A funeral

A Story by enigmaticme

The day my grandfather died was one of the darkest days i have ever had to wake up to.Writing was my way of grieving his death

June the 3^rd 2011,the day my world came to a screeching halt.The day when my safe cocoon was tearing at the seams ,and eventually gave way to catapult me into the cold steely world I was not prepared for. My head had been plunged into the ocean before I could get a good gulp of air and I was drowning in melancholy.I am not much of an early riser so when the bellowing wind and flailing curtains ,clearly accomplices, allowed the first rays of the sun to stealthily make their way into my room ,I woke up with a start. Squinting my eyes, I gave a loud groan as I groped for my mobile to find out it was 4:30. I stirred from my sweet slumber at the crack of dawn, which happened once in a blue moon and I had a strange inkling ,a queer premonition that today was not going to be just another day.but no contingency could have prepared me for the agley day which awaited me.

My bedroom door was ajar and in came my mother. She met my eyes and said simply “your grandfather fell ill last night,go wake your sisters ,we are going to Gujrat “.Her face was vacuous and she gave away nothing at this point .My forehead immediately creased with lines and I was panic-stricken. He was eighty five years old and had Alzheimer’s .But it was selcouth of him to fall ill so suddenly. He had to be seriously ill ,if we were making a 2 and a half hour journey at this hour. I scrambled out of bed ,closeted my emotions and put my practical side to the task .My four younger siblings got up hesitantly and groused but once I informed them of the scenario their brows furrowed in anxiety .The stairwell seemed to go on perpetually ,I was gripping the holster with immense tenacity because my gut told me something was awry. When the phone rang it seemed to insinuate at my intuition.

Mother received the phone with shaking hands and spoke in a staccato manner, almost robotic .She put the phone down gently and looked at the five sleepy children anxious to know .My sense of perspicacity told me what was to come ,as it was apparent in my mothers eyes . Babaji (grandfather) is gone” ,she said agonizingly, unable to stifle the sobs which broke out freely .My legs gave way and I collapsed ,tears stinging my eyes and streaking my face .Everything was a huge blur, a brisance ,my head was spinning and I was losing myself in a whirlpool of emotions ,I could not wrap this around my head ,I replayed the words over and over again unable to comprehend them .My body was numb and it felt like someone had sliced me open .I cried to my heart’s content , unleashing the emotions which had ceased me and swept me off my feet like a tidal wave .The moment you find out cannot be described .It is a sudden surge of adrenaline and your mind ceases to be. This happens in movies, or to other people ,not us. how could it? Denial came first ,it just did not strike a chord .I would never see him again .Those brown eyes had been drained of their light forever. The house was lugubrious and so was everyone in it. We packed and left, every individual in his own reverie .I do not cry .It is a rule with me.Weak people cry ,I thought I was brick hard but I was flabbergasted at my capacity to cry .It was all I could do to not think.

The journey was nothing more than a deafening silence interrupted by a stifled sob here and there .It was during this unbearable sojourn that my mother expounded upon what happened .He had tried to get out of bed himself without any assistance ,tripped which resulted in his head being rammed into the side table .His forehead was gashed by a deep cut which was bandaged but everyone was oblivious to the swelling behind his left ear lobe. His breath became raspy and he succumbed to the internal bleeding. The entire escapade sounded incredulous and it made me cringe to think that the grim reaper(death) was so adroit and creative .My father had left at 2 am so we were on our own .We arrived in our tiny village of Sauntra near Kotla and it was like all hell had broken loose.

There was a rampage in our family home.Hoardes of strangers bellowing and howling like animals .Everyone embracing each other and crying their eyes out .My relatives clung to one another ,I had never seen a myriad of adults cry like that before. It was sheer madness ,my enraptured gaze took everything in and I forced myself to acknowledge that my grandfather had truly departed. The rumbustious and vociferous noise was frightening, like everyone had been possessed and were demented .And then I saw the silhouette of my father ,I ran to him and he clung to me like a child ,crying relentlessly .My father, always so proper and austere ,always composed and collected had snapped and it devastated me. A death in a village is insanity, it incarnates madness. What the deuce was going on? Who were these people crying over my grandfather ?The furniture had been removed and the house was decked with a white cloth where everyone sat and mourned the departed .Hours went by in the same havoc ,most of the details are vague .i was taking a long stroll in my head through memory lane to drown out the howls ,when according to custom my grandfather was carried to the central room in a charpai (traditional bed)by his four sons .In Islam the body is bathed and then adorn in white cloth called the kafan .My grandfather was covered in a black velvety cloth embellished with the Quranic scripture. I had never seen a corpse before ,never been to a funeral before and there was no precedent of a death in my family before. Seeing my grandfather like that took me aback ,I was dumbfounded, baffled and chilled to the bone .I slowly made my way jostling through the crowd and what I saw was the most peaceful face I had ever laid eyes on. He had always been a handsome man but he looked glowing on his death bed .His face was not drained ,rather pink, with his eyes closed ,he looked rested and peaceful. People had their head bent ,watching him mournfully but I smiled at him. I stared and gawped at him continually, searing his every feature into my mind indelibly so I would never forget .I imprinted every wrinkle ,every fine line, his chiseled nose, white trimmed beard in my mind’s eye and prayed continually for his soul .It was surreal to say the least but I had to bid him farewell.

He was then carried away to his grave site. The men buried the body and offered janaza prayers while the women stayed behind and read the holy scripture .My Arabic is not the most fluent but that day I read with immense zeal and fervor because Muslims believe that every word recited adds to the good deeds of the departed soul. I wanted to give him all that I could ,now that he had moved on to the next world. It melted my heart to see scores of people just sitting there and reading the holy verses for hours on end .It was a tribute to how greatly my grandfather was loved and how much he would be missed. Now that all the formalities had been taken care of ,it was hard to believe he was under the ground now .The angel of death had swooped in and accomplished its mission.

My father never made it to the hospital in time to see him alive.We went to visit his grave and showered petals on it. With our hands cupped, each of us prayed for the gates of heaven to swing open upon his arrival .My father had lost the man who had always had faith that he would make it in life .Me and my siblings lost a doting grandfather and the world a generous man who was front and centre when it came to helping the needy .In a way it was a blessing ,he had been spared the last stages of Alzheimer’s. His demise as nothing more than a helpless vegetable would have excruciatingly heart wrenching. The entire bereft family had a woebegone look on their faces and the open wound would take time to heal.But it would eventually, I thought to myself wistfully.His death made me catechize life and reminded me that death is inevitable.It hounds you down when you least expect it,and in the most queer way.