“Your uncle would never let me step out without a safety pin on my saree,” my aunt recounts as I helped her fix the pin.
I snark back “Good thing he was not a professional stylist“, and instantly regret it.
I could have cut the man some slack at his own funeral.
—-
Since the occasion was sad and sudden, I didn’t expect to be greeted with a smile and enthusiasm when I arrived.
My niece, who I only remembered as a 4-year-old, now ran toward me as a 14 year-old—an entire decade gone in an instant.
This is the moment I turned into one of those oldies who tell the young ones “OMG! You used to be so little, look how much you’ve grown up.”
Finally, when I regained the code of conduct; people in white opened their mouths.
First amongst them, was one who chose to discuss how my beige was not white enough for the prayer meet, and then to say to me “Oh my god! You used to be so little, look how much you’ve grown up.”
(Note to self: Don’t say unto nieces, what you do not want aunts to say to you.)
As men lounged comfortably, and women filled the kitchen, I decided to blur the implied boundaries. Most were busy discussing arrangements when they took a break from cracking wife jokes. One of them quipped, “Your aunt married me for my looks; I married her because I was kind enough to.”
I couldn’t resist saying, ‘If only you’d chosen better, she could’ve married someone truly handsome.’
Maybe that’s why they choose to sit away from women, a way to feel safe around other men. Those that will laugh at their jokes and not hurt each other’s delicate egos.
(Note to self: If humour is your only defence, it is better to be defeated in a house of funeral).
—
The prayer meeting starts. The singer’s voice heightens the sense of grief.
I feel terrible for not feeling it.
My cousin fights to hold it together. Our eyes meet. He cannot hold it together any longer. Suddenly, I feel the weight of his tears.
It is not easy to sit with grief, even when it is not personal. Because it asks uncomfortable questions, presents disturbing hypotheses and forces us to feel.
And, us being the cowards that we are in the face of grief, we try to detach ourselves from it with whatever we can.
The aunties in the back find distraction in discussing each other’s outfits. Small talk takes over condolences, and the tea arrives, bringing along the much needed respite. The old uncles gather their audacity and start the unsolicited match making.
Whatever grief we try to shrug off seems to be collected by the immediate family.
The estranged uncle finally looks into the eyes of his late brother’s son. My late uncle’s mother never blinks. My aunt wails.
While their loss has brought them to a standstill, the world around them has already started to move on.
The singer continues…
SUNVANI DORINA BANDHAN, AJE SAU PREM THAKI BANDHE,
(The bonds we weave with love may seem strong,)
PAN TUTE TANTU AYUSHYANO, TYARE KOI ENE NA SANDHE,
(Yet when life’s fragile thread snaps, it’s gone.)
BHID PADE TYAN TADATAD TUTE,
(Where people gather, it shatters without a fight—)
EVA BANDHAN SHA MATE?
(What, then, is the worth of such fragile ties?)
—
Life’s thread had snapped, and no amount of words or rituals could tie it back together.
I look at my aunt, caressing her safety pin. I can dismiss it as a patriarchal habit, but to her, it was probably a way to keep him around.
