Ironical Smile Of Dead

The Ironical Smile of the Dead

A title, unexpected yet profound—The Ironical Smile of the Dead. It came to me effortlessly, as if spotting an elephant among ants.

A few days ago, as I sat in my writing room, the gentle embrace of nature streamed through my rectangular window. The whispering breeze, the rustling leaves, the quiet poetry of existence—it all had a healing touch, soothing the burdens of life. And then, my wandering eyes halted, captivated by a group of children. Their little hands were shaping a temple out of clay, preparing for the grand festival of Diwali. They sculpted with the devotion of honeybees tending to their hive, unaware of the world beyond their sacred task.

Their faces, lit with pure faith, stood in stark contrast to the ostentatious displays of wealth by others who believed that devotion was best expressed through bundles of money. The disparity struck me deeply. Faith, after all, is not measured in coins but in conviction.

Once, I too was like those children—innocent, untainted, and pure in my beliefs. And then, suddenly, a memory from my childhood surfaced, like a forgotten painting restored by time.

Rasoolpur: The Village of Verdant Fields and Forgotten Sorrows

Rasoolpur—a quaint village in Uttar Pradesh—nestled beside a flowing canal, its lush greenery reflected prosperity, its well-connected roads bore silent witness to countless journeys, and at its heart stood a bustling bridge junction, where people gathered to debate, discuss, and weave the fabric of village life.

It was the spring of 2011. The once-barren trees, stripped by winter, now adorned themselves with delicate blossoms, breathing life into the landscape.

In this village lived the Verma family—Manu, his wife Savita, their twelve-year-old daughter Pari, and the aging patriarch, Mansaram. For years, Manu and Savita had dutifully cared for Mansaram, not out of love, but in quiet anticipation of the wealth he possessed. And when time granted them the keys to his estate, their devotion melted away, revealing their true nature, like the scent of a ripened muskmelon.

No longer the center of their concern, Mansaram was left to fade into the shadows of their indifference. Yet, in that lonely abyss, one soul remained his unwavering companion—Pari.

A Bond Beyond Blood

At just twelve, Pari was too young to understand inheritance, but old enough to understand love. She became her grandfather's solace, tending to his needs with an affection that neither Manu nor Savita could feign.

As the weight of age pressed upon him, Mansaram struggled with the simplest of tasks. One day, fever gripped his frail body, and with a trembling voice, he asked Manu for medicine. But mercy found no place in his son's heart. Not only was Mansaram denied medicine, but he was also beaten—his cries drowned in the silence of neglect. That night, he lay in agony, his stomach empty, his spirit weary.

But in the stillness of the dark, Pari defied her parents. Like a secret breeze in a stifling room, she tiptoed to her grandfather's side, slipping small morsels of sugar and roti into his shaking hands. Mansaram looked at her—not with hunger, but with gratitude.

But kindness, in a house of cruelty, does not go unnoticed. When Savita discovered Pari's quiet rebellion, she punished her ruthlessly. From that day on, not only was Mansaram deprived of food, but the walls of his own home whispered prayers for his death. Manu and Savita yearned for the day he would breathe his last, freeing them to settle in the city, unburdened by an old man's needs.

The Last Meal, The Last Smile

The next morning, hunger gnawed at Mansaram's insides, yet even stale rotis seemed like a feast. As he reached for them with shaking hands, a stray dog wandered into the yard, its eyes pleading, its ribs telling a silent tale of suffering.

Mansaram hesitated. Then, with a frail yet resolute gesture, he broke the roti in half and offered it to the dog. It devoured the food gratefully, wagging its tail in appreciation. A smile—gentle, unburdened, and strangely luminous—spread across Mansaram's face.

An hour later, a crowd gathered around him. Mansaram was still smiling. His face, despite the cruel years, glowed with an ethereal serenity. But he was no more.

The Irony of the Dead

Today, we slaughter our own for land, wealth, and power. We resent the success of others. We refuse to sacrifice even for those who once held our hands through childhood. In this grand illusion of progress, we have forgotten the essence of humanity.

And in that forgotten essence, Mansaram's ironical smile lingers—a silent taunt to our bloodstained conscience.