Moving Forward Sideways Like a Crab

by Shani Mootoo

  We were beneath the flight path to the airport now. Intermittent planes passed low. I imagined myself in one of them, sitting as I had been on the flight here just over a week before. I imagined myself looking down, exactly as I had done then, tracing the brown bamboo-lined river as it wound through cane fields and rice paddies. On the plane then, I had known that Sydney was ill, terminally ill even, but I had no clue as to what this meant or what awaited me. Sitting in the car, I imagined that on one of those planes coming in to land was a man, a man like myself who, unknown to him, was arriving to face all that I had experienced these past days. If I possessed powers that allowed me to rise up from the car and sit alongside him in the plane, I would do so, I thought. But knowing what I knew now, what would I say to him? I would put my hand on his, as Rosita was doing now with Lancelot, and tell him that he was about to find out that nothing he had learned before was going to be of any use to him in the days to come. I would tell him that whether he was aware of it or not, he had so far gone through life with the assuredness that—as a young man, as a young white man from a first-world country, as a young white man from the great city of Toronto—he was capable of anything. There was no reason for him to imagine that he was not in control of his own life. I would point out to him that he likely felt he knew what there was to know about everything that had anything to do with his life and with the future that awaited him. I would tell him that he was, however, about to find out that he was incapable of understanding certain things that might have seemed obvious before. He was about to find, for instance, that he was incapable of stopping the forward movement of time, and of reversing it. The young man on the plane would no doubt remove his hand from mine and look at me as if I were mad. He would say, “But who doesn’t know that it is impossible to stop time or reverse it, or advance it by even a fraction of a second more? Only a fool, that’s who.” I would answer that it was one thing to intellectually know the impossibility, but quite another to face the reality and the unfairness of it, and still more difficult to accept it. You cannot know what it means to be alone and to be powerless until you experience this, I would warn him. And I would say that I had learned that time was deaf. It was unfeeling. It had no regard for anything but itself.

  My thoughts were interrupted by Sankar saying he was afraid that the car would overheat. The windows were turned down and we four, Lancelot and Rosita in the back, and I in the front with Sankar, were assaulted by an immediate and unrelenting tsunami of heat and dust, made all the worse by the sickening silence as hundreds of cars inched along.

  When finally we arrived at the cordoned-off area that served as the cremation-grounds parking lot, it was crammed with vehicles. I was sweating profusely. An attendant directed us into the lot towards another attendant who sent us farther along to yet another attendant, and so we went until one of them ushered us into a spot. Sankar was displeased with himself. He muttered that he should have dropped me off and then returned to park. Before I could assure him that I was pleased we would all walk to the site together, Rosita spoke up with the very same sentiment. For the first time that long day, I smiled.

  ———

  Now, two months later, I do not recall how I came to be standing behind the hearse as the coffin slid from it. Try as I might, even when prompted by Rosita and Lancelot, I do not remember the walk from the car to the site. But suddenly there was Anta, her hand on my back, saying that I must hurry, that everyone was waiting for me, that they couldn’t begin without me.

  We had left behind the dry ground of the parking lot and we were in an area that had been planted with shade trees and flowering shrubs. An attempt had been made to keep lawn grass on either side of the paved path upon which we now stood, but constant foot traffic that spilled off the path left only patches of the crabgrass intact. We were on a large mound that sloped gently to the wide river, where brown water flowed fast. I stood at Pundit’s side; Anta, Rosita, Lancelot and Sankar were behind us. The back door of the hearse was open and the pallbearers, Kareen Akal Sharma among them, were ready. On the sturdy lower limbs of the samaan trees I noticed groups of young men standing upright as if they were on solid ground. The accentless voice of an ageless man, sounding as if he knew everything there was to know, looped intermittently and empathetically through a public address system whose speakers were positioned in the heart of samaan trees throughout the site: “No one knows your suffering. No one knows your pain.” The three plumes of smoke I had seen on the drive in, were, I could see now, from three burning pyres at various stages of disintegration. Positioned nearest to us was a tall, ready pyre. On seeing the open construction of bamboo poles and wood planks, and realizing that it awaited my Sid, my mouth went dry, and my chest tightened. There was no crematorium; there was no button to press. Clumps of white flags raised on tall bamboo posts were planted at the edges of the cremation area. They fluttered in the muggy breeze. The handkerchief that covered Sydney’s face was removed, but from where I was I could not yet see him. We were at a standstill as the pallbearers were given their instructions; some discussion ensued. I kept in my mind that Pundit had promised to guide me in everything.

