It is two days after Holi – the vibrant festival of colour and mirth. The usually quiet lane in the leafy neighbourhood of Lokhandwala has changed, now filled with a fleet of cars, gleaming in the spring sunshine and lining the street. Parking in these parts is typically difficult on a regular day, but today has been a chaotic ordeal. At Shanti Bhavan, the two-storey whitewashed bungalow located on the corner block of the neighbourhood, there is a bustle of activity, reminiscent of a flutter of butterflies in spring. On the cool porch, sandals and shoes are littered on the steps. To the left of the main door, there is a large framed photograph of a young man. He has dark curly hair, a thin face with a strong jawline, sparkling eyes and a smile that reaches his eyes. The photograph is carefully garlanded with strings of yellow marigolds.
Inside, the living room has been cleared out. The sofas have been pushed to the corners, and chairs, rented from a nearby funeral service, are laid out neatly against the walls. A makeshift stage has been placed at one end of the room. It is not high, just a few inches off the floor. There are around twenty-five people in the room – friends and family – dressed in white and wearing sombre expressions. The news of Manan’s death came so suddenly that many close relatives are still on flights, buses and trains, making their way here. They even missed the actual funeral service, which was held the previous day.
Mrs Pooja Chatterjee’s eyes are red and swollen as she converses with a middle-aged relative, who attempts to console her. Little do they know that nothing they say will ever make this pain go away. If only they knew what she knew. Instead, she asks if everyone has been served tea. Tea always helps, no matter the enormity of the calamity. Sometimes another thought crosses her mind. If this hadn’t happened, she would’ve been on the set of the latest Bengali blockbuster, wrapping up a film that had been three years in the making. She had dedicated every second of these years to this film and the thought stabbed at her heart with a pain she did not know how to manage.
Across the room, Pooja’s ex-husband, Girish Chatterjee, is inconsolable. In complete contrast to his ex-wife, Girish let out a wail; his loud sobs piercing the hearts of some of the guests, while making a few others cringe in embarrassment. This is a side of Girish that no one who knows him has encountered before. Usually, he is a calm, reserved person who rarely speaks unless required. He is never ruffled and never at a loss. Yet today, he is broken.
Anandita, Girish’s niece, approaches Pooja. “Mami,” she begins, “it’s three o’clock, shall we begin with the speeches?”
Pooja, who has been wrapped up in thought, looks up at Anandita, and for a moment doesn’t recognise the young girl who seems to be asking her something.
“Shall we begin the speeches, Mami?” Anandita asks again, tenderly.
“The speeches…yes…yes. We’d better get started. Don’t want to keep people waiting for too long,” Pooja replies. “Why don’t you ask Girish Mama if he’d like to start?”
“Okay, Mami,” Anandita murmurs, and she makes her way across the room to Girish. She speaks to him in a low whisper. Girish wipes his eyes even though the tears don’t seem to stop and shakes his head as if to compose himself.
“Yes, beta,” Girish says, as he stands up. “I’ll start.”
He walks to the stage. His shoulders are hunched, his hair dishevelled and his white kurta is in a crumpled state.
“Hello,” he begins with a croak. But no one seems to notice, so the guests continue talking amongst themselves.
Anandita approaches Girish and addresses the crowd. “Hi everyone, can I please have your attention?”
A few folks turn to look at her.
“Can everyone please settle down? We are going to begin the speeches with Girish Mama,” she pleads, squeezing Girish’s hand before walking away.
The hall falls silent as Girish clears his throat. He adjusts his glasses and smoothens his kurta. When he opens his mouth to speak, the words are soft and shaky.
“Hello everyone,” he sputters. “Firstly, I’d like to thank all of you for coming here today. It means a lot to me and…,” he hesitates for a second “...Pooja, that you took the time to be with us at such a tragic moment in our lives.” He takes out a handkerchief from his pocket and blows his nose.
“Let me tell you this right at the outset. I have never been good at speeches and things like that. I don’t know if what I’m going to say is going to make sense to anyone here because I am not the most eloquent in the family. If my son, Manan, were here today, he’d know exactly what to say, because he had a certain way with words. He was a writer; did you know that? Well, he hadn’t been published but that was his dream. In fact, one of the first memories I have of Manan is of him writing a short story. I mean, of course, I remember things about him before this memory, but this is the one that came to my mind this morning.
“Manan was perhaps six years old at the time. He had been working on a short story all weekend. And it was a Sunday evening when he came to us, proudly announcing that he had finally completed it and wanted to read it out to us.” Girish stops to smile. “The story was about a family…a happy family…who encountered great adversity. The father had lost his job and the mother had fallen ill. Their son was deeply saddened by the family’s distress. So the child goes about making his parents feel better. He does odd chores for his neighbour and earns some money. He also prepares soup for his mother to help her feel better. In the end, the father secures employment and the mother recovers. The family comes out of this situation intact, as if nothing had ever happened; as if they’d never suffered.” Girish pauses for a breath. “There is no doubt that the story was about our family. My son was always perceptive regarding our faults and challenges, and he tried his best to make us all feel better.” Girish lowers his eyes, his voice trailing off. “Even though things cannot always be fixed.”
“My son was better than me. He was hopeful. He was a sensitive, compassionate man who always put others before him. He was more like a parent to…us…” Girish looks in Pooja’s direction “...than we were to him, and I deeply regret that. I remember him being curious about everything the world had to offer. He loved books, art and music. Often I’d drop him off at events – debates, speeches and various school events. He would always be so excited about the different competitions at school and would register himself for all of them if he was eligible.” Girish takes another pause as he reminisces. “If only…if only we had been better parents to him, then perhaps a father wouldn’t have to speak about his son like this.”
It is evident that Girish cannot continue any longer. His face is contorted and tears stream down his cheeks. He hangs his head and his glasses slip to the bridge of his nose. An elderly gentleman holds him by the shoulder and guides him to his chair.
Excerpted with permission from ‘The Funeral’ in In Pursuit of a New Dawn: A Collection of Short Stories, Anirban Bhattacharyya, Rupa Publications.
