A death in the family

A death in the family is always painful. My first experience of attending a funeral was a few decades back. Before that I need to share some context. That means a story with a flashback. It started with a visitor coming to our house.

I first met my uncle when I was seven, during the summer vacation of my junior school years. He arrived at our house with a box full of mangoes, his broad shoulders and confident stride making him seem larger than life. He must have been in his mid-twenties thenwell-built, with movie star looks, and a voice that could charm the birds from the trees.

The mangoes were from our family groves, owned by my grandfather. He knew how much I loved mangoes, and the box was his way of reminding me that he remembered.

As the car pulled up, it kicked up a cloud of dust from the untarred street in front of our house. We lived in a modest rented place, the best my father could afford on a school teacher’s salary.

My father was an idealist, a dreamer. The only son of a poor farmer, he was the first in his family to graduate. He took a teaching job at the village school and was content with his life. It was there that he met my mother.

She was the only daughter of the wealthiest man in the village and the first girl from our village to graduate. Teaching at the village school was her way of asserting her independence. Her father, my grandfather, didn’t approve of his daughter becoming a teacher, and even less of her choice in a husband. For five years, he refused to speak to her. My birth, however, softened his stance, and he began visiting us once a year on my birthday.

“Father said you liked mangoes,” Uncle said, unloading the boxes from the car’s boot.

I was meeting him for the first time and felt too shy to reply. Grandfather was on a pilgrimage and had sent his son in his place. My focus was entirely on the mangoes as they were brought inside.

“You really do love mangoes, don’t you?” Uncle laughed, noticing my gaze.

He was supposed to return the same day but ended up staying with us for two weeks.

Our house had two bedrooms. My parents shared one, while I slept in the other, though I was often too scared to sleep alone and ended up in their room. During Uncle’s stay, he took over my room, and I didn’t mind at all.

Uncle kept strange hours. The light in his room stayed on through the night, and he slept through the mornings. I found it both amusing and curious.

My parents, being teachers, had to leave for school by eight every morning. I was left to my own devices with a packed lunch waiting for me on the table. Even at seven, I knew how to keep myself occupied. The school was closed after the annual exams, but my parents still had evaluation duties to attend to. Most of my friends had left the village for vacation, traveling to faraway tourist spots with their families. With no school and no friends around, I dedicated my days to observing Uncle.

I soon noticed a pattern in his behavior. Around four in the evening, he would wake up, brush his teeth, and bathe in the nearby temple pond. Then he’d return home, heading straight for the kitchen to devour whatever food was left. His appetite seemed insatiable.

Uncle was a great storyteller. Each evening, he would captivate me with tales full of imaginative sound effects, though all his stories were about ghosts and haunted houses, which left me both thrilled and terrified.

One of Uncle’s friends was the projectionist at the local movie theater, and he’d bring us bits of filmstrips. We’d spend hours in a darkened room, shining a torch through those reels and creating our own stories around the hazy images on the wall. Uncle would weave narratives filled with heroes, heroines, and songssongs with words I didn’t understand, but which I found fascinating. He even shared stories from his own school days and laughed at my jokes, making me feel important.

At six in the evening, my parents would return from school, and Uncle would change into his street clothes and leave the house. He never returned until late at night, long after I had fallen asleep.

After a few days, my mother grew concerned.

“I think we need to talk to him,” she said to my father.

The next day was a public holiday, so both of my parents were home. That evening, as Uncle emerged from his room, they confronted him.

“We need to talk,” my father said, leading him back into his room.

Their conversation was long and tense. I was busy eating a mango when my father emerged, looking worried. But when he saw me, his expression softened as he found something else to focus on.

“Isn’t that the third mango you’ve had today?” he asked.

I hadn’t realized he was keeping count.

“Let the boy eat,” my mother said, coming to my defense from the kitchen. “It’s not every day he gets to eat mangoes.”

“That’s because they’re expensive,” my father replied, heading into the kitchen. I overheard their hushed conversation, catching words like “smoke,” “drugs,” and “bad company.” I was relieved they weren’t discussing the mangoes.

“What is ganja?” I asked my mother later.

“Where did you hear that?” she demanded, her tone sharp.

“I heard you and Father talking,” I replied.

My mother never hit me, but for a moment, I sensed she was on the verge of starting a new trend.

“It’s something bad,” she said finally. “Something people should never use. And good boys shouldn’t eavesdrop on their parents’ private conversations.”

“I didn’t know it was private,” I said. “What’s a private conversation?”

“Have you finished the sums I gave you?” she asked, quickly changing the subject.

My mother had the annoying habit of making me start on the next year’s schoolwork during the holidays, claiming it gave me a head start. I wasn’t sure about that, but it definitely gave me a headache. Life was tough when both your parents were school teachers.

Six months passed. One day, I was surprised to see my parents at my classroom door. Though they were teachers at my school, they worked with the older students and rarely ventured into the primary section.

My mother whispered something to my teacher, then came over to my desk.

“Get your books; we’re going home,” she said, her voice trembling. I noticed tears in her eyes, something I’d only seen once before, when I burned my hand with firecrackers.

“Where are we going?” I asked as my father took my bag.

“To your grandfather’s house,” he replied.

My father never visited my grandfather’s house. After my birth, my mother took me there a couple of times, but Father always stayed behind. Grandfather’s house was huge, with many rooms, most of which remained locked. He lived alone; my grandmother had died shortly after my mother was born.

As we approached the house, I saw a large crowd gathered outside. Despite the number of people, there was an eerie silence. The crowd parted as we walked closer.

“Sit here,” my mother said, almost pushing me into a massive sofa in the hall before disappearing into another room with my father. My feet dangled above the ground, and I passed the time looking at the curios spread around the halllarge portraits of people in funny clothes, and a clock taller than me that ticked loudly, its sound echoing in the room. After what felt like an eternity, my mother returned.

“Come with me,” she said, leading me into another room.

There, on the floor, lay my uncle, covered in a white sheet with cotton balls stuffed in his nostrils. I found this odd and was about to laugh when I caught my mother’s stern gaze.

“Pay your respects,” she whispered.

She instructed me to touch his feet, and my father showed me how. Uncle’s feet were cold, and I quickly pulled my hand back.

“Your uncle passed away early this morning,” my father said softly as he led me to a corner.

We stayed at my grandfather’s house for two weeks, performing rituals I didn’t understand, and I suspected those instructing us didn’t either.

When we finally returned home, I was glad to resume my daily routine. But every so often, I thought about my uncle and hoped he would come back. I was certain there were stories he hadn’t yet told me. Now, an empty wooden box lies forgotten in the yard, a silent reminder of his brief stay. He was only twenty-seven when he died.