  People lined the narrow paved path and milled throughout the site. I knew so few people in this country that I would not have recognized any who might have been there for Sydney, but still, desperately looking for someone I might know, I peered at them. All were dark-skinned, sombre Indians. They were not of our group. Still they crowded near, watching us, expressionless. I imagined that behind the passivity there must have been curiosity about why I, a white man, would be performing the final rites for an Indian man. The white shirts of the men shimmered in the blazing sunlight, and the navy and the black of their trousers and of the dresses of the women soaked up the air. Sydney’s casket was finally slid from the hearse and rested on the ground for the first rites of this part of his journey. I was gripped by the sight of his face, around his head a halo of wilting marigolds. It was but a matter of minutes before I would never see that face again.

  I was handed a brass platter on which were several items. I was instructed to take from it, with my bare hands, a large pinch of rice, and to throw it into a small fire that burned in another brass plate held by someone else. The fire sizzled and sputtered. I do not remember who handed me any of the items, or who was guiding me. I was told to take a peepal leaf from the platter and to use it to scoop up some of the ghee, and then to place the leaf in the fire, and to do the same with a pinch of sandal wood chips. The flames grew tall, their tips turned black, and aromatic black smoke curled upwards. I was handed the plate of fire and instructed to pass it counter-clockwise around Sydney’s face. Pundit offered prayers, first in Hindi, which I couldn’t understand, and then in English I wasn’t able to hear. I offered my own. Precisely because Sydney was now in another realm and therefore different rules might apply, I behaved as if it were possible to communicate with him telepathically. I blocked out as best as I could all sound and all that was in my periphery and I stared at his forehead and bore into it my thought: No one knew me so well as you, Sid. And you told no one else but me your stories. It has taken me a while to see that this was your way of telling me what I needed to hear from you. Thank you, my dearest Sid. My hair, skin and clothing were quickly doused in the smoky sandalwood aroma of the ghee-fuelled fire. The voice coming from the speakers in the trees sympathized: “No one knows your suffering. No one knows your pain.” The casket was picked up by the pallbearers, and together we all walked on.

  From some short distance away came religious Hindu music, a man’s mournful singing voice accompanying the sombre tones of the harmonium. It was only now that I realized that tassa drums off to one side were being beaten, and with wild abandon, the speed and fury a chaotic contrast to the man with the harmonium. There was a crowd of women in bold red saris moving through the grounds like a flock of swallows, and when they swarmed and pooled and then fluttered again, bells tinkled about them. They seemed to be laughing, or rather tw
ittering like birds, and I thought they were out of place here. I could not help but see them as I carried the plate with the fire behind the pallbearers. Anta sidled up beside me and whispered that these women and the tassa drummers were part of a sect that had originated in South India and who believed that death was the ultimate freedom for humans, a happy occasion, the only true cause for celebration in life. I was calmed by this—not so much by her enlightening me, or by the beliefs of that group but by Anta’s perception, for she had been behind me and must have understood that I would be confused.

  The scent of women’s cheap colognes mingled with that of over-heated bodies, unfortunately scented deodorants and burning ghee, camphor and sandalwood. The pallbearers lowered Sydney’s casket to the ground again. I was relieved of the plate of fire, and the platter with the ghee, peepal leaves and rice was held out for me again. I knew what to do this time, and did not wait for instruction. When this part of the ritual was complete I took the brass plate with the fire and stooped to circle Sydney’s head with it. Pundit again uttered words of prayer, and I again told Sydney that I saw that I was in the stories that he’d told me, that I had figured in his life all along, and that I wanted him to know that I did not think, as he’d said in his last entry in the notebook, that he “ran away, gave up” or “failed.” On the contrary: precisely because of the choices he had made, he was my hero, and I loved him no matter what. Beads of water now covered Sydney’s skin. They might have looked like nothing more than perspiration, except that they were large beads and running down the side of his face. The pallbearers hoisted the coffin and the entourage moved on again.

