Resumo de Living And Leaving - Partha Pratim Majumder

In the waiting hall at the Keoratala Electronic Crematorium, the morning was no different than the other days except that I was present, sitting before the queue of corpses that were lying decently but horizontally, amidst the sound of vehicles carrying corpses with screeching halt, more chaos or hulla-gulla than necessary by the few accompanying the dead making common inquiry of time involved or "Where is the burning ticket?" "What about the instantly available Death Certificates?" "Where is the Purohit" (Priest)? "Where are Chai-biscuit-cigarettes?" (Tea/Biscuits & cigars)

The third out of the three dead was my father. Henceforth, he would be addressed as the "Late Sunil Chandra," he who was never late in his whole life. Punctuality was his favourite subject other than Pankaj Mullick and Pahari Sanyal, two mythological figures of Bengali culture in the forties through the fifties.

The other two dead were of the same age group, above sixty five, one male and the one female, all married, living each full up to seeing their grandchildren through glass bottom thick spectacles. Or maybe they saw too much of them? The dead grew stiff face muscles gradually becoming frozen cold in this summer morning as those of us alive grew sweating and sticky. The dead have a funny dress-sense, I thought - wearing two nostrils full of cotton and heavy spectacles, but no slippers. Fresh white clothes on the males, and redlined cotton white sari on the females. Bouquets of Rajanigandha were heavy on their chests together with the burning incense in the thick gloom of crematorium.

I had been deeply involved in thinking of the last few days of the life of these dead, including my father's, when I had rushed from Gandhinagar, Gujrat to see that the body waited for me only. My other brothers and sisters had all been present at his death.
A large metal gate of the burner opened with a blast of hot air and the smell of burnt flesh. While the sleeping destitutes in the corner of the hall were still, as if they were enjoying the frying smell of tasty tomato and cheese filled double omelets, I wished if I could have missed that smell of burnt flesh, especially on my empty stomach and right after my journey here.

I fell unconscious.

The chaotic crowd focused on me, splashing water on my face, creating air with the flash of newspapers or towels, whispering my name in my ears, and putting a spoon between my two sets of teeth. All of them were tried, but to no effect. Somebody even had a try with putting a worn and dung clad leather slipper on my nostrils as the common treatment of Hysteria. Another offered valuable but free advice, "Perhaps, you should call Ojha (Witch) staying beside Adi Ganga ghat (river bank), for jhaarphoonk (Witchcraft). Charges would be nominal - a few hundred rupees and one pint of English malt (liquor)"

In fact, I stayed in a deep slumber and seemed to find myself sitting in a setup, much like a large and spacious courtroom - all dark and with no audience. I was the only person sitting in the room. I was told that this was God's Own Courtroom and that he would ask three simple questions of the newly dead ones.
Question number one was, "What was your last address before reaching here?"
Question number two was,"What was your last meal and who cooked it?"
Question number three was, "What was your cause of death?"

On the hot seat, my father, an ex-government officer, appeared first and replied promptly:
My last address was in a nursing home for two months. I was not fit for staying with family, since I had no control on my stool or urine.
My last meal was a tasteless soup, prepared by their cook.
The cause of my death was the stress of what to do regarding my properties.
The late Sabita Sen, a housewife, replied: My last address was "Santir Nir (Nest of Peace)," an old age home at Kayani, where I stayed for more than three years.
My last meal was a small pot of Khichuri (Hotch Potch) by Kartick at the old age home.
The cause my death was negligence by that home and my own home, everybody finding me redundant.

The late Gobinda Ghosh, a businessman, spoke next: My last address was my only daughter's house at Shyamnagar for six months, since I had to leave my own house at Hindusthan Park.
My last meal was a pot of milk-rice with banana from my daughter.
The cause of my death was that I finished my life by strangulation one day before I had to leave for Hindusthan Park, where I did not want to see my sons and my wife.
All three faces carried explicit disgust for life and for living before God. Then I finally woke up after my period of sustained unconsciousness.

On my way back towards my Salt Lake residence, my car was overtaken at Park Circus silently from behind by a well-decorated Honda Civic carrying a newly-married Christian couple and a large placard at the back, which announced, "JUST MARRIED - LIVING FOREVER."

The roses attached to the glass were all afresh and dancing with alacrity in the air.

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