Death Wish
Niranjana H
Muthassi died that afternoon. No one knew the exact time. The family had palada pradhaman for lunch and was fast asleep over the humdrum of October showers and the afternoon matinee that was coming to a climax on the television that was accidentally left on.
It wasn’t an eventful death. A few gentle wheezes in tune to the table fan, and a paper-thin hand that fell limp as her eyes closed and her pulse sagged. A heart that ticked for ninety years slowly came to a halt.
The clock on the mantelpiece limped on: 3:54 … 3:55 … 3:56, an eyelid twitched for the last time. It was a pity she had no audience.
By the time Meenakshi came in with her mid-afternoon lemon water, Muthassi was long gone – leaving only wisps of white hair, her muslin sari and sluggish afternoon dreams behind. Meenakshi had anticipated this coming, but not such a quiet passing. Her afternoon slumbers and 2 am musings often involved Muthassi falling off her bed and to her death, or a heart attack that called for an ambulance to come trundling through their pave way to take her off. Meenakshi had always imagined herself – the oldest daughter sitting importantly by the driver as the sirens wailed and whined, painting the town red with the news of the passing of the matriarch.
But it had come to this end. Muthassi wouldn’t have liked it – she had a penchant for drama. She’d have liked her grandchildren to have sat by her feet thumping their chests and calling out her name while blaming Yamraj for taking her away.
Meenakshi surveyed the room as Muthassi snored on in her afterlife. She straightened the old green cushions and removed the stray threads of silver around her mother’s forehead. She’d need to get new cushions – probably rose pink, to offset the pista green walls of the room. The glass of lukewarm lemon water sat weeping by her bedside table. Meenakshi downed it in short sips as she surveyed her mother’s bedside cabinet – nestled between stray stick-on bindis, some loose change and a toothpick, her fingers caressed her mother’s collection of books. She impatiently flicked past the Ramayanam and Bhagwatham and found herself staring at the three Mills-and-Boon paperbacks, dog eared and drenched in Vicks vaporub.
She put two of them under the pillow. They would have to wait until nightfall. Until her mother left the nest.
She clicked her tongue, and took a seat by the bed letting the loss and lemon water soak over her.
The clock on the mantelpiece ticked a minute. The rest of the house was still asleep. Let them sleep a few more minutes – once word got around, the entire village of Killikurishi would be flocking here to pay their respects. They wouldn’t even be able to have tea. They had not bothered to show up at the doorstep in the last ninety years but Mandakini Amma’s death would spread like the virus that was taking over the country – or was it the world? One couldn’t trust the news these days.
She wanted to go into the kitchen, but her feet felt heavy. She shouldn’t have eaten the palada. It sat heavy in her stomach – curdling away with the feeling of trepidation of what was to come. Meenakshi hated change – especially those that made her alter her days. She despised it almost as much as she despised loosely tied saris with mismatched blouses, or crumpled wrapping paper or her husband’s breath that smelt of cheap cigarettes and cabbage.
4:12 … 4:13 … 4:14. Time was ticking on. She must get on too.
4:16…. The kitchen light is flicked on, the long-tailed vessel filled with water and tea leaves – three extra spoonful’s of sugar to get through the evening. Her daughter Ambily would be pleased. She liked her tea sweet – the syrupier, the better. Probably helped her connect with that Guruji of hers as she meditated well into the evening. It was probably Prakash’s idea. Meenakshi didn’t think much of her son-in-law but he provided well for the family and showed up for family dinners, so she’d have to excuse the long satsang Ashram visits that came with it. But there wouldn’t be any meditations today. Muthassi was dead.
Which brought her to the subject of sleeping arrangements. She’d been sleeping with Muthassi for 13 years now, a practice that began ‘only for a night’ lapsed into many – a fall in the bathroom, someone to read out the Bhagavatam, her 3 am diabetes injection, the invisible ghost in her closet. Small asks, big adjustments, done gracefully, almost too graciously. Meenakshi had picked up her micro-fibre pillow, her copper mug and her blanket and never returned to her husband’s bed. She brought them back diligently every morning, an excuse for the previous night’s disappearance frothing over his morning cup of tea. Not that he asked. He’d replaced her presence with a stack of his bedtime reading and a portable radio.
