The People Who Came To The Funeral - By Parvathi Saji R

Written By: Parvathi Saji R

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In "The People Who Came To The Funeral," Parvathi Saji R offers a poignant exploration of familial and societal dynamics in the face of loss. Submitted to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this short story immerses readers into the various characters who gather for a funeral, each bringing their own narratives and quirks to the somber occasion. Through this vivid depiction, Parvathi captures the complexity and unexpected humor inherent in human gatherings, even during times of grief.

About the Work

Parvathi Saji R's narrative style in "The People Who Came To The Funeral" is both observational and immersive, drawing readers into the setting with its rich detailing of characters and events. The story's mood fluctuates between solemnity and subtle humor, as it delves into the intricate tapestry of human interactions during a funeral. The work eloquently highlights the varied ways individuals cope with loss and the social rituals that accompany such events, offering a reflection on community and memory.

The People Who Came To The Funeral

Original Submission by Parvathi Saji R

The People Who Came to the Funeral

My uncle died at 4:17 in the morning.

He had been complaining about a slight heaviness in his chest last night, but he had still eaten two dosas, fought with Aunty for burning one, complained about the price of petrol, watched the news and gone to bed.

At 4:25, my cousin posted it in the family WhatsApp group.

“With deep sorrow, we regret to inform you that our beloved Raghavan Uncle passed away peacefully today at 4:17 AM. Please keep the departed soul and our family in your prayers. 🙏🕯️💐”

There were three folded hands.

Two broken hearts.

A crying face.

A white dove.

And, for some unknown reason, a smiling angel 😇

Nobody knew who had sent the angel. Nobody questioned it. It was a death announcement. People were not in a state to question emojis.

By 4:35, the message had been forwarded to the extended family groups.

By 4:40, somebody had put it in the old family group.

By 4:45, a cousin had put the photograph on his WhatsApp status.

Then another cousin, my aunt, followed by a neighbor. Then someone who had not spoken to my uncle in six years.

"Deeply saddened by the loss of my dear Raghu. RIP🙏🕯️"

Fun Fact: Uncle hated to be called as Raghu.

By six in the morning, his photograph was everywhere. Some people put only the photograph. Some with a candle. Some with a black background.

By seven, people who had not yet called the family had already seen the status. That was how we found out who had seen the news. The little blue circles became a list of witnesses.

1. THE FAMILY

The immediate family is easy to recognize. They are the people who don't know what to do. Everyone else arrives with instructions and guidelines. The family has none.

My father sat beside my uncle for a long time. He didn't cry. He simply kept looking at him.

My mother moved from room to room without completing anything. She picked up a phone. Put it down. Opened a cupboard. Closed it. Picked up another phone.

"Did you call his cousin?"

"Yes."

"His uncle?"

"Yes."

"His old friend?"

"Which one?"

She stopped. There were apparently too many. The phone kept ringing. Every conversation began the same way.

"Hello?"

Pause.

"Yes."

Pause.

"Yes, suddenly."

Pause.

"No, he was fine yesterday."

Pause.

"Yes."

Pause.

"Come if you can."

Then another call. It was never ending.

By eight in the morning, my father had told the story of my uncle's death so many times that I think he could have recited it in his sleep.

2. THE WHATSAPP RELATIVES

These are relatives who don't call. They respond.

A condolence message would appear.

"Very sad to hear. 🙏"

Someone else: "May his soul rest in peace 🙏🙏"

Another: "Heartfelt condolences to the family 💐"

Then somebody would send a long paragraph about life being temporary.

Then a video of a sunset.

Then a completely unrelated good-morning message from someone who had clearly not read the group.

"Good morning everyone! Have a blessed day 🌹🙏"

Three minutes later: "Wrong group."

Nobody removed the message. It remained there between the condolences.

3. THE NEIGHBOURS

The neighbours arrived before most of the relatives. Not because they were necessarily closer to my uncle. They were simply closer to the house.

By seven-thirty, the front gate had become a meeting point. People stood outside discussing the situation.

"Was he sick?"

"No."

"Heart attack?"

"That's what they said."

"At home?"

"No, hospital."

"When did they take him?"

"Early morning."

"Which hospital?"

The conversation went on until everyone had learned the information.

The residents' association secretary arrived at eight. His name was Suresh. He wore a white shirt, white mundu and the expression of a man who had been waiting all his life for an emergency.

"Don't worry," he told my father.

"We are here."

Within twenty minutes, the association had created a proper system.

Two people would manage parking. Three would arrange chairs. One would handle drinking water. Someone would coordinate the funeral vehicle. Someone would call the priest. Someone would stand at the gate. Someone would make sure children didn't run around.

Suresh was the coordinator. Nobody had asked him to. Nobody needed to. He had already taken charge.

Soon, the residents' association WhatsApp group began receiving updates.

FUNERAL ARRANGEMENTS — PLEASE COOPERATE.

1. Please avoid parking in front of the house.

2. Additional chairs arranged from Building C.

3. Water available near the entrance.

4. Volunteers please report by 1 PM.

It was the first funeral I had attended with operational management.

4. THE PEOPLE WHO COME BECAUSE THEY HEARD

Then there were the people who had no idea who my uncle was. They came because somebody told them. They stood near the gate.

"Who died?"

"Raghavan."

"Which Raghavan?"

"The one in 2B."

"Oh."

They nodded as though that explained everything. They entered, looked at the body, whispered something to my mother, drank water, and sat for five minutes. Then they left.

I watched one woman outside the gate. She was talking to another woman.

"Good man."

"Yes, very good."

"Did you know him?"

"No."

"Did you?"

