Cyrus Mistry - Chronicle of a Corpse Bearer

Now, of course, the situation was different. Which is why, I felt, it might be safer for us to meet in the grotto. As per the new strictures, none of us could afford to be seen consuming liquor on our verandas or even inside our own homes, for that matter — even while off duty.

Truth to tell, on this particular evening it was I, perhaps more than the others, who felt a great desire to drink and discuss with my colleagues how exactly we should react to the outrageous and insulting conditions imposed on us during that morning’s sham ‘inquiry’; and moreover, how we were going to draw the trustees’ attention to our own vital concerns about working conditions— which had not been addressed at all, or offered even a cursory hearing.

We sat on the rock floor. Fortunately, the effusion of water from the niche among the rocks had stopped. Perhaps it still oozed during the monsoon, but for now the floor was dry. The smell of bats was everywhere, though not as overpowering as I remembered it.

By the time all of us had climbed into the cave and settled down, it was already quite dark inside. I lit both the candles that I had remembered to bring along. Then we passed the bottle around, taking our first draughts of the liquor in almost total silence, in an uneasy, flickering twilight.

I had poorly estimated the capacity of my mates to be cowed by intimidation. There was much resentment about the events of the previous morning. I had frequently to remind them to keep their voices down.

‘I mean this whole business of suspension orders, then trustees’ inquiry, and all,’ growled Fali, ‘it was all calculated to slap this ban on drinking!’

‘Are we children or what,’ huffed Rustom, angrily, ‘that they should tell us how to spend our spare time?’

‘Forget spare time, Rusi,’ said Farokh. ‘Even while on duty— ’pecially during duty — if I feel the need to prime myself with a few pegs before going in to wash a stinking corpse, who the fuck are they to—’

‘Never mind a corpse, a normal corpse — that’s normal,’ interrupted Kobaad in his soft voice; he hadn’t spoken all this while. ‘I’d like to see how many of the trustees can cope with even just the sight of an accident victim, or a burns victim — let alone clean and swaddle them for the banquet of the birds.’

‘All that’s exceptional stuff, Kobaad,’ said Farokh. ‘A whole bottle isn’t enough when we have to find strength to tackle such disasters.’

‘What the hell were they talking about?’ said Rusi. ‘I still can’t believe we actually stood there like buffoons, listening to their sermon on the evils of drinking.’

‘The whole idea of first suspending you guys, then calling you to their regal offices,’ said Kobaad, ‘was to put butterflies in your bellies — so that you’d forget to mention your own complaints.’

‘And this business of renewed probation for Elchi is just not on,’ said Boman. I felt grateful someone else had brought this up. ‘He fainted on the road because he was exhausted, not drunk! It’s just not right!’

His words trailed off, but I was reminded of Seppy, and something she had said to me once during one of our evening rambles.

‘It’s such a bloody joke,’ she said. ‘If you guys are so important to the Zarthostis, why don’t they provide you better working conditions? It’s sheer hypocrisy to say you guys’ll have your reward in the next lifetime; yet treat you like offal in this one. . Why don’t you guys get together, do something about it? Protest. .’

Like her mother before her, Sepideh was a fighter. Things that she had said to me in the past now became an important source of inspiration.

As the bottle’s contents dwindled, rumblings of discontent grew more raucous. Twice I had to shush them, afraid we might be overheard, and our secret conclave detected. Then, unexpectedly, there was a moment of intense, soul-searching silence: for someone posed the question: what’re we going to do about this state of affairs? I confess I was the one who first mooted the possibility of protest. A phrase we had all heard on Temoo’s radio in the context of Gandhiji’s exertions for home rule had been running in my head. And so it was that the idea of some sort of ‘peaceful non-cooperation’ took root among the corpse bearers, though none of us had any clue what form it should take.

Over the next three days, Rustom and I drew up a charter of demands; very modest and reasonable ones. Not for better wages, but simply an eight-hour working day, overtime compensation and a fixed entitlement of ten days’ casual leave in a year.

When we went across to Buchia’s office late one afternoon, and gave him the petition listing our grievances and expectations, he was careful not to show any reaction.

‘As you know, boys, I am not authorized to take any decision on such matters. I am just a functionary, like yourselves. .’ he said. ‘But I’ll take this petition myself to Coyaji later this evening, so he can circulate it amongst the trustees.’

Though we had been careful not to make our petition sound like an ultimatum — and nowhere had we referred to the possibility of rebellious action — they must have sensed trouble was brewing.

This time, they did not summon us to their office. Instead, the very next afternoon, podgy Coyaji himself came by to meet us, neatly trussed up in a white dugli. We were asked to congregate in the large hall of the Behramji Petit Pavilion. We took some time getting there, but found him waiting patiently until the whole lot of us had arrived. He was accompanied by Buchia, of course, his yes-man, who remained completely silent all through Coyaji’s speech, although he nodded his head in vigorous affirmation at certain emotional moments of the address.

Unfortunately, it was impossible to take Coyaji seriously, especially when he tried to sound effusive and impassioned. Owing not so much to his impressive girth or the tiny scarlet skullcap perched tentatively on the dome of his head but rather an involuntary dribble of saliva that escaped his mouth after every few sentences he spoke, and often hung there tantalizingly for a few seconds before he became aware of it and mopped it up with the same checked bandana he used to wipe beads of sweat that appeared on his forehead from time to time. That dribble of saliva engaged his audience’s attention more completely, I suspect, than what he was saying, keeping us on the edge of our seats as we tried to guess whether it would be staunched in time, or drip to the floor.

We corpse bearers, Coyaji said to us, should never behave like ordinary factory workers. Never, he repeated for added emphasis, and paused. For the work we did had tremendous religious and social significance for the entire community, and the Punchayet was like our foster father and mother, who looked after us through bad times and good. That such demands as we had presented had been made for the first time in the entire history of the community itself showed they were uncalled for! And that he, personally, was very hurt that we should have felt the need to spell out our demands in a formal petition, as though we were members of a trade union. Instead, if we had only come to him, in the same spirit as a child approaches its father for extra pocket money, he wouldn’t have felt such a sense of betrayal. Over a cup of tea, he said, we could have discussed and sorted out our differences.

Because, you must always remember, he emphasized, that like every father or mother in this world the trustees are basically good and generous people (in fact, surprise of surprises, after Coyaji’s address, tea and sandwiches were brought into the concourse and served to us. Buchia thought of everything! I wonder if they smashed the cups and saucers after we had drunk from them.) who would never do anything to harm their own children and, keep this in mind always, certainly nothing unfair or exploitative.