}} He Dreams about His Own Death |

Poetry at Sangam

SangamHouse

 










He Dreams about His Own Death

                        the dead one, alien everywhere,
                        is but the ruin and absence of the world.
                        We rob him of everything,
                                                                        — Jorge Luis Borges

On the bed where he used to sleep is his body,
dutifully washed and dressed and scented,
and secured with a screen of white muslin cloth,
adorned with the best traditional attire
of ryndia, dhara and muka,
for the ugliness of death must be kept out at all cost.
A lamp burns within the enclosure, for the soul,
still very much about, must not linger in the dark.
His favourite food, when alive, is kept near his head;
and an egg, they call leng kpoh, is kept on his umbilicus,
a reminder of his sai hukum, his thread of life,
severed by a divine decree.
By the side of the bed, divided by the thin screen,
are the living,
his wife and his two daughters, mourning.
He is pleased with all this:
the long-customary practice is observed diligently,
and his beloved family seems genuinely sorry
that he has ceased to be.

As always, the scene outside disgusts him:
some teenage girls, relatives and friends,
are moving about with kettles of red tea and milk tea,
and trays of cakes and biscuits.
They are going among the loudly talking,
loudly laughing, extremely vulgar
and shamelessly irreverent crowd, offering—
‘Tea? Red tea or milk tea?’
Behind them are very young girls and boys
with plastic packets of betel nuts and betel leaves,
shouting, ‘Kwai, Bah? Kwai, Kong? Betel nuts, anyone?’
They remind him of tea sellers in a railway station
and betel nut hawkers in a cinema hall.
But the real feast is outside,
behind the house, in the small garden.
A tent has been erected here; huge fires are burning;
pots of rice, beef and pork and vegetables are being cooked.
On benches are eaters shouting for more rice or more meat
and loudly commenting on the quality and the taste
of the food. Some even say:
‘The food at a funeral is tastier than at a wedding’.

The next day he is happy again:
the service is being done strictly according to traditions;
the priest they have called to perform the funeral rites
is a man he has always admired for his dignified eloquence;
and the elders of his faith, singing his praises,
are men well known for their oratorical skill.
Everyone spoke splendidly, even his enemies
from the literary societies flattered him endlessly.
Needless to say, it was a resounding success,
praised by everyone,
a large concourse, forming a very long cortege.

At the cremation hill, he sees his pyre,
beautifully and tastefully decorated.
The rectangular enclosure of huge plantain trunks
is covered with pure white cotton sheets,
embellished with dark red velvet,
and festooned with golden tassels.
The corners are topped by siarkait,
carved like plantain flowers from seasoned teak.
And to crown it all, the shanduwa high canopy
of deep red satin cloth is raised above the pyre
on four long bamboo poles.
This is a rare honour, he exults,
given only to the very few!
The ceremonies too are carefully conducted
with dignity and reverence,
though a few in the crowd impertinently
block their noses and say they will not eat
grilled jerky again for months.
On the whole—
when the three nam tympem arrows
have been shot to the north, south and west,
(to smooth the way for the soul’s journey,
so it can have betel nut in the House of God),
and the farewell betel nuts have been offered on the pyre—
he feels reasonably pleased,
especially, when later in the house, the body turners
tell his family how beautifully the body had burnt;
how quickly it had turned to ashes;
everything had gone off smoothly;
nothing untoward, no cause at all for worry.

It is only after a few days, when he visits the house,
that he sees his little library, painstakingly built
over the years, is already overrun by worms,
swarming in and out of his beloved books.
They are everywhere, on the table, on the shelves,
on the floor, feasting on every scrap of paper.
Only some of the books he had written
(those that are read in schools and colleges;
those that still bring in some money)
are carefully preserved in glass cases.
As he leaves the room in forlorn sadness,
his house, built with the sweat of his own toils,
for which he had sacrificed his youth
(even resisting the temptation of love
and the pleasure of girlfriends)
and his health
(at times even working three full-time jobs at once)
is being referred to as his wife’s house.
It seems that along with his body,
his very name has also turned to smoke.
His erasure is complete and total.
It is then that he is gripped by a terrible
melancholy fear:
he cannot be another ‘mute inglorious’ dead—
uba rim uba jah, the ancient the vanished!
And he fervently prays to his God, U Blei,
to grant him a few days of life
so he could plant, with all the mandatory rites,
a small monolith to himself,
right there on the green spot in front of the house,
where he will inscribe indelible words of remembrance:

This house is bequeathed to us
            By our beloved father, Ap Jutang,
Son of our beloved Meikha, Peri Sibon.
            Let no one disdain what has been given,
Let no one destroy what has been built.

And as a PS, in smaller print:
            This stone has been ritually sanctified,
            You may tamper at your own peril.
 
 
 
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