  The voice in the trees droned on: “No one knows your suffering. No one knows your pain.”

  Ten paces along, Sydney was lowered for the third time and the ritual was performed again. We continued on, then rather suddenly came to a stop. When the casket was put on the ground, we were encircled by a crowd. We had arrived at the side of the platform on which was the waiting pyre. I looked for Gita, in vain. Earlier, I had not wanted her to be here, but now how I wished she were. Rosita held a large unbleached cotton bag, which she opened, revealing a quantity amount of rice, a container of sugar cubes, a tin of ghee and bundles of sandalwood kindling. Swiftly, Sid’s body, Sydney’s body, already covered in a hundred sun-coloured and wilted marigolds, was strewn with more flowers, handfuls of rice, small blocks of camphor and the kindling. I stood watching, at a complete loss about what I was to do next. Someone was parting Sydney’s lips, and someone else was emptying cans of ghee over his entire body. His hands had been rested on his belly and I noticed that his thumbs were tied together. When I looked back at his face, cubes of sugar, rice grains and camphor were neatly arranged between his lips, which glistened with a smear of ghee and sesame oil. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, and the sky darkened as if a cloud had dropped in front of the sun. I stumbled. Anta gripped me firmly by my arm. “Steady, Jonathan. Steady,” she whispered. Out of the blur of brown faces Jaan’s came into focus. I expected Gita to be with him, but I could not see her. Someone took my hand and shook it. It was Wilson, the son of Mrs. Allen, the guava cheese lady. He offered his condolences and said that his mother was very-very sorry that she couldn’t come for Mr. Sydney’s funeral. She had swollen legs, you see, and it was too painful to stand for long periods of time. He must have thought I didn’t know who he was talking about because he added, “My mother, Mrs. Allen. Guava cheese. She used to bring guava cheese.” He used, I noticed, the habitual past tense.

  I recognized two faces now, neighbours whose names I didn’t know from the Scenery Hills neighbourhood. I felt observed and a little too exposed for comfort. I wanted my hand in Anta’s, could almost feel hers around mine, but I had come to this island enough times to know that it would at this time be an impropriety. Lancelot stooped at the foot of the casket, the plaid wool blanket in his hand. He took his time arranging it on the lower portion of Sydney’s body, smoothing it on Sydney’s legs, tucking it against his sides. Although it was I who had presented Sydney with this blanket, and it was the one he had used ever since—despite the heat of this place—it would not have occurred to me to send him off with it. My heart swelled with gratitude for Lancelot.

  Now the casket had been picked up, and everything was happening too suddenly and swiftly. I followed the pallbearers to the pyre. A voice in my head kept saying, “No, no, wait a minute,” but I had no plan for what I would do if the ceremony were to come to a stop for that eternal minute I longed for. A hand was placed on my shoulder, and in the short moment that it took for me to look back and see that it was Jaan’s—his hand heavy, as if pulling me back—and to ask where Gita was—to which he shook his head to indicate that she had not come—Sydney’s casket was already inside the centre of the tall pyre, and I was being pushed forward now by Jaan to stand at Pundit’s side. I could just see the top of Sid’s head, the tip of her nose. I was given a clay jug of water and told to walk around the pyre counter-clockwise while I sprinkled the pyre with the water. When I reached the foot of the pyre, directly away from where I had begun, I noticed that at another platform some distance ahead another body had just been placed on its pyre and three young boys, perhaps no older than eleven years of age, were running—they seemed to be racing each other—around the pyre brandishing fires on long poles. I returned to the head of the pyre, and five or six people shouted directions, but I could not hear or understand what I was being told to do. Jaan came to me and put his hands around the clay jug and gave instructions: I must walk around the pyre two more times, and at the end I must dash the jar to the ground to break it. I did as I was told, and when I returned Pundit took from one of the cremation ground’s workers a long pole, at the end of which a fire blazed. He handed it to me and said that I was to walk around the pyre again counter-clockwise, touching the flame to the wood beneath the casket.

