Death is a word we love to play with, use it in emotional ventures but avoid in reality. Death can be insensitive sometimes and reason for few to pour down the wreckage that they’ve been holding for ages. Death is difficult; death is what we believe is an end.
The clock picked 10 and 30 while I was in my pre sleep comfort zone. Dreams had been weaving around my only space of imagination which for sudden was violated by a ghostly cry that enumerated the night’s atmosphere. Like in horror movies, the sound pierced through the weakened heart with a wicked flow, scared is how I replenish it. I was in no mood to stick my bones straight, so instead took my smart phone expecting people to reply to my hellos. Though how hard I tried to avoid it, the resonated cries, and then of many, dragged my attention to the place where this episode was taking place. I had to get in the scene. So, I pulled up by half pants, and forgetting how chilled the night had gotten, took a step out.
It was third time in a span of 4 months that I had participated in a death ceremony. Like always, there were women lined up outside of the house of the one who had finally embraced death. They were all soaked up in tears, and like a Buddhist chant, had been repeating the cry sequence calling out the word that meant their relationship with the dead. “Yha maa !!… Ya Hajurma !! … Ya Tari ma !!… Yaa nini !!” .. so were the cries that had been hung in the throats of those. Looking at them, I kind of doubted if they actually meant what they were doing. Were the tears they were shedding for that old dead woman had any meaning? Of few, they might have poured their hearts out, but rather I could see many pretend. Ah .. society!! Only if there were no one staring at them, they would have secretly smiled and thanked god that finally the old woman left for good.
Palas arrived, and everybody took some sort of formation to let them in. They got inside the house, and brought out the lifeless body. Covered in faint creamy white colored clothe, the body looked more like a sack full of old cloths. Palas swung it upon the wooden bar and the husbands of the daughters of the dead body slowly carried it in their shoulders. And like some kind of parade, in a line, everybody moved. Women were in front crying in the loudest voice, then the son-in-laws carrying the body, the relatives behind them, and finally the neighbors carrying bunch of materials that would be used to burn the body.
I had heard how unlucky had she been like a year before to not die even after falling from a third floor of the building. She was already too old to do anything, and had started to lose memory, and nervous activity. Life was pretty hard for her, was too for her son. So, the death would have been a relief, was what many spoke about when she fell from the third floor. She did not die then. Many even said that the reason for her to survive that fall was that she had to suffer more for the sins she had done in her life. I don’t know much about her, or her past life, so I have always believed that life has been cruel to her.
The tiny drops accumulated and hit the floor in a bang. We were moving in our pace, and the rain was the last thing that we had expected. Rain was no way good. Things were starting to get wet, and we needed to hurry. Then again I thought, unlucky her. To burn the body as quick as possible, dry straws were required, and then with rain, they were wet. We hurried a bit, and finally when we reached the place where the body was to be burned, the rain stopped. We did what we had to and quickly returned home.
In a way back to home I started to think of people around me and imagined each one of them dead, one by one. A string of emotions punctured my heart. Imagining things hurt that bad, what if it happened in real, how would I react? My imaginations are inevitable, it’s just that I’m not so sure that I will live to see them happen.
The world will die someday, the life too. Only if those emotions could die sooner…