“Is Chetan ready to make the journey to the Shmashana?” asked Kanti.
Bijay nodded.
“He is ready.”
“Good,” said Kanti, smiling at her son. “I will get Indra.”
Kanti left and returned shortly with her youngest son. Indra and Bijay picked up the stretcher and brought Chetan’s body outside. There were dozens of family members and friends waiting by the cart where Bijay and Indra placed their father’s body.
The cart was simple and wooden with low sides. They took a large white cloth and covered Chetan with it and tucked it up under the stretcher. It wasn’t windy but it was warm. The sun had only recently bobbed up from the horizon. A single ox who was leaner than he might have liked was attached to the front of the cart.
The journey to Shmashana, which was located by the Surya river, was nine miles away. It would take them the better part of the day to walk there. Bijay took the thin whip out of the back of the cart and as he walked up to the head of the ox he gave it a light tap on the hindquarters and the ox started off slowly. Bijay grabbed a length of rope that was attached to the yolk and held it in his right hand.
The rope looped slack like a sickle from the ox’s yoke to his hand, as he walked alongside the ox on it’s left. Indra walked on the opposite side of the ox and across from his brother. Kanti was behind her eldest son as they all walked along the dusty road in unison, heads cast down.
The rest of the group of mourners straggled along behind the cart. They headed east while Chetan’s feet pointed south. Bijay’s mind was racing with unpleasant thoughts. There was only one person he blamed for this and that was Mohandas Gandhi. He always managed to stay out of trouble, conveniently it seemed to him.
The group of thirty to forty people wound their way out of the outskirts of Dandi and trudged along the mostly flat and barren land towards the Surya river. As they walked along, the sun started its rise up into the sky and burned hotly above them. Bijay's brown face started to glow and soon it blistered in little droplets of sweat. He took a cloth from one of his pockets and he wiped at this face.
A bit of wind would be a welcome relief but the wind would not blow, it seemed to have run out of breath, much like Bijay's soul had been emptied of happiness. The funeral procession was quiet for the whole journey. For almost seven hours not much was said, for now was not the time for speaking or the time for noise. It was a time of quiet and of reflection.
Watching them walk their way slowly towards the river it was hard to grasp the despair and the feeling of loss that Bijay endured. His head was cast down as most others were, but there was no sign telling of the depth of despair that he was feeling in the pit of his stomach or the ache in his head.
Bijay carried on in quiet resolution, the funeral rites or antyesti would guide him through the process and after the thirteen days of mourning he would have a clearer mind and a better idea of what was needed for him to honor his father's death and perhaps to seek restitution.
But that would come in time. In less than a fortnight he would come to see things clearly, and during these next days he would pray to Lord Vishnu for guidance and understanding about what to do.
They had stopped a few times on their way at some of the smaller villages to drink and replenish their strength. The ox needing it perhaps more than the men. On more than one occasion, Bijay had encouraged his mother to ride in the back of the cart with her husband, but she would not hear of it. She was determined to walk the whole way to the Shmashana and she was finding it surprisingly easy to do so.
The walk, as long as it was, and as tiring as it was also therapeutic. Kanti found as the body tired during the journey, the mind was able to find moments of peace and solitude. Her thoughts turned to the forty years she had spent with Chetan. The happiest times of her life.
She remembered him as a young man courting her and bringing flowers, sandalwood, incense and saffron. He had been so shy in those first few days but had grown into a proud and confident husband and father. They might not have been the richest Indians, but they had riches of a different kind. The love and happiness of a happy family. Why he had to be taken from her so early she was at a loss to explain. He was a healthy man with no ailments.
He had believed in Gandhi’s satyagraha and independence movement, and his conviction in the rightfulness of non-violence was strong. He was sure it was the safest and surest approach to an independent India.
But he had been wrong and she looked at him as he rode in the back of the cart for the last part of this journey. He looked so peaceful lying there that perhaps his sacrifice had not been in vain. But for her and her sons it was too much to ask.
Bijay guided the ox through the last pass and below them the fertile valley of the Surya river opened it up. And it was lush and green and there was more activity upon its banks than they had seen for many hours since they had left Dandi.
They trod on, not particularly buoyed by the end in sight. This was not a pilgrimage, it was rather, a beginning of loss and mourning and an acknowledgement of that fact. Bijay looked down at the settlements by the river and chose a spot on the outskirts which was flat and level, the vegetation light. This was where he would build the funeral pyre for his father.
He goaded the ox on further. The animal was more stubborn than he had ever known it to be. Perhaps it was aware that it was bringing its master to his final burial spot and it wasn’t happy about it.
Bijay pulled on the yoke and slapped at the animals hindquarters with both his hand and his whip. He did not wish to hit the animal hard. His father had always encouraged kindness and the gentle treatment of animals and he found that his wrist would not flick faster or harder than his father had instructed him when he was a boy.
The ox lumbered on, slowly and with great difficulty, clearly stuck between two minds about it.
