The Night's Beginning - A Story

The white Indica slowed down and took the right turn from the dark, empty highway to move onto the village kachcha road.

As the car stumbled its way between the golden mustard fields, Shama wiped her shirt sleeve on the February midnight mist and crowed excitedly to Riaz, 'See! You always ask where are those mustard fields of Yash Chopra's DDLJ. Your own village!' Riaz absent-mindedly peeped outside, gave no intimation that he saw or understood anything, but smiled at Shama to assure her that he agreed as usual.

'Almost twenty five thousand', said Riaz to himself for the third time, 'if only we had taken the two hours later Spicejet flight instead of the 0815 Air India flight, it could have easily cut two thousand. But then we would have also missed the afternoon Gharib Rath to Allahabad, and then Amma's 'mitti' also tomorrow morning.'

Amma had lived a long life and died slowly over the last one month agonizingly. Twice, Riaz had made plans to visit, and each time, he had put it off for some or the other reason. Truth be told, her death was constantly on his mind, but he felt that he could not take two long leaves from the office within a short period. One for visiting an ailing grandmother, the other for burying one. He had somehow always felt it more important to be by her side when she was dead than when she was critically ill. He could stand death, not the process of dying.

Now, Amma was dead, and he was irritated at himself for thinking about money. He put on his special, serious pose and tried to concentrate on Amma to prepare himself for the mourning. Tears did not come easily to him, and he did not want the look of the dry-eyed, unfeeling grandson.

As they crossed 'Pasiyana', literally the abode of the 'Pasis', and slowed to a halt in front of a large, white house, he saw his uncles coming out in white. As he embraced them one by one and got his shoulders wet from their wept tears, he felt his guilt and uncertainty dissolving. The Uncles pointed him to go inside where his mother and aunts had started wailing in anticipation. He moved gingerly from aunt to aunt, aunt to mother, mother to aunt, consoling them in turns with gentle embraces, making sure he followed the age hierarchy religiously. He then went to the inner room to look at Amma, and was astonished to see her thin face, gaunt from the recent illness, but still severe and serene, the only visible part of her body, covered from head to toe in a white shroud. He felt her death intimately for the first time and felt a vacuum growing inside his chest that expanded outwards.

His chest swollen, his gaze uncertain, he moved outside the house to look at the village stars and a place to sleep the night. As he stood looking with invented fascination at the deep orange object in the sky, which he guessed to be Venus, he felt somebody nudging him. Only when his uncle whispered, 'Abba, Abba', into his ears did Riaz turn around, and saw Abba leaning on his stick. Abba had woken up from the commotion and come outside. Riaz moved slowly towards him for the ritual embrace. When Riaz buried his head in Abba's chest, he found Abba immovable and heard no tears for the dead wife, his constant companion for the last sixty six years. Astonished for the second time, Riaz looked up gently and saw eyes that were unslept, dead and that were going to be closed permanently within the next one year.