Farewell, my fair lady

What if we were a minute too late? The sign of life, stirring within the sheets wrapped around the frail form with her disheveled silvery hair spread upon the pillow, was a relief.

Kneeling down beside her, we tried hard to draw her attention. Alas! In vain. Other than a fleeting moment of recognition now and then, and a few incomprehensible words, the sunken eyes in the haggard face displayed nothing. And yet occasionally, her long bony fingers mechanically stripped an imaginary coconut frond and laid aside the long stiff mid-rib, or removed the wisp of imaginary hair entangled in the fingers.

Sometimes, the limbs stiffened and she let out a cry of anguish through her gritted teeth. As for food, a week had gone by with just a teaspoon of water or Horlicks at long intervals.

People came and went. The eyes that shifted gaze when they willed, showed no sign of recognition. The night passed uneventfully except for that one minute when the voices of her favourite granddaughters seemed to strike a chord in the inner recesses of the brain and she responded feebly.

Towards noon the next day, news came that her limbs had become unresponsive. Rushing to be by her side again, we watched helplessly as her listless eyes stared into space and the little breaths that escaped her pale white lips showed that she was slipping into an abyss. As the last spoon of water trickled down the throat, the Adam’s apple throbbed faintly, followed by a shrug of the shoulders and then stillness, as peace descended upon the departed soul.

Within minutes, the news spread thick and fast and even before the kith and kin landed like drones, the shamiana and chairs were ready. As the men took their seats sombrely after expressing their condolences, the women, who came beating their chests, gave vent to their emotions, with dirges that hailed the deceased who had lived to see four generations, or perhaps lamented their own sorrows. The wailing and sobbing in groups continued to rent the air till late evening.

As ‘Snail Farm’ was engulfed in the partial darkness of a moonlit sky outlining the silhouette of the tall coconut trees, the live band of performing artistes and the steaming cups of tea served to keep awake those who kept vigil by the corpse through the night.
Morning came and the crowds began to swell and, with it, the funeral rites began in full fervour. While the corpse was given a final bath with oil and soap nut powder; draped in her blue wedding sari, and adorned with flower garlands, the bamboo palanquin got its final touches.

Before we could realise it, it was time to bid adieu. As the richly bedecked swan-like palanquin atop which she was seated, dressed in all her bridal finery, snaked its way out of the farm, we looked on with mixed emotions – relieved at her peaceful end and distressed at the sight of the man distraught with grief, with whom she had shared her life for nearly seven decades.