Story One- To mourn or to smile?

Festivities are meant to be enjoyed by everyone, even the bereaved and the decrepit. Please read further.

Grief had frozen my heart, when my mother abandoned me. So the January Delhi didn't contribute much to its icy state.  She had weaved me a fluorescent yellow woolen sweater with utter solicitude, keeping in mind the bleak foggy weather in the Capital. I had put it on, and a dull ochre coat over it in order to keep it's fluorescence intact. But that sweater, somehow, couldn't anoint the coldness inside.  I was feeling brazen and unaided, like a waif out in snow. Inside a warm cozy cab running over gray roads, it seemed I could feel the pallor smeared over that sandstone fort passing by. That sweater was the only feeble fortification for a torpid heart- Woolen walls of warmth to cage a tamed snow leopard in disarray. What does it mean after all, when one is bequeathed the bruise and the iodine from the same person?  Of what careful use is apologizing after committing mistakes that shredded a soul? Can one put up with such inevitable haplessness with these small tokens of compensation?  But before the horrendous rebuke of Fate, this armor out of love was more than one could bargain for. Love and affection shall be requited . Hence here, in India, the immediate family does not enjoin into festivities for a year. Perchance a way to show they cared for the deceased. I had mine. My face had been awash with tears until today. I glanced at the rear-view mirror and saw a visage that seemed a decade older, a face barren and fallow despite the irrigation for a week that elapsed since her demise. I was in no mood, thus, to attend a wedding wherein an old friend of mine was going to be a father-in-law.
            I remember how my mother was overwhelmed when the wedding card landed at my doorstep. I was thus hard-pressed for calling in, and reviving the amity, and that led me to promise for the visit over the phone. But things went against my consent. My sanguinity was burnt away with her pyre. I was left sans warmth and energy. But words were to be kept. She reminded me that at her last breath. I thus came to Delhi for my mother, and to render the sweater its purpose.
            Anon, I saw a bungalow embellished like a bride- Arrays of garland strings of chartreuse Ashoka leaves and  sallow-orange chrysanthemums frilled all over the walls of the bungalow right from the parapet of the plain roof to the foot. The boundary walls were being whitewashed, and the robust neem trees along it had firefly lights wrung around them. They would be lit after sunset. It was noon. A dozen of sedans and SUVs were parked along the road, implying the house was already augmented with guests. As the cab approached the mansion, I could also hear litanies of revelry, marked by the beats of the dholak  and the chuckling of the ladies. A man, pointing at the main gate coated with black, was hurling swear words at the painter. He had sprinkled some drops of white over it. Some men were bringing in baskets of flowers, more mum flowers, and items consecrated by religion. Some men were adjusting the frills at the terrace, some engaged at the walls while some were just preening and pointing out imperfections. I immediately recognized my chum, who was instructing the packers and movers regarding the furniture and appliances to be offered unto dowry. The taxi stopped before the gate, and I waved my hand out to him. He yelled at me-

''Aaeye Damlekar jee! Kaise hain aap?''

Answering his question, I told him I was fine. Though I could not smile at my best, it mattered least to him since he understood what I had gone through. Some things had changed about Ishwar. He had his hairline receding  beyond the temple, spectacles veiling his eyes and a potbelly protruding out of his gut. One thing was yet characteristic- That tobacco aroma. I had often reproached him to refrain, but he won't. 
            The taxi fares were done away with, and at Ishwar's command, few boys took my luggage out of the cab inside the house. So, in his arms and greeted with exuberance, I was led into the mansion, and thus imbued into an ambience portending celebration and joy. That ubiquitous mixture of fragrances- The verdant greens of the lawn, the boiling mustard oil and the yellow flowers seen all over the house- replenished my heart at last. This time I did no need to make up my smile. I was gazing at the men-servants assembling the flowers and the leaves into strings and the maids preparing for the pre-nuptial feast in the lawn, kids and their peccadilloes, women lost in the happy hours, singing and regaling, males of propinquity being self-styled experts for every single matter regarding the wedding and everything-talking shop or talking s**t-The bride's maternal grandmother thumping upon the diaphragms, sitting with her right leg over the dholak, while a girl-relative, under her budding femininity, paying serious heed to the hymns while tapping upon the instrument's wooden skeleton with a spoon, in harmony, Ishwar's daughter, the bride, with her seldom glances over the scene, in her pristine reticence- every face out there was pithy and wanting explanation. It was then that I realized that festivities are meant to be enjoyed by everyone, even the bereaved and the decrepit, as they instill in us the necessary zeal for life. The sun had shown itself up through the hefty quilts of mist, mitigating the frosty weather, and I felt a need to wear my coat off. Thus the hackneyed was worn off, and the fluorescent showed up.
            While lying delved in the pleasant airs in  that house, I remembered that Ishwar's mother was unwell too. She was suffering from a rare communicable disease, and was advised solitary bed rest, as Ishwar had told me over the phone. Under this fit of consideration, I entreated him to get me to her. I realized that at this request of mine, some blandness had been added to his cheerful face. His hesitation was unusual. He told me she was sleeping. I didn't press onto him further, and decided to stroll around.
            I took a chair in the living room where the feminine side of the house were humming paeans for the lord of prosperity. I bowed before the magnanimous figure of Ganesha, and clapped my hands along. I had erstwhile exchanged pleasantries with Ishwar's wife and his brother and blessed the bride during the haldi ceremony. As I was looking at the divine flare of the diya  before the lord, I observed something peculiar. All the rites that should be performed by Ishwar's mother were not being carried out by her. She was in-fact, absent from the pleasant scenery. I gestured a summon to Ishwar's niece, a twelve-year old kid in a lehenga, and asked her where Ishwar's mother was.

