By Mydhili R Varma
It is a strange thing to attend your own funeral, albeit in astral form. But if you knew the 104-year-old just-dead Rajarajeshwari Bai, you’d know that it’s the right thing to do under the circumstances. However, Ambika, her helper, nurse and confidante, didn’t believe in such balderdash, this transcendental business Rajarajeshwari Bai was up to after her death. That’s why Ambika was skeptical about the pale form of the old woman when she beckoned her. Ambika, in utter disbelief grabbed a steel glass from the dining table and threw it straight at the old woman’s form.
‘Chey!’ reproached the dead matriarch when the steel glass went right through her face and landed outside the window. ‘Enda ithu?! Haven’t you seen an astral body before? Throwing things at me - where are your manners?’
‘A-A-Amma, what body?’ stammered a petrified Ambika. She addressed Rajarajeshwari Bai as Amma since the time she had started working for her, taking care of her after she was paralysed from stroke and became bedbound. ‘You are alive?’
‘No, viddhi penne, I am dead. My body is. This is my true form.’
Ambika was spellbound. She looked around in sheer confusion. Nobody had an inkling that the magnanimous matriarch whose funeral they were arranging was out of her paralysed and dead body and imperturbably wandering about, giving orders, like she did in her healthier days.
The amicable matriarch took her last rasping breath at four minutes after eight in the morning of a cold Sunday in November before anyone in the house was awake. There was some dispute about the likely time of her death after Lilly, the housekeeper, had discovered her dead in her bed and informed the rest of the family. Bhavya, the first daughter-in-law, who was in charge of feeding Rajarajeshwari Bai in the morning argued that it was impossible that her mother-in-law was dead like Lilly had maintained because it was impossible that self-righteous Bhavya could’ve missed feeding her at eight in the morning. When nobody bought it, Bhagya then took to blaming the old clock that was always running late and ruining her perfect daily routines, slowing her down.
‘I’ve been asking you to change that pandaram clock’s batteries since last month,’ blamed Bhavya, scowling at her husband, Shashi. Pandaram was her favorite curse word. ‘Reminded you yesterday also…’
‘Sathyanu,’ agreed Hariharan, the second brother. ‘I heard chechi remind you yesterday.’
Shashi nervously looked to and fro from his wife to his brother and back again, unable to produce any excuses to justify himself.
‘As if that matters now,’ concluded Girija, Hariharan’s wife. ‘I am going to change into something presentable before people start coming in.’ Girija turned around and marched towards her bedroom. She wasn’t kidding. She meant business when she said she was going to change. When she was out, nobody, not even a jealous Bhavya, could refute that she looked like the picture-perfect daughter-in-law in mourning. With the somber mauve saree and the loose bun ready to come undone at the exact moment Girija would shake her head, wailing in phony grief, she had nailed the look.
Rajarajeshwari Bai shook her head and said, ‘This is going to be interesting to watch. What are you still doing there, staring at me like I’m some ghost? Come here, kutty.’
‘Aren’t you, Amma?’ asked Ambika, carefully and reluctantly taking a step towards Amma.
‘What?’
‘Ghost? Aren’t you one?’
Amma shrugged. ‘I don’t feel like one, all things considered. I am free to go anywhere and I am not bound to this house. No, I don’t think I’m a ghost in the sense most people know…’
‘Then why are you still here?’ asked Ambika, despite herself.
‘Athu kollam!’ said Amma, looking offended. ‘This is my house. I can stay here for as long as I see fit.’ Ambika felt remorseful and hung her head. She had never had a tiff with Amma when she was alive. She chewed her lower lip in indecision. ‘Anyway, let’s get to business. I want you to get me something. And for God’s sake, don’t look so melancholic! Look at me – do I look like I need your grief? I am in perfect metaphysical condition, better than I have ever been alive. Look, I can walk and my joints don’t even creak. Smooth as ever. Stop giving me that sorrowful look. You’re ruining the first day of my afterlife.’
Ambika, all of nineteen and fresh out of grief from losing her own mother, faked a smile and found it hard to keep up the charade and not break into tears. ‘You’re right, Amma. What is it that you want me to get you? Your Bhagavadgeetha book?’
‘No, no, no. What will I do with my Bhagavadgeetha book?’ said Amma. ‘Get me my chellapetti.’
‘Your what?’ said Ambika.
‘My chellapetti. In which I keep my murukkan. I’m sure Shashi has taken it. Only he chews betel leaves in the house other than me. Oh, how I’ve missed my murukkan! Go on, the room on the right of the stairs.’
Ambika weaved in through the crowd of mourners inside the house and went straight for Shashi’s room. There, on the bedside table was Amma’s ornamental chellapetti, looking magnificent like its original owner. She hid the heavy box in the pallu of her davani and returned to Amma’s bedroom.
‘Ah, there it is!’ exclaimed Amma. She took it in her hands and stroked the lid in fascination. ‘It’s been so long…’
Ambika, who was glad to have run Amma’s final errand, had finally found the courage to accept the loss of her beloved Amma, although in moments of dismal grief, she would look back upon the day and realise she was only too mesmerised by Amma’s appearance to feel the sorrow searing her heart.
Amma opened the chellapetti, took the betel leaf and lovingly smoothed it in her left hand. ‘Look at Shashi – he’s spilled the rice grains all over my face instead of placing them in my mouth. Always been sloppy, that one.’ Ambika smiled dolefully. Amma applied lime on the leaf from the chunnambu petti. Then she placed four small pieces of cracked areca nuts in the leaf, rolled it into a parcel and popped it into her mouth.
As someone who had been paralysed from stroke and bedridden for nearly a year, Amma had lots to talk, and Ambika had to be a sharp listener to keep up with her as she narrated the unpalatable truths she had learnt about her family members over the course of her illness and bedbound days. They sat there, Amma and Ambika, long after the body was taken for cremation, Amma chewing murukkan and commenting on the happenings in the house, and Ambika wrapped up in her own thoughts.
Long after the visitors were gone and he had finished his dinner, Shashi started searching for his mother’s chellapetti. He went about asking everyone in the house and finally found it in his mother’s room on her bed, open and missing a good bunch of betel leaves.
By Mydhili R Varma