Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

‘What can we do when Dada Ormuzd makes His Almighty Plans for us?’

‘Stay calm, Alamai, stay calm, please, for Dinshawji’s sake. Or he will have trouble getting to the Other Side.’

‘God’s will! God’s will!’

‘Peace, peace, Alamai! Too much crying makes the body very heavy. How will they carry him then?’

‘God’s will, Alamai, God’s will!’

The dustoorjis waited patiently until silence was restored, then continued with the Ahunavad Gatha. The rest of the prayers proceeded without interruption. At the conclusion, they invited Alamai to place loban and sandalwood on the afargan fire. All eyes were on her, the women alert lest she needed restraining again. But she seemed quite calm now.

After family members and relatives finished their obeisances, the other mourners filed past for the sezdoe. While they bowed and touched the ground three times, the room suddenly grew dark. The sunlight streaming into the prayer hall was blocked by four shadows. The nassasalers had arrived. They stood in the doorway, waiting to carry the bier to the Tower, to the well of vultures.

It was Gustad’s turn. He observed Dinshawji’s face carefully and bowed three times. Wish I could be one of the four. Surely Dinshu would prefer his friends. Silly custom, to have professional pallbearers. And on top of that, poor fellows treated like outcasts and untouchables.

The sezdoe ended. The nassasalers entered, clad in white from head to toe. They wore white gloves and white canvas shoes. People moved aside to give them a wide berth, fearful of contact. Dinshawji’s face was covered and the bier of iron carried from the prayer bungalee.

Once outside, the nassasalers took a few steps and stopped. They waited for the men who would follow in procession to fall in behind them. The approach to the well of vultures was for men only. The women lined up on the bungalee’s verandah.

‘Please Gustadji,’ said Alamai, ‘do one thing for my Dinshaw’s sake. Take Nusli up the hill. He is afraid to go without me, but says if he can walk with you then it is all right.’

‘Of course,’ said Gustad. He took out his handkerchief and called Nusli. They joined the procession, holding the white kerchief between them. Every man from the bank had decided to take the last walk with Dinshawji. Many of them were weeping openly now. They stepped up in twos or threes, linked by white handkerchiefs, in keeping with the wisdom of the ancients — that there was strength in numbers, strength to repel the nassoo, the evil which hovered around death.

Mr. Madon had a white silk kerchief. He approached Gustad. ‘May I?’ Gustad nodded, and grasped Mr. Madon’s hanky in his other hand. The subtle fragrance of expensive perfume rose from it. The four nassasalers shuffled their feet and shifted the bier-handles cutting into their shoulders. They looked around to see if the procession was ready. The char-chassam dog and dustoorjis took their place. The nassasalers started forward.

The long column of handkerchief-linked men followed. Gustad gave Nusli an encouraging smile, then glanced towards the bungalee. The women were gathered to watch the men accompany their friend on his final journey. He looked for Alamai, curious to see how she was taking it. He expected to see one last bravura performance, some wailing, beating of the chest, perhaps even a little tearing of the hair.

But he was surprised (and ashamed of his uncharitable thoughts) to see her standing with dignity, her hands clasped tightly together. She was gazing quietly after Dinshawji, and when Gustad looked again he realized that she was indeed weeping. At last, she was weeping silent tears. Rising, perhaps, from a deep well of memories. Memories of? Joys, sorrows, pleasures, regrets? Yes, all these must have filled Dinshawji’s and Alamai’s private lives. And never a clue, never a word except that line about his dear domestic vulture. But hidden behind it, who knew what love, what life?

The procession wended its way towards the Tower. On both sides of the path, from dense foliage and undergrowth came the rustle of scurrying creatures. Once, a squirrel ran in front of the nassasalers, froze, then scampered on. Carrion crows, large and glistening, watched the column curiously from tree-tops. Ahead, a muster of peacocks shuffled to the edge of the path, craning inquisitively before scrambling to safety in the bushes. Their necks flashed blue amidst the green of the shrubbery.

The paved road ended and the gravel path began. The crunch of footsteps got louder as the feet moved from asphalt to gravel, reaching a crescendo when the entire procession was marching on it. Now the sound was magnificent, awe-inspiring. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Grinding, grating, rasping. The millwheel of death. Grinding down the pieces of a life, to fit death’s specifications.

Up the hill went the column, the nassasalers setting the pace. Crunch, crunch, crunch. A fitting sound, thought Gustad, to surround death. Awesome and magnificent as death itself. And as painful and incomprehensible, no matter how many times I hear it repeated. Crunch, crunch, crunch. A sound to stir the past, to stir up sleeping memories, to whisk them all into the flux of the present, all the occasions when I marched thus, up the hill, upon the gravel walk, as though to crunch, to grind, to crush all loss, all sorrow, into dry flakes, pulverize it into nothingness, be rid of it for ever.

But it always comes back. So much gravel to tread, so many walks to take. For Grandma: who insisted on live chickens, knew spices and half-nelsons, and the secret but universal connections between matchmaking and wrestling. For Grandpa: who made furniture as stout-hearted as his own being, who knew that when a piece of furniture was handed down, the family was enriched by much more than just wood and dowels. For Mamma: fair as morning, sweet as the music of her mandolin, who went gently through life, offending no one, whispered goodnight-Godblessyou through the gauze-like net, and departed much too early. For Pappa: lover of books, who tried to read life like a book and was therefore lost, utterly lost, when the final volume was found missing its most crucial pages…

The incline of the hill levelled off. The procession had arrived at the Tower. The nassasalers halted and placed the bier on the stone platform outside. They uncovered the face one last time and stood aside. It was time for the last farewell to Dinshawji.

The men approached the stone platform, still linked in twos and threes, the way they had walked up the hill, and bowed three times in unison without letting go of the white kerchiefs. Then the four shouldered the bier again and climbed the stone steps to the door leading inside the Tower. They entered and pulled it shut behind them. The mourners could see no more. But they knew what would happen inside: the nassasalers would place the body on a pavi, on the outermost of three concentric stone circles. Then, without touching Dinshawji’s flesh, using their special hooked rods they would tear off the white cloth. Every stitch, till he was exposed to the creatures of the air, naked as the day he had entered the world.

Overhead, the vultures were circling, flying lower and lower with each perfect circle they casually described. Now they started to alight on the high stone wall of the Tower, and in the tall trees around it.

Nusli edged closer to Gustad. He whispered nervously, ‘Gustad Uncle. Vultures are coming, the vultures are coming!’

‘Yes, Nusli,’ he said comfortingly. ‘Don’t worry, everything is all right.’ Nusli nodded gratefully.

The mourners walked to the terrace of the nearby atash-dadgah where the attendant handed out prayer books. There were not enough to go around; the attendant muttered to himself, ‘How many copies am I supposed to keep?’