"Never seen him before."

But he was a good man. That had been established.

5. THE RITUAL EXPERTS

Then came the people who knew the karmas. Every funeral has them. They appear naturally, like mosquitoes after rain.

"Keep the lamp there."

"No, not there."

"The head should be this side."

"Who brought the sandalwood?"

"Did you keep the rice?"

"Where are the flowers?"

"Who is going to do this?"

"Don't do that yet."

"Wait."

"Not like that."

There were so many instructions that I began to wonder how they got the manual and we didn't?

One aunt moved the lamp. Another moved it back.

"Why did you move it?"

"It should be there."

"Who said?"

"I know."

That was enough.

In Kerala, "I know" is a powerful sentence. There were people who had attended twenty funerals and therefore believed they were qualified to conduct the twenty-first.

6. THE RELATIVE WHO IS STILL COMING

The cremation was planned for three. At two, everyone was ready. At two-fifteen, my aunt asked:

"Where is Ravi?"

"Coming."

"Where is he now?"

"Near Aluva."

At two-thirty:

"Now?"

"Almost there."

At three:

"He's stuck in traffic."

At three-thirty:

"Five minutes."

At four:

"He is very close."

The dead man waited because the living man was travelling.

Nobody wanted to say it, but my uncle had always hated waiting. He once left a bank queue after seven minutes.

"Life is too short," he had said.

Now his own cremation was being delayed because someone else was too busy.

When Ravi finally arrived, he ran into the house crying.

"I'm sorry."

Nobody blamed him. The family hugged him. The rituals began again.

7. THE CHILDREN

The children had discovered something wonderful. There was no school. No tuition. No one had time to ask where they were.

The house was full of adults. Adults were terrible at monitoring children when they were grieving. So, the children took advantage.

They ran upstairs, played behind the cars, opened cupboards, played hide-and-seek.

One boy was hiding behind a curtain when his mother found him.

"What are you doing?"

"Playing."

"This is a grieving house. Is this how I taught you? Come sit quietly."

He sat for approximately fourteen seconds. Then ran away.

8. THE COUSINS

And then there were my two cousins. They were secretly in love. At least they thought they were.

Everyone else noticed it months ago. The funeral gave them an excellent opportunity to spend time together without having to explain why.

She went to the hall.

He went to the hall.

She went to get water.

He needed water.

She went outside.

He suddenly needed fresh air.

The following game continued until her mother glared at her in such a way that even I could see the smoke coming out of her nose.

Love, like grief, apparently required supervision.

9. THE COMPLAINERS

Some people came to mourn.

Some came to help.

Some came to inspect.

The last category complained about everything.

"The chairs are too small."

"The chairs are too few."

"The microphone is too loud."

"Why is there no microphone?"

"The road should have been cleaned."

One man stood near the gate for twenty minutes complaining about parking.

Suresh finally approached him.

"Sir, you can park near Building D."

The man looked offended that his problem was solved.

"That is far."

He sulked. But that was settled.

10. THE PEOPLE WHO COME TO SEE WHO CAME

These were perhaps the most interesting. They were not interested in the dead. They were interested in the living.

"Did you see who came?"

"Who?"

"Leela."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"I thought they weren't speaking."

"They aren't."

"Then why did she come?"

"I don't know."

"Did you see her husband?"

"No."

"Maybe he didn't come."

A funeral was apparently a social attendance register. People noticed everything.

Who came.

Who didn't.

Who came alone.

Who came with whom.

Who cried.

Who didn't cry.

Everyone was keeping a tab on everyone.

11. THE PEOPLE WHO REMEMBERED HIM

And then there were the quiet ones. They didn't discuss parking. They didn't correct the rituals. They didn't ask who was getting what. They stood beside my uncle. They remembered him.

"Do you remember when he helped me with my job?"

"He used to come to our house every Onam."

"He never forgot birthdays."

"He gave my son money when he went to college."

"He used to call me every Sunday."

These people didn't have stories about his death. They had stories about his life. That was different.

12. THE LAST NIGHT

By night, the crowd slowly disappeared.

The chairs were stacked.

The association volunteers went home.

The neighbours returned to their houses.

My cousins were probably texting each other.

The WhatsApp statuses were still there. My uncle's photograph remained on dozens of phones.

"Rest in peace. 🙏🕯️"

"Gone but never forgotten. 💐"

"RIP 🙏"

Someone had even put a photograph of him with the caption:

"Legends never die."

I stared at that one for a while. For the first time that day, I smiled.

Then I looked at his photograph in the hall. The house was quiet. Just us.

The people who had actually lost him.

My grandmother sat beside the photograph.

"He brought everyone together," she said.

I looked around the room.

She was right.

He had.

For one day. And somewhere in between all of it, we had said goodbye.

The next morning, my uncle's photograph was still on my phone. So was the family WhatsApp group.

At 7:12 AM, somebody sent:

"Good morning everyone. Have a blessed day. 🌹🙏"

I stared at it.

Then someone replied:

"Please don't send good morning messages in this group."

And just like that, the family was fighting again.

……………………………………….

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious event that celebrates creativity and storytelling from around the world. Participants are invited to submit their poetic and narrative works, showcasing their unique voices and perspectives. This competition serves as a platform for writers to share their stories, connecting with a global audience and contributing to the vibrant tapestry of contemporary literature.

We extend our gratitude to Parvathi Saji R for sharing "The People Who Came To The Funeral" with us. Her contribution to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 enriches the literary landscape with its thoughtful portrayal of family and community. Thank you, Parvathi, for offering readers this touching narrative that resonates with authenticity and emotion.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.