''Beta! Daadi kahan hai?''

She told me she was in her room, sleeping. That wasn't a new answer to me. So, I asked her to lead me to her chamber.
            Up the stairs, I was peeping inside a room. Through the window, I was perusing the eyes of an old figure laid in subfusc, the light from the window incident on her face. Her eyes were swollen, her wrinkled skin pale and her expression was tranquil. Peradventure, she had wept. But why? Fear of death? I mused further, and imagined the ramifications of the news of her death. My heart was growing cold again at the thought. I could not bear the drops of murk over every of those happy faces downstairs. Tears- I loathed them. They are like acid that burns every soul. Life withers at the death of a close one. Faces whizzed past my sight. Cries of mourn rang through my ears. I saw the chrysanths wither, the lights go off, and people sobbing and beating their chests, the chuckling turned into strident wails, and the mehendi over the bride's hand turn black and toxic. She would be utterly heartbroken. This won't be good. Moods will be spoilt. I began to feel uneasy, and went to a room for some rest before the wedding ceremony.

***
                The bride was ushered to the mandap where the groom was already sitting. I was sitting behind the pandit who would carry out the rituals and the traditional wedding procedure. Since it was cold, everyone tried to sit as close to the holy fire lit at the centre as possible. The pandit, the bride and the groom sat circling round the fire. That Indian wedding master of ceremonies
 was iterating chants and instructing the couple while they were diligently performing the rites. I was looking at Ishwar's girl, laden with resplendent platinum jewelry, the rosy tinge on her face still. The groom was a perfect match for her, I inferred after judging and scrutinizing him as much as I could. I would certainly place this verdict of mine before Ishwar, I thought. But where was he? He ought to be at the fire for kanya-daan. I looked around, rummaging for his face amongst many, and finally ended up fixing my gaze at a face a score of rows behind. He was looking at a paper in his hand. I got up and managed to get to him, moving across the nearly impenetrable congregation. He was still looking down at the receipt.

"Janaab, hum kab se aap ki raah dekh rahein hai aur aap yahan......."

            It was when he looked up at me that I found that he bore the loathsome waters in his eyes. I observed the immediate startle in his mien, and the startle out of guilt is quite differentiable from that out of a meek sense of privacy. I insisted upon showing that paper in his hand to me. Clumsily and hastily, he tried to put it back in the pocket of his Nehru jacket. I resorted unto confrontation, and snatched that paper. Observing it, I found that it was from a hospital, declaring Ishwar's mother clinically dead six days ago.
            I remember that what followed in my mind was actually queer. I didn't feel any sort of grief or urge for condolence. I was actually plain and not numb. Before I could think upon a reaction, Ishwar stuck himself to me, on my bosom, sulking. He cried that he would be damned since he was not able to grieve properly for his mother. He wasn't able to pay his reverence to her.
 The truth is, everyone of
us wants to be missed after death. We are prone to attention. I was pondering over the matter when he said something that thrust a smile onto my face- the concealment of death was his mother's own idea.
            I got an answer there. Close ones long for our happiness. Perhaps the reason my mother sent me here. She wanted me to smile, and it was not her magnanimity or some kind of formality. These aren't the words for friends and family. Who would want his beloved ones to cry? 
I had come across an epiphany. I said to him that he wasn't mocking her death with the celebration. He was, perhaps, celebrating her good will, the fact that unconditional love does exist. Imagine, she wanted them all to be happy. Ishwar was making his mother happy.
            Ishwar's niece came to us. It was time for the rites Ishwar had to perform. He parted from me then, with the last question in his mind.
"Is that all vain? The funeral, the wreath, the sorrow and the memorial?''
I had no answer for that, seriously.

***

Author's Note

Keep ushering your love, please.