A Fortunate Death

At the onset of one dawn Sarini died a fortunate death.

The tendrils of fumes rising from her funeral pyre mingled with the distant blue, leaving her charred remains on the brown earth.

Till that one dawn, Sarini’s whinge kept vaulting. Emotions jigged around her. At long last those sentiments that stirred her for two months and eleven days expired with her.

She sat by the window daily for hours and reminisced about her existence. The outdoor hubbubs maintained its parity alongside her. The sun rose and sat on time. Sometimes a cloak of the cloud shrouded it, but more often its ceaseless glare scrunched her eyes. As the daylight descended, the city lights polluted the night. In space, the brilliant moon appeared as an enormous round flatbread. Each month, for thirteen nights, the rotund earth nibbles it bit by bit till its pompousness confronts the disgrace of blackness. Sitting by the window Sarini warily discerned each phase of the moon.

Sarini’s window also stalked a busy road below the celestial bodies. It relentlessly exhibited an array of robust chassis. The engines revved through the motorway. Jaunty pedestrians walked by to catch up with the day. The trajectory of her gaze oscillated from the earthly humdrum to the blue and beyond and back to the banal.

For the past two months and eleven days, her specs assisted her blurry eyes to manifestly stare at a wry face in the mirror. Time had etched wrinkles on her. A tiny maroon bindi on her forehead, and the middle parting of her hair without vermillion stole her glance. Her wavy grey hair that fused to her fair scalp peppered a subtle sheen around her ripened visage. A fuchsia cotton saree hugged her slack and curved contour. A thick gold chain, bangles, rings and anklets tried to complete her look. Her reflection hauntingly interrupted her suave contemplations, compelling her to cynically walk towards her chair. Her seventy-year-old structure made her bow to her sturdy beech wood walking shaft. A thick cloud instantly coated her sky of imaginations. She envisaged a cadaver draped in a pure white, a clear middle parting of the hair without a slightest daub of vermillion. In the middle of her introspection, her moderately functional skeletal joints demanded attention. Her caregiver Ranu sat on the footrest in front of her chair. She dabbed a generous amount of ayurvedic oil on her knees and began massaging them. They both defencelessly sniffed an unbearable odour of the medicated oil. It prickled them, but kept Sarini’s knee lithe to a great extent. The whiff lingered until the lavender room freshener intervened to successfully dilute the niff.

After a few hours of rest and an elaborate natter with Ranu, Sarini started heading to her wardrobe. An array of vividly dyed sarees peeked at them. “So many lovely sarees Kakima (aunty). Kaku (uncle) must have been a great colour taster,” the collection left caregiver Ranu agape. “Of course he was a colour connoisseur. We first met in college. He was never that tall dark handsome man I longed for. His buck teeth made his smile unique. Our friendship painted beautiful moments. Once I accidentally spilled coffee on him. He smiled at me and said that I helped the sky meet the earth. I instantly understood what he meant,” she took out a tattered blue shirt from one corner of the wardrobe. It displayed mildews along with the sprays of brown on it. A musty odour filled up the air. “You have treasured this shirt Kakima?” Ranu asked with tear filled eyes. “He never washed it. He said that it’s one of our flashy memories,” Sarini’s eyes wandered to gather more such crumbled trice.

“Kakima, these sarees aren’t suitable for you anymore. Your daughters-in-law rarely wear sarees. My mother-in-law was forced to give away all her coloured sarees to the untouchables- after the death of her husband. She meant the garbage collectors won’t mind collecting cursed items. Widowhood is a curse,” Ranu kept clanging. Her dusky face battled for a smile. She engrossed her sinewy efforts to foster Sarini’s aging health and undertaking household errands. She flaunted a thick lustrous waist-length braid, a centimetre-long distinct svelte line of vermilion stuck to the slim middle parting of her hair. She never wore a bindi. The constant chiming of her bangles demystified her thoroughness.

“These are garbage to you? Am I a curse? Did I ask you to stay with me? Stop speaking hogwash and go,” she peevishly dismissed Ranu.

I never said that you are a curse or your saree is garbage. Who will take care of you if I go? I have been bearing you and Kaku’s moodiness for the past ten years. Did I ever leave you both? How can I leave you now? Ranu’s yelp echoed deep inside Sarini’s bosom.

