Cyrus Mistry - Chronicle of a Corpse Bearer

Lost in thought, I didn’t notice a particularly lean, cadaverous man with a large mole on his forehead seated on the veranda among crowds of family and friends; nor did he see me approach. Perhaps he was merely inattentive or too abstracted from long hours of prayer? One leg hoisted over the other, vigorously wagging his cocked foot at the ankle while silently moving his lips, he was completely engrossed in a thick, but diminutive prayer book.

As I passed him, my leg brushed against this man’s oscillating shoe. Accidentally, of course, but the man who had seemed so lost in prayer, so oblivious of his surroundings, suddenly sprang to life. With the suddenness of a spring-operated toy he leapt to his feet, and began trembling like a leaf. A few other mourners noticed that something out of the ordinary was going on. Now the bony figure started making loud and insistent buzzing noises, like an incensed bee. He was saying something to me, abusing me in all probability, protesting his defilement at my hands— but all of it wordlessly, without parting his lips which remained tightly pressed together.

Having once trained for priesthood myself, I was familiar with this routine practiced by the most devout: the hallowed chain of prayer they have been so diligently weaving must not be interrupted by the profane utterances of everyday speech: hence, the buzzing. In a ferocious dumb charade the man was urging me to keep my distance, to take my unholy self out of his sight, disappear from the very face of the earth (if I read him correctly) — all the while flailing his arms and fists in the air like one possessed. Other mourners stood up too, shocked. The man whom I had thus desecrated by the graze of my shin against his polished leather shoe seemed angry enough to strike me, but fear of further despoilment rendered him impotent, and apoplectic with rage.

I felt an urge to break into guffaws of laughter. I felt like embracing this strangely awkward man so terrified of the ‘demon’ of putrefaction; smothering him in a friendly bear hug, and saying:

Do you seriously believe you won’t need me one day? Astride those emaciated shoulders rides the ghost of a corpse. You don’t see him now, but it’s only a matter of time, believe me, before your blood turns to ice, your limbs harden like wood. Then, ask yourself, will your near and dear ones wash and clothe you for the final goodbye? No, sweet man, you’ll have to depend on one of us. And then, we’ll have to rub you all over. .

Of course, I didn’t dare deliver that tirade; instead, only mumbled contritely:

‘Forgive me, please. My mistake, bawaji, please forgive. .’ and bowing low, quickly took my leave of him, as the rest of the grim congregation on the veranda glared at me.

I had witnessed instances of corpse bearers being fined by Coyaji, or even thrashed by self-important and wrathful members of our tribe for sitting on a bench intended for public use, or merely leaning against a wall in one of the pavilions during large funerals that teemed with mourners. Infringing the strict rules of segregation could be dangerous for us corpse bearers. Greatly relieved to have got away so lightly, I allowed my mind to relax, feel once again the silence and peace of the woods.

I had been feeling rather queasy and unwell all morning; what I wanted to do most of all was get back to my quarters and catch some sleep. But while cutting through the casuarina grove I found myself intercepted by Buchia. How the news of the tiny furore I had caused got to him so swiftly I’ll never know, but he’s not one to overlook such blunders. Without any qualms, spiritual or otherwise, Buchia thought nothing of laying hands on us corpse bearers. By close association, I suspect, he sees himself as completely sullied anyway.

‘Can’t see where you’re going, behnchoad? Bumping into all and sundry, instead of minding your own fuckin’ work?’

Buchia wore long sideburns that flowered into a sort of fleecy half-beard. He had a high dome of a forehead with very little hair on his head. Something about him never failed to evoke a sense of revulsion in me. It wasn’t just his unpleasant foul-mouthedness, or his oddly androgynous voice always startling to hear. Something about the very core of the man was unmistakably malodorous, if not malignant.

Short and stocky, but very strong, all of a sudden he slapped me on the back of my head. There didn’t seem to be much force behind the blow, but for a few seconds I was seeing double.

‘Don’t you dare lift your hand on me!’ I protested, reflexively raising my bunched-up fist.

‘And what will you do, my dear Piloo?’ he laughed. ‘Box my ears?’

His tone was no longer threatening, but teasing rather, almost affectionate in its use of my abbreviated name. No one else ever called me that. He put his arm around me, tickling the nape of my neck with his index finger, as if I were a kitten, but I shook him off fiercely with my elbow.

‘Your dad used his influence to get you this job, you know that,’ he purred. ‘But is he here now to protect you? I let you have a good snooze until so late this morning, kept everyone waiting so you could wake up fresh, didn’t I? Answer me, Piloo, didn’t I? Now cool off, and get some more rest while you can. Only make sure you’re back in forty-five minutes to take the corpse up to the tower. And immediately after that, be ready to start moving again. I’ve already informed the others.’

‘What?!’

Clearly, there was no redress against this unpleasant man’s manipulative authority.

‘What on earth are you staring at me for?’ continued Buchia. ‘The three others on duty will accompany you. They’re washing the bier. And Jungoo as well.’

‘But where to, now?’

‘Colaba. Cusrow Baag.’

‘Colaba! Oh God. .!’

‘Take the address from my office before you leave. Groaning and moaning won’t help when there’s work to be done.’

‘We’ll start straight after lunch, then?’ I asked.

Was there a hint of assertion in my voice? Perhaps, but it was already a quarter to ten, and I was famished.

‘Don’t act cocky with me! Didn’t I just tell you, immediately after this body has been consigned to the tower?’

I saw him raise his hand, as if to smack me on the head again, but I glared at him so fiercely he checked himself.

‘Next funeral has to start at four. If you wait for lunch you’ll never make it back before sunset. It’ll take you two hours just to reach Colaba.’

‘This is too much, saheb. .even we need to eat some time. And rest. It’s heavy work. What’s happened to the hearse?’

‘Never mind the hearse. These are trying times for everyone. Just do as you’re told, Piloo. There will be other times, later, for rest. And recreation, too. Don’t you think I, too, could use some of that once in a while? What do you say. .?’ And he scratched the nape of my neck again.

Sickened, I walked away without saying another word. Buchia had a reputation for liking boys, of bringing young men up to his quarters at night. If he had touched me again, I swear I would have struck him; but the truth is, I was completely off-colour that morning, ruing my previous night’s indulgence. A pint of country would have served us better than the full bottle that we’d glugged down at top speed: truth to tell, a most dreadful exhaustion had made us greedy for self-effacement.

‘Make way! Make way for the corpse. .’

By the time we reached Kalbadevi, Rustom’s resounding bass had lost some of its operatic flair, his cries feebler and less frequent. My own legs felt tentative and wobbly. Nonetheless, people stepped aside respectfully, some even muttering to themselves—‘A Parsi corpse!’—as though impressed that death had actually touched a member of that privileged and idiosyncratic community.