  This shocked me, and I hesitated. Pundit ushered me on gently with the tips of his fingers on my back. I did as I was told, a lump growing in my throat. The wood caught as if it had been doused in something flammable. On arriving back at the head of the pyre, at Sid’s head, Pundit said to me, “Now, go around again, twice more, and this time you must touch your parent’s right shoulders with the flame, and then his chest, and his legs.” I backed away a pace or two. “Come,” he said, “you have to do it.”

  “No. I can’t. That I won’t do,” I said, my voice low, growling and unfamiliar to me.

  “You have to.” He faced me, looking directly into my eyes. Tears—not of fear, but of anger—began to roll down my face, and again Jaan appeared. He turned me to face the pyre, where the fire on the lower part had begun to spread, and said, “This is what the son must do. Do it for Sid. No one else but you should do this. You know this is what she wanted.”

  The heat intensified. I reached into the cloth bag that hung across my body and took out Sydney’s three notebooks. I clutched them and pressed them to my lips, then flung them one by one into the fire. They were consumed instantly, with no fanfare. I stepped back.

  It was the second time in a few days when time itself seemed to stand still, to flip backwards, to race ahead unpredictably. People had already moved under a marquee that had been constructed by the funeral home for Sydney’s friends and family. I was alone at the side of the fire.

  I did not notice when the tent emptied, for I remained with Sydney’s burning body. I had to step back again and again as the fire roared more and more ravenously; sweat trickled along my scalp under my hair, and ran down my face and neck and back. The palms of my hands were damp, yet to my surprise in such heat, they felt cold. My kurta and the thin cotton pants clung, as wet as if a bucket of water had been emptied over me.

  The fire raged for some four hours. When it was less than half of what it had been at its height, I walked to the tent, where—the crowd long gone now—Rosita, Lancelot and Sankar sat keeping their watch.

  I thought of my mother—of India, that is—and of Ca
therine. The two of them, and Canada, seemed a lifetime away and unrelated to all that I had just experienced.

  I was told that Pundit had left shortly after Sydney’s skull was heard to break. He had accepted a ride with Jaan. At my show of confusion—for I knew that Anta had driven her father here—Rosita jutted her chin towards a grassy area not far away. Anta was sitting on a concrete bench in the shade of a tree, facing the river.

  As I walked towards her, I thought of what I might do now that the funeral was over, now that Sydney was gone. Canada was far away from my thoughts; Rosita and Lancelot had become like family to me. We were one.

  Anta stood when she heard my approach, then came quickly to me. Her hair glistened, and I thought I saw highlights of blue, like the wing of an ani in sunlight. She touched my face with her hands. “You have to bathe before I can kiss you. It isn’t just that it makes good sense. It’s part of the rituals,” she said apologetically. But her voice was soft, and she had touched me all over with it.

  We stood quietly. The fast-flowing water, densely brown as it was, was calming. Into my mind, unsolicited, came the view from Sydney’s house of the grey, low land mass of Trinidad’s southwestern tip. Out of nowhere, a hundred soothing voices rose in my head, murmuring in melodic unison a mantra that wove together Anta’s name, the names of the villages that Sydney used to point out to me, and the Kyrie, Eleison of Christian masses and music.

  Anta Bonasse, Kyrie, Eleison,

  Anta Icacos, Kyrie, Eleison,

  Anta Los Gallos, Kyrie, Eleison,

  Anta Fullarton, Kyrie, Eleison.

  I thought of how, in between Sydney’s house on one tip and the other three corners of the island, there was an entire country—and all that is implied by that simple and common noun—to lend myself to and to learn about.