“I will soon meet him in heaven. Wipe your teary eyes and switch on the geyser,” Sarini got up from the bed and walked slowly with her walking stick. “And, yes, you can take one saree if you wish.”

As Sarini started to stroll, Ranu rushed to switch on the geyser. Her mutterings faded into a distant monologue. “A widows’ life is daunting. I see my mother-in-law following all the rituals. She consistently curses her life. What shall I cook for lunch today?”

“I dare rituals,” a hidden commotion erupted with sullen expressions.

“Prepare fish and rice,” Sarini daily insisted on having a thin gravy of fish with rice.

“Fish?” Ranu’s inquired.

“I can cook for myself. You may leave my house after my bath. I won’t trouble you like my husband,” Ranu’s query riled her. She threw her walking stick and wobbled towards the bathroom. Ranu rushed behind her for the support to which Sarini’s shrunken brawns promptly obliged.

“You are eating fish daily, so I thought of preparing a different menu today,” Ranu tried to pacify Sarini. She opened the tap allowing the hot water to leak impulsively into the bucket.

“I know you are eyeing my widowhood. Widows should keep away from fish. Right? My husband always gave me his share of fish. He ensured I eat fish daily. Don’t you remember?” Sarini’s voice melded with the running tap water.

“Ok I’ll prepare fish daily. Please calm down?” Ranu started scrubbing Sarini’s lax skin.

*

Sarini’s children frequently flew to her nest from other cities. Months before Sarini died, her sons, daughters-in-law and her grandchildren came to celebrate her seventieth birthday. Their homecoming filled her abode with jolly chirps. She never complained about their absence, though she fancied them by her side at every tick.

Her elder son gifted her a pair of gold bangles that displayed an intricate Bahraini design on them. “They are lovely. After my death your daughter, my granddaughter shall own them as my blessings. No objections,” she affirmed to her elder son.

Sarini looked graceful in her bright magenta saree. “You bought this saree for me. Do you remember, Biren Ghosh?” She kept caressing her husband’s hands. Her amorous attention rarely shifted from him. 

“Maa, I told you that we went to Kashmir last month. Look what we got for you,” with a broad smile her younger son opened a carved wooden box. A pair of diamond studded dehjoor – eventually paved its way from Kashmir. “You wanted to buy dehjoor only from Kashmir, but Baba never took you there. He said that it isn’t safe to travel there. Remember?” he touched her feet for her blessings and kissed her tender cheeks.

“Oh, yes! Do you remember, darling?” she asked him. In return his empty stare bushed her. His Alzheimer’s left her muddled amidst countless memories. A wheezing cough recoiled his shrunken size. When malady embraced them, medical remedies fought for their existence. The reminiscence of fond moments of togetherness weaved their devotion for each other. “I wish to die before you, Biren Ghosh. But I can’t leave you alone to suffer without me. Bring his medicines and a glass of warm water, Ranu,” Sarini wiped his face with her anchal (the end piece of her saree). “Oh! Look at him. He’s turned fatuous like a toddler. His occasional incongruous tantrums leaves me and Ranu clueless,” Sarini prattled arduously.

“Accept his disease, Maa. He is supervised by the best doctor in town. We want you both to stay with us, but you won’t listen,” her elder son complained.

“Today is an auspicious day Maa, don’t feel upset,” Sarinis’s younger daughter-in-law pecked her.

 “Kakima, you look like Devi Lakshmi in this saree and the jewelleries,” with a glass of warm water and medicine in her hand, Ranu chimed in, making Sarini modestly smile at her.

“This trinket is lovely. It will dangle down my ears till my last breath. I wish to give them to my grandson’s wife as my blessing,” she assured with a grin.  She willingly passed on the jewels as heirlooms.

A few months after her birthday, her husband – a bedridden denizen at the hospital – succumbed to the brain-rotting disease. His feeble breathing signalled an ominous aftermath. It made Sarini hapless.

“It’s better that you are departing before me? I don’t want you to be a burden on anyone. I’ll wait for you to take me with you,” the saltiness of her tears touched her lips. She tasted a grieving ocean inside her.

