamber of debilitating heat and pretentious grief. The staircase from the hall led me to the first floor, which was vacant. I entered my room, which had now been taken over by Saloni. At first glance, I failed to see her but eventually found her sitting on the floor in a stony cocoon between the study table and bed. She hadn’t joined the mourning extravaganza yet. She was in a cotton t-shirt and shorts; her face though veiled in the dark, wasn’t noisy; her eyes focused yet blank like the corpse downstairs, and her cheeks smudged by dried streams of sweat mixed with tears.
I got down on my knees and gently placed my palm on her back. She curled down under and then pounced in to embrace me. The other hand got placed on her greasy hair, and her grip grew more robust, almost choking me. I started stroking her head, and gradually, the hold began to loosen up.
“He never liked seeing you cry.”
“But he was never the reason for it before,” she said, her voice breaking down before she could add anything further.
“Don’t you want to say goodbye to him for the one last time?” Her grip picked up strength again.
“NO!”
“I know it is tough, but I also know you have the strength. It is easier to stay in denial, but you can’t escape the truth for long. I want you to come down, but I understand if you choose not to, even though I don’t recommend it.” She let go of the hold, and I walked out. I knew she would come; she has always been more intelligent than me.
The pyre was prepared and placed in the veranda. The road was flooded with strangers. Grandpa was the eldest in the locality and well know among its residents, but like most old people, he had to become a hollow corpse to be considered worthy of their time. Saloni touched him for one last time, and he was then put on shoulders to be carried away. The commotion grew louder with feminine cries and religious chants; my shoulder was numb to the weight, my ears to the noise, and my eyes to the people around. The procession moved forward and grew quieter. A morgue van was waiting at the corner of a street, and my shoulder had begun to ache as we reached.
The odyssey to the cremation grounds was a surreal one. Some people chose silence as a reasonable companion, while others preferred the view of slow-moving traffic. The only person disrupting the moment’s tranquility was the van driver himself. A dark and fat man, probably in his forties, who despised silence and solitude. While driving, he kept himself entertained by singing to the top of his voice and clapping like a toy monkey at every point he was made to stop, not to mention he crossed a few red lights, unbothered by the rules of this mortal world. At one point, he was cussing a random guy for cutting him off; the next moment, he was doing it himself. In the meantime, I booked a cab to Delhi for 8 pm.
The cremation was more tedious than I thought. I had yet to anticipate that logs could be this heavy and that I would be selecting and picking them. The log seller assured us that his logs weren’t moist despite the weather and would burn well. We took his word on it. The sun had painted the sky in all shades of red when Dad set the pyre on fire and walked a few steps away. His face shone red under the bright light. The craters and valleys on his face were more discrete and sharper than ever. A drop trickled down from his eyes and set itself on a journey downwards; at this moment, he looked more recognisable than he had since morning.
Saloni though in grief, mustered up enough strength to be mad at me for leaving so early. Dad was considerate but expected me to be back for the fourth-day religious ceremony.
“Why do you have to leave so early? You can skip classes for one day at least,” she said, filled with fury mixed with melancholy.
“I would have if I could. It is hard to keep pace with normal classes; doing it would be a nightmare if I start skipping classes. I will be back soon, but please let me go this time.”
“Just for tonight,” she said, almost begging this time.
“I know you are strong and know how to deal with this. Besides, Dad is always there for you. Let me go this time, it’s important, and I know you understand why.”
After a moment of pause, she stood in silence and ordered, “Be back soon.”
The cab driver was honking at the door. Still, I spared her further tyranny of picking up my backpack from our late grandfather’s room and decided to do it myself. The room was devoid of people or sound; my bag had been kept on the coffee table where Grandpa would normally rest his morning newspaper. A better glance at the table also found me a diary that held a newspaper.
The diary was an old bosom friend that held many secrets and stories of my childhood and was given to Grandpa to maintain confidentiality when I left for college last year. I pulled out the newspaper and read the pages that it stood between:
“……………………………..Today Priyanka ma’am asked me who is my best friend and I said Dadaji….”
I had started painting the page with few strokes of moisture but the tranquility was broken by the sound honking. I left the diary at its rightful place and wished for a chatter free ride.
PS:- It wasn’t.
The Words Of Dumb 