Now, thirteen years later she’d have no reason to respond to an imaginary call of duty and stumble out of the room. She had to face her husband of thirty-five years tonight. She’d also have to deal with Muthassi’s death. But not before that cup of tea. The elephants could wait a little longer.
*
4:41 … Ambily was still fast asleep. In her dream, she is at the ashram, walking by the lotus hall with a tray full of white parijat flowers and saffron laddus while the other devotees look at her admiringly – even covetously. She is the best dressed of the lot, in a white ikat sari and antique gold jewelry. All eyes are on her – even Guruji’s, but her own seek her husband’s, which are closed in meditation, or whatever it is he thinks about when he shuts her and the world out – but in her sucrose-fueled dream, they suddenly open and devour her like they did fifteen years ago when they’d first met. Prakash reaches out to kiss her on the lips at the exact same time that Ambily wakes up.
She curses her mother for the timing.
‘Your tea is getting cold Ambily.’
Her mother is setting a tray of tea by the table. In the other room, her father is taking loud sips. He sounds like he has been roused from his sleep for an impromptu tea too.
‘The palada was probably a bad idea. It has made me groggy, and I need to get ready for the virtual bhajan session this evening.’
‘Muthassi is dead.’
‘What?’
‘Finish your tea. we can talk about it later.’
‘Does Achan know?’
‘You need to tell Prakash. He needs to be here for the last rites.’
‘But … he has a press conference with Guruji tonight.’
‘Call him. Nair from the funeral home will want to see him. He needs to be with you in mourning right?’
Her mother’s lips say no more but her eyes pierce into Ambily’s searching for answers she’d never got, since her daughter had come home without explanation, a week ago.
Ambily sighs and picks up her phone.
A decoction of trepidation brews over the afternoon, as Muthassi’s living family condoles her death.
*
7:23 am
‘M-A-N-D-A-K-I-N-I, Survived by whom?’
‘Mandakini Amma, survived by her children, the grandchildren and their husbands.’
‘And where do the grandchildren live? I can mention the location here if they’re overseas.’
‘Can we mention Bangalore?’
‘Amma, they call it Bengaluru now.’
‘Bangalore is like Kerala only. Do we want to waste space on that? It is two Rupees a word for the paper.’
‘Hurry up Ambily, these formalities need to be finished before sundown. And keep your voice down. It is inauspicious to talk so loudly in a house of the deceased.‘ Her mother’s voice cut like a knife.
Her husband coughs awkwardly.
‘Meenakshi, will you please finalize the breakfast menu for tomorrow’s service?’
‘Idli or Vada?’
The house is teeming with activity, for the first time since the lockdown. Nair and the team from the funeral home are sitting importantly on plastic chairs they have carried down the road with them (sanitised of course). Meenakshi is serving them tea in plastic cups, as they sit in a circle on the porch, careful not to set foot indoors because in the living room by the tv lay Muthassi, fast asleep, crystalising in her glass box.
Nair is holding fort. He’s excited and there are beads of perspiration forming on his lips. This is probably a better evening than he’d anticipated – watching his wife while away her evenings, wailing over the rising cases. He’s in charge here, sitting in the centre of his plastic circle – planning the last rites of a dead women for the two women who seem to be all over the place. Death does that to the household. The women need a man to shepherd them, the old husband of Meenakshi seems to pale in his existence like a zero-watt bulb, only caring about finishing the rituals before raahu kaal. Lucky for them Nair was here to be the acting man of the house.
Fifteen’ sets of vada, searing hot from the pan served with chutney and milky tea. No sambar. It is a time of mourning after all. Let the family have a hearty meal before the funeral.’ Nair would tell his wife not to make him breakfast. His mouth watered.
The rules for the funeral and the mourning period to follow are explained. There are three versions – the express version of three-day mourning reserved for Emirate returnees, the ten-day medium version and the sixteen-day traditional one that old Malayali families follow. This is a new normal though, there is a virus on the prowl.
Nair carefully nudges them to pick the medium mourning package.