“Come on Abhi, we must get father to the bank of the river. Please, my friend,” Bijay whispered into the ox’s ear.
It didn’t seem to help so he gave up and walked on ahead of the animal. The last thing he needed was a stubborn ox what with everything else he needed to complete within the next couple of hours.
He turned around and the ox looked at him strangely. Bijay slapped his hands on his thighs.
“Come on Abhi, come on.”
He was trying to use his softest and most tender voice as he slapped the tops of his thighs again and tried to encourage the ox to move towards him. At the side of the ox, Bijay’s younger brother, Indra, doubled over and started laughing hysterically.
“Bijay, you are so funny. That is not the way to call an ox.”
“You think so, do you? Well then why don’t you come and show me how it’s done.”
“I will,” said Indra as he trotted up to his brother, still laughing.
“You need to use a firm voice. You must show Abhi that you mean business. Just like father did.”
Indra turned and looked at the ox. He put his hand up and straight out and then as he spoke he pulled his arm downwards vigorously until his finger was pointing at the ground by his feet.
“Abhi, come here! Now!” said Indra in what was supposed to be his sternest voice but didn’t seem all that stern. The ox looked at him as if he had lost his mind. Now it was Bijay’s turn to start laughing. He slapped his brother on the back.
“Aha, I see you have the gift, my brother.”
And he laughed and laughed as the ox stood still and watched them blankly.
“But it worked for father,” said Indra.
And then he burst into tears and threw his arms around his brother’s neck and cried. Bijay held him tightly to him. His own eyes burned with the acid of tears as they welled up. He squeezed them out, but he would not allow any more. He needed to be the strong one. He was the eldest. And as he held his shaking and sobbing younger brother, the ox started towards them on its own accord.
Bijay patted his younger brother’s head and he patted him on his back.
“It is oka
y, Indra, we have each other and we will always have each other. Look, Abhi comes. He does not want to see you sad.”
And Indra looked up from his brother’s embrace and saw the ox walking towards him. He smiled sadly at Bijay.
“See, I told you. You just have to be firm.”
Bijay grabbed his brother’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“You did, my brother, you did.”
And they both walked alongside the ox, each on opposite sides as they led the group of mourners down towards the river bank. The sun was at its zenith and it felt to Bijay as if it were trying to burn a hole through his head. He turned to everyone and suggested that a bath in the river might be the first order of business before they start building the pyre.
There was much relief at hearing this and they all took a quick dip into the cool Surya river and cleaned up as best they could. When they were done, Bijay walked over to one of the vendors who had set up a business of selling firewood for those who came to this part of the river for antyesti.
“You have chosen well. Lord Vishnu has blessed this place. Your family member will never be a ghost, but will see a speedy departure.”
Bijay smiled at him.
“I need enough wood for the pyre, do you have enough?”
“I have plenty. Come round back and I’ll show you.”
They walked around back of the wood merchant’s stall and in a fenced area was enough wood for three or four funeral pyres. Bijay smiled at the old man again.
“How much?” he asked.
“Fifty rupees,” the old man said as if he were asking for a few pence.
Bijay swallowed. That was a lot more money than he had expected, but family and friends had helped pitch in and he had over fifty rupees in his purse, but there would be other expenses to come. He clenched his jaw and paid the man.
“This is the best wood. The cleanest burning wood you will find in the whole of India. The gods will be happy.”
Bijay went back to the crowd who were by the ox and were now drying themselves in the sun.
“We have the wood, and we can take as much as we want.”
The men went with Bijay and Indra and started hauling wood out of the pen behind the old man’s shed. It was good wood. It was clean and dry and it would burn well, but whether it was the best wood in the whole of India remained a question that Bijay didn’t have an answer to. But he was happy with it, and he wanted this funeral to be a highlight for years to come and something that those in Dandi would speak well of and make him feel proud that he did right by this father.
It was important for him to do right on this occasion. It was the first time he had been called upon to conduct antyesti. The first time he had been called upon to be the man of the household. It was a role he had both looked forward to and feared. He had hoped it wouldn’t have come by way of his father’s funeral. But such was the careless pendulum of life as it swung back and forth, knocking some to their deaths and birthing others.
Moving the wood was heavy, laborious work. The men hauled it out and laid it in piles according to size. The women, led by the elder women in the group, Bijay’s grandmother amongst them, started to build the pyre.
By the time most of the wood had been brought out, the scaffolding of the pyre was solid and the younger men, including Bijay and Indra, helped the women build the pyre into something that would burn for hours. The act of building the pyre was perhaps more important than many other aspects of the funeral rites, but it was the least celebrated.
A real shame, thought Kanti, considering that without a long and thorough burning time, the body would not be burned sufficiently. But that was how it was with women’s work, and it didn’t seem like it would change anytime soon.
It was after three in the afternoon when Bijay and Indra and their mother took Chetan out of the back of the cart and placed him on top of the funeral pyre, removing the cloth that had covered him. His feet pointed south and his body lay parallel to the fast flowing river.