On that fateful day water washed off her vermillion. It dripped down like blood from her forehead. Ranu broke her sankha-pola (conch shell/red coral bangles) to welcome her widowhood. “Don’t remove my trinkets,” she pleaded like a baby. “No Kakima, I won’t,” Ranu assured her.

“You can wear the gold chain and ear studs. Dehjoor, anklets and toe rings don’t suit a widow, Sarini,” her brother-in-law spoke to slew her dignity. “Nowadays no widow shaves their head, that’s fine, but restrict to light coloured sarees,” his orthodox thoughts chastised her on her factional dogmas being a widow. He challenged her erudite mind.

“These are not jewels. It’s the love showered upon me by your brother and your nephews. You won’t understand. I am a married woman till my last breath. I will live the way he wanted me to live,” her shuddering voice blatantly raved at him.

“Ranu, take Maa to her room and give her the medicines,” Sarini’s younger son instructed. “Kakima, please come with me. You need to have your medicines, now,” Ranu tried to calm her but Sarini kept squawking.

“Don’t let these blethers perturb you. You are not well. Let your sons will handle him,” Ranu requested. Sitting on her chair, Sarini faintly remembered a quiet clime, a beguiling moment, when the resplendence of Taj Mahal immersed her passion in the ocean of wonderment. Her mind felt the touch of her husband’s hands. She recalled a vow they took, “Let’s promise something today. When one of us shall die, the one left behind shall keep this marriage alive with all colours.”

*

For hours she sat near the window inertly holding a book. “Why don’t you come and stay with us, Maa?” her daughters-in-law insisted constantly.

“Please, Maa?” her sons urged.

“This home holds his memories. Here I shall breathe my last breath,” Sarini voiced her determination.

Ranu offered Sarini a cup of her favourite ginger tea. She knew how much Sarini relished her evening tea. It replenished Sarini, taking her back in time. “Why don’t you recite a poem by Tagore after lunch?” Sarini pleaded. “Let’s finish the last chapter of the novel by Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay. Today let me take it from where you left off yesterday. You sit back and enjoy my voice,” her husband sipped his tea and began scanning the floor. “Sure. Did you drop something?” his gaze worried her. It appeared as if he had dropped something precious on the floor. It was the pests that began to encroach his grey matter. It steadily vacated his senses.

While she rested in her past, a sudden thud stirred her present. “Thaami, tell us a story,” her grandchildren entered her room bashing the door. “Oh, come my darlings. When your grandfather and I visited the splendid Taj Mahal. An old man ……” her eight-year-old granddaughter hastily stopped her.

“Old like daadaai?” she pointed at her grandfather’s portrait on the altar.

“Oh yes, but back then we were young like your parents, and your father was just like you. So, that old man……” Her voice began shrinking.

“Hurry up! We are running late for the airport,” her elder son entered the room. He stooped to touch her feet the last of infinite times for her eternal blessings. “Ranu, take good care of Maa.” Her sons decisively hired Ranu as a full time caregiver for their mother. Ranu silently nodded to their plea. Six years back she was hired to take care of the couple, especially their ailing father. Her staunch demeanour stood the test of time. A responsible au pair, Ranu managed the two seniors. Her job hewed an emotional breach that already existed between her and her family. She knew her duties well.

“Is this necessary? She has a family,” Sarini sounded thoughtful. “You need her, Maa. She has to stay with you, if you choose to stay here,” her elder son affirmed before leaving her nest with a promise to visit her.

*

Sarini lounged on her mahogany palanka. She gave an impression of a single putrid fruit in a fruit basket awaiting disposal. For more than four decades, moments of love and affection gushed through the meticulously carved wooden planks of the bed.

“Don’t oblige yourself to stay with me, Ranu. Your family needs you. You may deny this duty,” Sarini advised her.

“They together can manage the household. My conscience won’t allow me to leave you alone,” Ranu sighed. 

Moreover, money cares more. My husband lay gammy in bed. He is unable to earn. His arthritis is killing him each day.  I must earn for them,” Ranu’s tongue spoke with astute veracity.

“When did your mother-in-law become a widow?” Sarini avidly gazed at Ranu’s red vermillion.