Ambily wants the express version. she’s sure she can coax Prakash into staying with her for three days. Seventy-two hours. It’d take her only that long without Guruji to rekindle what was lost. Muthassi had given her a golden ticket in her passing. She turns to her father to bail her out.
‘Achan, three days sounds ideal given the times. Prakash can make it too, and then return by Monday for his ashram duties. Besides, there are rules for mourning. You’d go mad without tuning into your 7 pm news. No television during mourning remember?
Her father’s face is impassive.
‘I can read the paper. That is allowed, isn’t it Nair?’
Nair’s mustache twitches in importance.
‘No entertainment. No family gatherings. No visitors except for Saturday and Thursday. No non-vegetarian … not even egg, and someone needs to sleep in the departed woman’s bedroom until the mourning period passes – they say the body leaves, but the soul lingers. Visitors coming to pay respects to carry a care package of sugar, tea, dal, soap...
Over Nair’s rumbling monologue, a loud bell suddenly rings in Meenakshi’s brain. She sends a silent prayer to Guruvayurappan.
‘I think Amma would have preferred us doing the sixteen-day ritual. I vote for that. I will sleep in her room on her pillow to pay my respects. I have been doing it off and on these last years,’ a pinched look in her husband’s direction. Four fingers, on two different sets of hands, crossed in prayer.
Her husband nods before she finishes. He pulls out a mask and puts it over his face- blocking out the world. Period.
‘Yes, I also think we need to do sixteen days. It’l keep the visitors away. I am wary about visitors who could be asymptomatic.’
‘But Amma, sixteen days is a long time for…’
‘Keep quiet Ambily,’ two voices chime in unison, for the first time in thirty years.
Nair smiles, and scrawls into his diary.
From the box in the living room indoors, Muthassi sighs.
*
9:48 pm
Prakash is undressing in the guest room. He gingerly peels off his sheer white kurta and hangs it up.
‘You can wear it for the service tomorrow.’ Ambily comes in with a cup of tea laced with saffron – an aphrodisiac. She’s changed out of her tracksuit and pants into a pristine white sari, and her eyes are smudged with kohl. She’s left her curls open in a show of despair and loss.
She is a vision in mourning. But Prakash doesn’t pay attention to her.
‘Keep that away from me. Guruji has advised us to drink only pure cow milk now. Are you still drinking tea?’ A derisive glance from those peace-loving eyes.
Ambily sits cross-legged by the bed. She calls on her dead Muthassi, ace seductress in her time to help her through hers.
‘No, just this cup. I guessed it was a long night for us, having to keep the lamp lit by the body. Nair says one cannot sleep (without it?) until the dead leaves the house.’
The eyes glaze over again. His mind is back at the ashram. She watches him with his long lashes and longer legs as he moves around the room in a trance – removing pieces of clothing and donning a mundu and t-shirt with the ashram logo.
Ambily stifles a well-timed sob. She beckons to her husband to sit. He does and holds her hand as though on autopilot. His fingers are cold, and there’s a new ring on one, it has a picture of Guruji on it.
Prakash rubs her fingers comfortingly, then perks up as an afterthought.
‘Do you want to engage in a peace meditation before dinner? I taught it to some Filipinos yesterday and they were so relaxed.’
Meenakshi squeezes out a tear.
‘I want to talk about Muthassi, Prakash. Can you just hold me please’ Prakash puts his arms around her awkwardly. They’re like a jigsaw that doesn’t quite fit anymore.
She's at eye level with the ashram logo on his t-shirt, until she, Ambily, snuggles closer to him, wipes her snot on it.
‘As a well spent day brings happy sleep, so life well used brings happy death.’
He parrots into her ear.
Ambily stiffens.
‘Didn’t Davinci say this?’
Prakash’s demeanour changes, his arms coming loose from the embrace. ‘Guruji did, summer of 2018, Australia. Keep track Ambily. Guruji is there with us, in joy and in despair.’
Ambily sighs and picks up the glass. The intimacy she’d tried to orchestrate is submerged in the glass of milk she downs. Guruji has one upped her again.
‘Will you be staying here for sixteen days? My parents have decided they want to do it the good old-fashioned Malayali way.