Bijay took a moment and looked at the current, and he wished that its speed was suggestive of the speed with which his father would find peace on the other side. Everyone stood silently around the body of Chetan as Bijay went up to it and looked over it thoroughly. He adjusted the holy basil, tucking the sprig under his father’s elbow as it bloomed outwards on his right side.
Chetan’s hands were still clasped together over his abdomen, though it was hard to see through all the petals and flowers that lay thick upon his body like a carpet. The body was vibrant and bright with oranges, yellows, whites, reds and pinks of the flowers placed upon it. Roses and marigolds and jasmine made up the bulk of them.
Bijay carefully took off the jewelry and gems around his father’s wrists and handed them back to his mother. Kanti was not crying, she was measured and focused on the upcoming cremation. Bijay bowed his head and silently thought a prayer that he offered up to Lord Vishnu.
He then went to the back of the cart and pulled out a small silver vessel within which was water. He went back and stood at the head of the pyre. He slowly started to walk around the body in an anti-clockwise fashion, keeping his father always on this left.
As he did so he dipped his hand into the small vessel and sprinkled water as he walked slowly around. He did this three times. When he was finished, he put the vessel back into the cart and brought some kindling back with him.
He opened his father’s mouth and put the kindling inside with some ghee. Indra passed him a small twig which he lit from a torch that was burning brightly. Bijay lit the kindling in his father’s mouth. Indra offered him the burning torch which he took from his younger brother.
There were tears welling up in Indra’s eyes as he passed the torch to his older brother. Bijay took it and bowed at him. He walked around the pyre, anti-clockwise and touched the torch to its foundation as he did so. The wood took to the flame eagerly and quickly. The pyre was engulfed within moments and soon his father disappeared behind the licking orange flames.
Behind him Kanti fell to her knees and started wailing and crying. Other women joined her, for now was the official start of the mourning period which would last for thirteen days from Chetan’s death.
Bijay turned to his brother who was crying freely and he hugged him. Bijay’s tears flowed freely now like the stream that flowed next to him.
“Baba will be with Vishnu now,” he said to is brother, though needing to hear it as much as him.
“We must not let his death be in vain,” said Indra.
Bijay nodded. There must be payment made for this. His father did not deserve to die in the manner he did. Bijay had not read the papers, but he would. And they would tell of a callous disregard to civility and justice and honor on behalf of the British that Bijay had never before seen.
All of the mourners, the extended family and friends, held vigil well into the night, keeping the funeral pyre burning. As the day turned to night the orange flames continued to lick and tickle the sky and heaven. The smoke burned thick and gray taking Chetan’s remains with it.
After nine in the evening, it appeared that their was nothing left of the body but its ash and the ash of the wood. It was time to let the fire die out. As it did so, everyone took another bath in the river.
In the morning, the pyre was still hot. It would be at least another day before Bijay could collect his father’s ashes as was his duty.
“I will stay with you, my brother,” offered Indra.
“No, Indra,” said Bijay, “this is my duty and I must do it alone. Go home and take care of Mama, she needs you know. I will be back within three days.”
Bijay watched them leave, Indra walking on the left side of the ox and Kanti sitting in the back with three other older women. They didn’t look back at him and he watched them until he lost them from view. He sat and stewed for the next two days.
SIX
Chapter 6
THE night before, Amir and his younger brother Fadi had washed their fa
ther according to Islamic tradition. It had been hard on both of them. Their tears could not be held back and they had cried, each separately, during the washing and preparation for burial.
Their father had been a kind and devout man. He had raised them up as good Muslims in the faith and taught them chastity and compassion and a love for Allah. Ajit had embraced Gandhi’s satyagraha as a Muslim because Gandhi had embraced all the faiths, and Ajit believed as Gandhi had believed, that a peaceful, vibrant and independent India could only be achieved if Indians of all faiths were included in the dialogue.
It had not been easy. Not everyone in the Muslim community had felt the same way or condoned Gandhi’s methods, but some had. Like Ajit and like Maulana. But Ajit’s senseless death at the hands of British authorities had only created a deeper hatred in Amir and Fadi for all British.
As they prepared their father for burial during the morning of May 22nd, they had spoken of vengeance and their anger towards the British. And even at Gandhi, who Fadi thought was most responsible for his father’s death.
“There will be lots of time, my brother, for us to discuss the repercussions of our father’s death. But for now, let us not fill our hearts with anger,” said Amir, “but let us focus on ensuring that our father is buried properly according to our custom.”
Fadi nodded, as they wrapped their father in three pieces of plain white cloth. When they were satisfied with the kafan they went out into the main room where family and friends had gathered and they all started the funeral prayer. The Janazah prayer was spoken with earnestness and hope as they prayed for the forgiveness of any sin that Ajit might have committed.
Amir was not sure that his father had committed any sin in his whole life. He was a man of such kindness and truth that he had become a much respected and beloved elder in the Muslim community and one whose wisdom was often sought. As such, the room was full to bursting with those who had come to pay their farewell.
Lady Marmalade Cozy Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3) Page 50