“Twelve years. She gave off her hair. She wears white saree, no jewelleries, killing her urge for non-veg food. Her brother-in-law groped her one night. She became his easy target to seek pleasure. Failing on his mission, he united the family against her, blaming her widowhood and questioning her chasteness. And finally they abandoned her. She worked as a housemaid to raise her children,” Ranu’s narration suffocated the room.

“Society loves to feed two-faced monsters. They gleefully celebrate your good times, hiding their resentment, and when you lay broken under the collapsed walls of life, their crocodile tears dexterously hide their limitless ecstasy over your doom. You must remain independent Ranu. Don’t allow any man to seek pleasure in you when you are vulnerable,” Sarini heaved heavily. 

“You are lucky, Kakima. Unlike my mother-in-law you are not a young widow. And, I am always with you,” Ranu hugged Sarini tightly.

“Maybe, you are right. I am lucky,” Sarini relaxed on her rocking chair.

*

 “I have a marriage invitation next month. I can’t wear red or pink. I won’t go?” Sarini’s chest felt heavy. Her tongue failed to elide her thoughts. “Widowhood is a curse. For the past two months and eleven days I remained a distant spectator in every auspicious occasion unlike a married woman,” she vacuously gawked at Ranu’s vermillion.

That evening, while she sat in the thick of the moment, the moon shimmered at her through the window. She stared at its half-eaten visage, when a craving devoured her.

“Go, buy some sweets,” Sarini requested.

“But the doctor said – no sugar!” Ranu cautioned her.

Oh, come on. Do as I say,” she insisted.

Sandesh (sweet made of cottage cheese) made her drool. “You eat one, and keep two sandesh on the table.

“Ranu, how do widows look in white saree during their death ritual? All white!” Sarini became pensive.

“I don’t know,” Ranu continued her chores.

“Request them to drape me in magenta saree that he had gifted me,” Sarini took a bite of her favourite sweet.

“You must sleep now,” Ranu requested.

“Keep two sandesh for your kaku,” Sarini’s eyelids drooped.

“Why are you talking about Kaku? He is no more,” an unpleasant anticipation dehydrated Ranu’s senses.

“He’ll come to rescue me from my nemeses. From my widowhood. Give him the sweet when he comes,” a serious thirst grappled her maw, a tautness squeezed her, every passing second darkened her vision a little bit more. Sarini breathed in a few more mortal minutes before her broken heart ceased functioning.

Her life ended on a sweet note without a snag. “Have some water Kakima,” Ranu rushed to her with a glass of water. A few drops of life through her parched lips failed to revive her life. Draped in an orange saree, her still frame was tastefully decked with silver, gold and precious gems on her toes, ankles, wrist, neck and earlobes.  Ranu cuddled Sarini’s cold hands like an orphan.

*

Sarini’s days with Ranu sublimated with an eddy of rumination, till her wilted old frame that encased her limp heart rested eternally. On the following day of her death, the stale sun rose right in time to complete its daily rite without her. When death embraced Sarini her only whinge of being a widow plunged deep. “Remove this orange saree. A widow’s corpse must be draped in white,” the chaplain explained with a sombre tone.

“She wished to wear a red saree during her ……” Ranu’s speech tapered. “Sweep the porch and pour water when the body is taken for the funeral,” the chaplain instructed the family, ignoring Ranu.

The unsolicited white that invaded her cadaver gave her a pristine look. She drifted away gracefully like a mute swan. Ranu could sense Sarini’s invincible vibrant soul blissfully prancing on the reunion with her husband in heaven.

“She’s fortunate. She didn’t suffer for long without her husband.” A neighbour bleated.

“She died in sleep. She didn’t even trouble anyone. She looks divine in white,” a second voice made an entry.

“Yes, divine like Devi Saraswati (Goddess of wisdom),” Ranu continued sniffling.

Sarini’s whinge – “I have to die as a widow!” – muzzled Ranu.

She rushed to the bathroom grabbing Sarini’s magenta saree. She opened her phone gallery to look at Sarini’s unruffled portrait. Tears blurred her eyes.  “Widows have no choice, Kakima. Forgive me. I couldn’t bid you farewell the way you desired,” her emotions choked her. She began washing the saree.