Of Deaths, Detachment And Dist

I notice weird things when people die. I notice the sole strand of hair protruding from someone's nose. I fixate on that for minutes while I try consoling someone who is grieving. My idea of consoling is just holding a person till they can cry it out. In my humble opinion, "Don't cry!", "There, there!" and "It's okay, it's going to be alright!"-- none of that works. It's okay to just let them cry it out.

I notice little kids terrified and shocked by wailing women. Sometimes they even accompany their mothers in loud mourning.

I notice the stoic faces of men who have been taught to stay strong in situations like these. I notice that their faces betray frustration. Maybe they just want to let it all out as well. Just as I do. But I don't cry, I never do. I just sit there, fixating on that single protuberance, that singular anomaly. 

Indian funerals take bizarre turns. I see random aunts launching themselves on or near the body and shrieking as if they are the only person experiencing bereavement. Then I swiftly watch them shift to some random topic of gossip in the local village (once they're away from the 'scene' of course). I absorb it all and I realize that I haven't eaten in hours now. I still can't shed a single tear...

I've only ever seen dead bodies when they are fully covered. I don't go closer. I wonder if that would make me cry... My not going closer has nothing to do with fear. I just know that I won't be able to 'perform'. The necessary reaction would never be activated and people would gossip. There a lot of gossip mongers in funerals. Your extended family and even their extended families are there. Funerals are grand in India, funerals bring people together. The protruding strand of hair sitting on top of that nose makes me want to grab onto a pair of tweezers so badly.

Sometimes I think that I won't even shed a tear if I could watch the body burn. I wouldn't know for sure though. It's because women aren't allowed to watch a body burn. Mother says the rule was made to protect women. They're weak you see. They cannot bear the horror of looking at a dead body burn. Be it your beloved, your parent, or your own child. They can definitely create life but watching it end? No, no! That is where they absolutely draw a line. I always found burning the body in the Indian culture very similar to the Viking way. I probably would immerse myself into a Viking funeral fantasy to dissociate myself from the stench of burning flesh, blood, and bones. This used to be a person. Now, it's not. I force myself to think of that image and still no tears.

I absolutely know what to expect next. I have been through this drill many a time. I would probably not feel anything for the next few days, months even. I would shut myself down and binge on the unlimited content, these streaming services so graciously provide. I would probably be begging for more work at the office. And one day, out of the blue, I will have a meltdown in a place where I am not supposed to cry. It would be inappropriate and I wouldn't be able to explain. So I keep trying to cry now. From this point forth, I am like a ticking time bomb. A self-aware one at that.

My relative whose nose has that protuberance gets up to give a shoulder to the dead body. I wake up from my reverie. My stomach rumbles, loud enough for people to hear. I sneak out of there when no one is looking. I sit alone at the terrace and watch them take the body away. The women follow the procession to a certain distance. I can taste my metallic thoughts and I wonder how far I am from my meltdown. The countdown begins...