Cyrus Mistry - Chronicle of a Corpse Bearer

By rights, of course, I do rank higher than a mere corpse bearer. Before joining service at the Towers, I went through five weeks of training at the fire temple built on an eminence in this vast, forested estate, just a stone’s throw from the Towers themselves. After several days in solitary retreat and ritual purification, after committing to memory several runic hymns in a dead language, I was initiated by the high priest of the temple and formally proclaimed a nussesalar.

This strange word from the ancient Avestan means ‘Lord of the Unclean’. Nussesalars are corpse bearers, too, make no mistake about that, but invested with several ritualistic, priest-like duties. In our faith, dead matter is considered unclean. Segregation of the ceremonially purified corpse, to prevent its re-contamination at the hands of overly emotive mourners, is only one of my duties. More important is the responsibility I have of protecting the living from the contamination supposedly spewed by corpses.

All corpses radiate an invisible but harmful effluvium, according to the scriptures. Through prescribed ablutions, prophylactics and prayers, I’m supposed to protect the general populace — and myself — from the noxious effects of the dead; indeed, you could say the nussesalar shields the community from all that evil and putrefaction by absorbing it into his own being. In return for which noble service, the scriptures promise, his soul will not be reborn. The nussesalar who performs his duties scrupulously, forever escapes the cycle of rebirth, decrepitude and death. What the scriptures forget to mention, though, is that in this, his final incarnation, his fellow men will treat him as dirt, the very embodiment of shit: in other words, untouchable to the core.

Ordinary corpse bearers don’t have it any easier, believe me. That’s how our people feel about their dead — and all who come in contact with corpses. You could say, though, that as a nussesalar, I am a glorified untouchable.

Temoo’s sharp. He’d been rambling on about his father’s time, but is aware I haven’t been listening. Now he stops talking, and won’t resume until he’s sure he has my attention.

‘The plague it was, then, like I was telling you,’ he said, finally taking up his story again. ‘I remember Papa telling Mumma, “Zarthostis are dying like flies; never thought I’d live to see this day. . And as for the others on these islands, every day hundreds are picked up in bullock carts from the streets — hundreds! — all castes and creeds cremated in heaps at the municipal commons in Parel, Sewree. .” Come to think of it: that might explain Buchia’s abuses and threats. In times like these, you guys are entitled to an allowance, did you know that? Have any of you seen this special allowance? Now what do they call it?’

My attention had strayed again. Was Farida awake, and crying? No, I had imagined it. .not a sound from my end of the block.

‘I mean, for us. Our forefathers made provisions for this sort of thing. .what do they call it? “Pandemic allowance!”’ bellowed Temoorus triumphantly, pleased that his memory hadn’t let him down. ‘Pandemic allowance. . Trustees have made provisions for this kind of situation — it’s written in the fine print of the Punchayet deed — and Buchia, I daresay, is probably planning to pocket it all himself. Don’t take this lying down, son, I tell you. That warden will eat us alive.’

At the mention of eating, I felt a mild pang of hunger, but noticed there were only two slices left in the rusting bread-box; besides, I had lingered too long over my tea.

‘I must go. Keep an ear open for Baby,’ I said to him. ‘There’s some milk in the vessel on my sideboard. She likes her bread soggy and sweet.’

‘Of course, son, of course, don’t I know that? Saved those two slices just for her. I’ll be listening; don’t worry at all. .’

Inside the stone cottage, in the centre of the floor lay the dead man , stretched out on an iron bier.

Nearby, a small fire crackled in a thurible on a silver tray. The cleansing smell of smoke and incense and sandal was everywhere. Three sides of the room — Buchia was right: the mourners, present and waiting — were crowded with women of various ages draped in freshly laundered white saris: swans, elegant in their grief. They sat shoulder to shoulder in closely arranged wooden chairs, their hair covered by scarves or the bob-pinned trains of saris, contained, like their grief, in an orderly, well-adjusted decorum. Some of them conferred in whispers.

The men wore spotless white as well, but ambled outside or stood around in random clusters on the crowded veranda. Some of them wore tall, brooding headgear. Most knew each other and exchanged pleasantries — or condolences — in muted murmurs. Everyone’s head was covered, and many bent in prayer. Must have been an important bawa, this big man, I thought to myself, to have attracted such a large and well-decked retinue of mourners.

Standing outside the funeral chamber, I hurriedly untied and re-knotted the sacred girdle around my waist. Fardoon was already there, waiting. He’s a nussesalar, too, though at least twenty years my senior. Presently, we entered the stone cottage together.

Gripping a hefty, three-inch-long iron nail I had collected from the storeroom on my way up, I got down on my haunches, and described a circle on the floor at a radius of about three feet around the supine body in an anticlockwise direction. Fardoon tagged behind me at the end of a long white cloth tape, both of us softly reciting, in tandem, thirty-three Yatha Ahu Vairyos — one of the prescribed ancient hymns that keeps the demon of foulness at bay. This magic circle, once drawn, firmly seals in the invisible contamination emanating from the corpse, or so it is believed. This was all pretty much routine. I wasn’t going to be needed again, until it was time to carry the corpse up to the tower. And I was thinking perhaps there might be just enough time to catch a nap. .? One of the khandhias — Bomi or Fali perhaps — would have been assigned the task of bringing up Moti the bitch on a leash, to show her the corpse once the priests were through.

But before we could make our exit through the crowded funeral cottage, two robed priests padded in, not willing to wait anymore. They seemed to be sulking, impatient about the delay I had presumably been responsible for.

Holding a long white handkerchief between them, they swayed from side to side, chanting a prayer of penitence beseeching forgiveness from the Almighty on behalf of the large, dead man whose name was Peshotan Pavri.

Meanwhile, a young girl, possibly a granddaughter of the deceased, began wailing. An older woman sitting beside her put an arm around the young girl and squeezed her comfortingly, while another, in front of them, turned in her chair and began whispering urgently:

‘No, no my dear, mustn’t cry like that. .’

‘Papa’s happy, darling, what’s there to cry about?’ said the other woman.

‘If you shed tears, they’ll only become like heavy boulders pinning his soul down to earth. . Let him go, let him soar up, Ruby. .’

Presently, the young girl’s sobbing softened to a whimper, became more sibilant, elegiac.

People never give a thought to death while there’s still time, I reflected, as the priests droned on. And when it comes upon you unannounced, there’s shock and disbelief, and a great gnashing of teeth.

As Fardoon and I withdrew from the crowded funeral hall, the congregated mourners shrank perceptibly, leaving a clear, if narrow, passage for us to walk through. I was thinking of my own little girl, who must be awake now, perhaps sitting in her grandpa’s lap, munching on those two slices of bread. . Despite my misgivings about the man, I felt grateful for Temoo that he was there to keep her company; that Coyaji had allowed the dotard to stay on in his quarters even though he’s too old for any real work.