By Pria Serene
the body is still, but the room is alive.
a grand performance, a final goodbye.
the air is thick with incense and whispers,
sisters, misters and the whole court of jesters.
holy smoke curling unholy thoughts,
from grief and gossip alike,
the numbers say the deceased was sought
after they died, not while they were living.
but who’s going to remember?
the dead are very forgiving.
a hive of ceremony and silk handkerchiefs,
chairs neatly arranged in rows of grief
coloured black and beige. an outrage
staged at the unfairness of life,
before Aunt Mira solemnly dabs her dry eyes,
“such a loss”, she says, talking about someone’s weight,
then asks, concerned, "are the samosas homemade?"
"isn’t the tea too sweet?"
"did they skimp on the ghee?"
loss should never dull the hospitality.
Cousin Kavya takes a selfie by the wreath of wilting roses,
tilts her poses just right in the bright light
to bring out her left profile-it’s sadder,
her fingers throb faster than her tears fall,
wifi password is shared in between sobs,
a flick, a pout, a post
#LifeIsShort #GoneButNeverForgotten
forgotten before the filter loads.
Uncle Raj subtly adjusts his rolex, looking
busy going through the sensex index
his silver hair matching the silverware in his hands
“have they discussed the shares? the will, the land?”
Uncle Sam says, “too soon, bro”
“too soon to ask or too soon to know?”
inheritance is the hot topic before the body has cooled,
crocodile tears will have you fooled, they will pull
wool over your eyes because the grief of demise
is smaller than the will left to the living,
even in loss, the first thought is of gain,
you really have to see it to be believing.
the Priest arrives wrapped in saffron and schedule,
his ringtone amidst chants ridicules the gloom,
answering calls like prayers, he’s in divine costume,
“om shanti shanti—hold on sir—yes, for that amount,
I can offer a 10% discount”.
a man of god and goods, but the goods in the dakshina
not the gita, devotion doesn’t have to
mean bad business, haina?
the Relatives are booking a cab mid-prayer, they’ve to go really far,
leaving before the last rites,
cause traffic to south delhi is hell at this hour.
the Men gather near the buffet table
“we should do this again soon”, they joke,
passing plates of paneer and politics.
the Neighbours are discussing logistics,
counting costs callously with sardonic shrewd-eyed stares,
“how much for the flowers? 5k a bunch?"
“the caterers are charging extra for the lunch."
“too much, too much," they grumble, then stay,
to eat five full plates with extra paranthe.
draped in designer despair,
Someone says “grey doesn’t suit her"
“she’s wearing too much colour”
Someone counts the gold bangles on a wrist,
Someone accounts the who’s who
in their networking wishlist.
the actual Grievers sit, blank-eyed, in white textile of exile,
plastered half-smiles, spine like glass,
an old style of the upper class, but alas,
even they are not spared from judgmental lenses,
that swiftly arrive as whispered condolences.
tragedy is brief, it's the taunts that linger,
like sickly sweet jalebi on mourning fingers,
before the girl could barely even gather her bearings
she was told to look presentable,
“you can’t be seen without earrings”
the boy was force-fed his grief by unsolicited volunteers,
“you’re the man of the house now, be strong, no tears”
anyone wailing, howling, was told to think of the departed’s soul,
"don’t hurt them by crying",
so we bite our tongue and
swallow our grief whole.
sorrow must be palatable, there is a right decibel of mourning,
loud enough to prove your love, quiet enough not to be seen,
public grief is a performance,
and the audience wants the script by scene.
another day and the river waits, indifferent and ancient.
a child, impatient, tugs at his mother’s sari,
an innocent contemplation,
“where do people go after they die, ma?”
“to the stars, beta" the boy looks up,
then down later at the earthen pot,
where the stars have been packed in ash and clay.
tomorrow, strangers will step over them,
muttering, “whose turn is it today?"
and the world, perfumed with incense and forgetfulness,
will carry on, like it always has,
like it always will.
cause death, after all, is just another function,
a gathering of acquaintances, an obligation,
where grief is measured in platefuls,
and the dead are nothing more than a topic of conversation and
Life, like good silk, smooths over the folds,
the grief is done, the tea runs cold.
the dead are reduced to framed decor
till it’s time for the next one to go, just like before.