I woke up to the usual stream of birthday messages: wishing me good health, greater fortune and lots and lots of love. My thoughts: I have a funeral to attend.
"Mummy ji is on a ventilator," my cousin WhatsApped me on the eve of my birthday. By evening, the doctors had pulled the plug. Reason: multi-organ failure. The cremation was scheduled for the next day: my birthday.
By 11 am, I was out. My cousin, who arrived with his wife and two children the previous day, met me at the entrance. We headed inside.
She was a gregarious Punjabi woman, prone to big laughter and the warmest hugs. Every time, I would meet her, I would greet her with "pairi pauna, aunty" in my faux Punjabi and bend to touch her feet. She would smile and pull me in for a quick hug. Soon, great amounts of food would start arriving. This was always the case.
Our last meeting was two years ago at the wedding of her younger daughter. The disease had ravaged her body, which had now shrunk dramatically. But she had not lost her warmth. I greeted her and she, like always, pulled me in for a hug. She brushed aside questions about her health and encouraged me to eat.
Aunty was a gregarious Punjabi woman, prone to big laughter and the warmest hugs.
Cut to the present, we met again. But she was dead now. I paid my respects, but there was no hug this time. Uncle was right there, but too heartbroken to say anything to me. Her son, who was a picture of a stoic, went through the rituals. My cousin-in-law, aunty's daughter, was devastated. The tears wouldn't stop. We hugged, but it felt more like a jet crash-landing as she thudded into my chest. The tears continued unabated.
It's difficult, I understand, I said, alarmed at my own vanilla statement at a time of such profound grief.
She was then called to where the body was kept. The brother led the way, with the two sisters following him. The pyre was lit, and as the flames rose, the cries grew louder. The brother was still a picture of a master stoic. Other family members pulled the sisters away.
My phone, which was put on silent, kept buzzing with calls and messages wishing me a 'Happy Birthday' as things around me turned grim.
Soon, people fanned out, forming small groups. The chatter among the mostly male crowd pivoted to stocks, politics, money, the importance of health and the Sisyphean nature of things.
I was part of a group where the impermanence of things was being discussed. They went over the rituals for the next few days. The discussion shifted to the few members in the extended family who failed to show up. Sadness co-mingled with a tinge of bitterness.
The White Tourists On An India 'Tour'
At this point, a group of white tourists, with cameras in hand, walked in with a local. They went to the spot where the last rites were being performed. The pyres were lit. They, with their sunglasses on, started taking pictures; some were recording videos. They were, I am told, on a tour of India.
Pictures taken, they made their way out. We watched in amazement. At this point, my cousin, who now lives in the United States of America, turned to me and asked for the Vishwa Hindu Parishad's (VHP) number. We debated if this was okay. My cousin, seething with anger, felt it to be a violation.
My cousin recounted how the family had just got a bigger home in Dwarka and held a big party to celebrate it. It was not the time for her to go, he said. He blamed her for not being completely transparent with her children about her health. He said he was out on his anniversary dinner when his brother-in-law called to say "aa jao (come home)".
His brother-in-law made a furtive video call to them while aunty was being transferred from one ICU to another. She could barely speak. We are coming, my cousin-in-law assured her from the other end.
The arrival was not without its problems. A winter storm was brewing in Chicago. The last-minute tickets came at a steep price, and they had to wait out an entire day in Istanbul.
Upon landing, the two of them went straight to the hospital, where things unfolded quickly. In a few hours, it was over. The only consolation was that they were able to see her.
Life, After All
Back at the funeral, it was time for the guests to leave. The family stood in a line, greeting people as they made their way out.
Another body had come in. Fresh flowers were brought in. The unknown man did a parikrama and offered flowers as we exited.
Uncle, his twin grandsons, his son, and other family members stood at the front of the line. I noticed no one was hugging at this point. When my turn came, I lunged forward; the son, his hands folded in a namaste, did not break his form, and I performed a one-sided hug and moved on.
Outside, a relative wanted to be dropped off at a metro station.
I returned home and crashed on the living room sofa, thinking about my own mother-in-law.
I took a shower and called her, asking her to come to a food festival. I made it clear, it's not a celebration of any kind. All of us are just meeting, I said.
There she was at the entrance gate, with a big smile on her face. I touched her feet, and a big hug followed.
Two days later, I returned to the office.
What did you do on your birthday, the Editor asked as colleagues brought in a cake to celebrate.
I first attended a funeral, and then went to a food festival, I said as I cut the cake.
Aunty would have had a big laugh, I think.
(The author is News Editor, NDTV)
Disclaimer: These are the personal opinions of the author
