Mute mourners

Mute mourners

                There weren’t many people when I walked into the small church. Most of them should be around my age. Gradually, one by one, the empty benches were filling up with the same age group of men and women. And the deadly silence of the church was occasionally broken by the organist whose chords reminded us where we were. The misty blank look worn by most of us bore a thought about our calling time of drowning into the darkness. I could not help mumble those words of Pablo Neruda:

Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

 Suddenly the sound of death could be heard. The white clothing hanging around the withered sleeper made the sound. They bore her. Through the window I saw the hood of the casket kept leaning against a wall, patiently waiting for its better half to be closeted soon and disappear once for all. How the long life, with its greed and ambition, love and pain, hope and despair, yearning and whimper, is compactly compressed in a six feet wooden box. And the sepulchre was a square opening through which the closed coffin went like a hand in a glove. I was told that the same space was allocated to her husband years ago. In this vast country, dead ones cannot find a decent cavity and amidst the rituals of mourning they are just unceremoniouslyly shoved into the dark hole which would be opened once again years later to house another. There wasn’t horror or fear on anyone’s face. But there was a reservation like I will await it my own way. Many questions remain to be answered. When will it knock at your door? Who will outlive whom? Who will be around? Or will there be none?

Those bus rides

Those bus rides!

 When I calculated the hours spent in the bus throughout my career, I was dumbfounded. Every working day two hours in a crowded bus for thirty one years – the figure baffles me. How I could have utilized those ill-spent hours for anything I would have enjoyed. Every morning between seven and eight it was a nightmare( or morning mare?) to me. Hurried reading of newspapers, more hurried breakfast which was thankfully made possible by my early rising wife to whom I did not thank even once and the last minute run to board the bus. The situation was made worse by a phone call or a casual visitor who obstinately wanted to know the whereabouts of someone in the neighbourhood. All my morning exercise would sometimes prove futile if the bus driver chooses to be very punctual. Some days I could see the bus vanishing round the corner with many empty seats. My desperate attempts to outsmart those drivers sometimes ended in fooling myself. The bus would never appear or there would be no seats. If luckily I found one, then my co-passenger (Oh! What infinite variety of this kind!) sharing the seat took the credit of overpowering me with a heavy body and  leaning against me shamelessly usurping my right of the portion of the twin seat. Then there are the exhausted, sleep starved ones taking advantage of my lean shoulders to cradle their heads which bore the weight of the entire body. Some are compulsive conversationists who would discuss anything under the sun. I was expected to nod every now and then to their brilliant remarks and force a smile too, if what they meant were jokes. Some flaunted their newspapers which flapped on my face during the whole journey. A few were the probing kind asking very personal questions about the occupation, salary, community and the family. My vague responses clothed in mysterious vocabulary should have confounded them. How I enjoyed their facial expressions! Rarely did I enjoy the ride with a co-passenger who did not belong to any of the species mentioned. If I happen to be the unlucky standing passenger, it is another story. I was deceived on many occasions by cunning passengers seated comfortably. They would now and then move to pickup a bag or something as though they are ready to empty their seats. Many such devils had heaped my curses on them.Less said is better.

A retired teacher's compromise with life

 Retirement is a phase of life eagerly looked forward to by some and awfully awaited by some others. Government policies which are changed more frequently than women’s attire frighten those who manage to hang on their precarious service. A casual newspaper report would inadvertently announce that the employees would be deprived of their pension from an ominous date. Some would heave a sigh of relief and congratulate themselves on their sheer luck to have escaped by a day. Others who moan that they are always on the wrong side of life once again would blame their fate. However, the monthly alert from the bank and the balance available send an aura of optimism in me. The other day when I shared this exalted sense of security with my daughter, she reacted quite differently and said that the government was very irrational. Such are the ways of the present corporate diplomacy and the supple young employees. The unfortunate lot is always on the receiving end; they would never question their friendly boss who has the audacity to send them home without even giving them a hint or warning. An organizational protest is never heard of in the private sector and all the grievances of employees are overborne by a casual sanction of a measly paid vacation or restaurant vouchers.  I remember my days in service when the slightest thrust of an unfriendly State policy would trigger a series of protests all over the state and heated talks of leaders would eventually bring in the desired outcome. Well, I am drifting away from my topic. In order to drive away the feeling of not – wanted – anymore, I forcefully engaged myself with teaching jobs through which I managed to earn one third of my pension. When questioned by my well wishers, I boastfully amplified my intention of spending my hours rather than earning my penny. The liberty of working as a part-time employee for a monthly pittance gave me immense opportunities like  a leisurely morning walk, a daily round of morning newspapers, a slow enjoyable breakfast, occasional participation in family functions, an afternoon nap and what not. I could understand the envious look of my young colleagues who toil much more than me and I secretly enjoy their longing gaze as I retreat my steps during the lunch break towards my car. As long as my health permits me to do as I like, I enjoy this phase of life before the last illness and the final exit.