Prakash’s nose twitches and she rushes on.
‘If you could at least stay till day three, that would make Muthassi so happy. She respected you, and it’d mean so much to her soul if you could do this much. I’m sure Guruji would understand your need to serve our elders.’
Prakash was looking troubled. She’d used Guruji’s words against him. He runs his fingers through his hair, and Ambily sends Muthassi a thank you guys up in heaven.
‘I need to be at the ashram Ambily. They are doing a massive puja with over one lakh chants to drive the virus into hiding. I am coordinating the logistics on Zoom. Muthassi would understand, wouldn’t she? She used to love Guruji’s organic soaps after her chicken pox. I’m not asking you to join us right away. Guruji would understand you want to mourn with your parents. How will Amma manage without you.
He holds out his hand in a peace offering, his long fingers snaking through hers. Guruji seated in lotus position smugly on his ring catches the light and smirks at her.
Guruji 02, Ambily 01.
She nods mutely as he takes her through his plan for the great Puja that’d put her husband on the ashram website.
She even smiles conspiringly as he opens YouTube and plays the evening Bhajans for them. They share an earphone each, and sway in unison to the songs they have long learnt by-heart now. Thank god for Guruji. Thank god for good internet.
The elephants in the room retreat for the night.
*
The next afternoon, twelve hours after Muthassi left: the funeral was quick and uneventful. The stipulated twenty people had shown up at their doorstep, lowered their eyes in respect and left care packages by the doorstep. Twenty packets of tea, sugar, semolina … enough for sixteen days. Several packets of sanitiser lie at the doorstep along with Muthassi’s ivory gold shroud, her only living memory flailing on the porch. She’d flap here for fifteen more days.
The household is quiet. Prakash hasn’t changed out of his funeral whites, despite having cremated her while wearing them. He is smoothing out the creases and humming under his breath – one eye on the clock.
‘Achan, is Raahu Kaal over?’
Meenakshi’s husband responds from the head of the table he’s been seated at since Muthassi died. He’s wasted no time taking her spot in the family.
2:45 … 2:46….
Eight sets of eyes watched two hands take a turn around the clock.
‘Yes, it is over. Prakash, you should leave now. Nair says no one is allowed to leave the house after Raahu Kaal. We are in official mourning now.’
Prakash frog leaps off the table and regains composure by bowing his hands in namaste to his in-laws. Ambily walks him to the door.
‘Call me when you reach.’
‘Mmm.’ His eyes are searching the depths of the gate as his fingers latch onto an ashram access card. Several Guruji’s facepalm her.
She knows he won’t call. She’ll see him next on the 6 pm Facebook Live. She tuned in religiously to ensure he was there.
It was like he’d read her mind.
‘I’ve left the earphones by the bed. Meditate, know you’re blessed.’ A cold set of hands touch her head.
A tear escapes Ambily’s carefully made-up eyes.
Prakash smiles.
Gratitude is the best prayer. I’m happy to see you practice it. See you at the ashram, Ambily’.
She watches the car leave the driveaway. He was a good man. He had come here to do his duties. He was probably rushing to save them all from the virus. That’d be a story to tell the extended family. Their relationship could wait. She was in mourning now.
She locks eyes with Muthassi who is sitting sagely in a gilded photograph on the wall. She shakes her head, and a tear escapes her. She’s mourning. For her Muthassi and for herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees her mother walk into Muthassi’s room. She hears the bolt. She wonders if this would be her, twenty years from now.
She downs her trepidations with a glass of pure cow’s milk and lies down by the tv that will now be switched off for sixteen days. She closes her eyes and waits for the dream.
In the bedroom recently vacated by Muthassi, Meenakshi lies reading a book – her dog-eared Mills and Boon. She doesn’t have to read aloud to let the household know she was serving. The server was being served. She could sleep in peace knowing that her Amma’s soul wouldn’t leave the room for another sixteen days. In the room adjoining hers, her husband lay on his queen- sized bed, listening to his wife’s happy sighs. He gets up and bolts the door.
Sixteen days more. Then he’d keep it unbolted through the night.
*
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