“Your body is a hostel. The moment you accept, you will start making peace with the world”.
Though Dr. Uncle was my Grandpa’s age, he refused to be called Taata (Grandpa). He insisted that kids call him Dr. Uncle. My Grandpa, Dr. Uncle and Pir Baba (Muslim priest of the village) were close friends. Each of them belonged to different communities, so my Granny wouldn’t allow them inside our house! But they would sit on a wooden foldable cot in our verandah and would talk for hours, from village matters to the planetary motions and everything in between! My Granny would religiously spread cow dung water on the floor after they leave, to purify the place!
As a kid, I was very intrigued with their discussions. I used to pretend as if I am studying and sneak into a place close enough that I could overhear their conversation.
“What do you mean, a “hostel”? Do you mean we host a bunch of strangers within us”, chucked Dr. Uncle. My Grandpa was a very religious and ritualistic person. He didn’t mince words. He looked straight into Dr. Uncle’s eyes, “yes, we host many souls within us, and we need to be at peace with it. As we are in harmony with external things, we need to be in harmony with our internal beings!”.
“Ridiculous! we are in Eighties, not in 1600s. Our science has advanced so much that we can even revive a blocked heart”, shot back Dr. Uncle. “The talks about ghosts, souls and the Banyan Trees is all nonsense”.
Pir Baba and my Grandpa looked each other in the eyes. With a classy smile, Pir Baba nudged. “What do you think will happen to you, when the heart stops?”. Dr. Uncle shot back, “When we die, we die. That’s it. What’s more to it?”.
“Don’t you want to know what happened to that patient whom you treated last week?”, asked Pir Baba. “Or your secret lover whom you are unable to forget even in your sixties”? taunted my Grandpa. “Why would I care once I am dead?” asked Dr. Uncle.
“You would, my friend! You would! No body would want to leave the world half-hearted. Every soul needs a closure. Rebirth is like opening a new account. But it can only happen if your previous account is closed with a zero-balance!”. I never seen my Grandpa so seriously advocating. There was a deep sense of pain in his voice as if he has seen and experienced people hanging in there – wanting “closures”!
Pir Baba put his arm around Dr. Uncle. “You would understand one day. The rituals we do, be it in any religion, is to rest assure them that they can leave in peace and the family will be taken care of”.
“What if, in spite of all the rituals and assurances, they don’t leave and…?”. As Dr. Uncle was finishing his question; my Granny came out angrily nudging my Grandpa to get going to the shed to get the evening milk. It was time to feed the cattle as well.
Later that night, I kept cursing my Granny as I was so desperate to hear the answer – “What if… “!
The days passed by. I was almost about to end my mangoes-filled summer vacation, when one morning, we woke up to the news of Pir Baba getting paralyzed. His right arm was twisted. It was a horrific site to see him that way. He had lost his speech. His eyes, each looking in a different direction. Different stories started floating around in the village. “He shouldn’t have been so adventurous”, said one. “What was the necessity to try and solve the whole world’s problem?” said another.
My grandpa & I had to take a bath after visiting Pir Baba’s house as mandated by my Granny. As he began his morning ritual and broke the coconut, it turned out rotten – a black coloration of a coconut from within was indicative of the events that would unfold.
That day, my Grandpa had to help arrange a few things for Pir Baba, so it was my turn to take the tiffin boxes to the farm helpers that day – all alone.
As I was walking past the dreaded Banyan Tree, I noticed a few people performing some rituals around the Banyan tree. One of them was circling around the Banyan tree, tying a saffron thread around it. The other lady had placed some vermillion laced lemons and Ash Gourds. While I was passing by the tree, I saw a few villagers standing at the corner with a fully decked-up goat. The goat was munching on the fresh green leaves, not knowing its fate for the day!
Fortunately, I stayed back the whole day in the mango farm, so I could get a ride back in the bicycle with my uncle that evening.
As we entered our house, my Granny and Grandpa were in deep conversation. Several incidents following Pir Baba’s paralysis attack had seemingly disturbed them.
The decorated goat meant for sacrifice, had apparently escaped that morning, and had not been found so far! A dead Bat was found inside the temple premises. Apparently, a crow picked up that dead Bat and dropped it inside the temple. A bullock cart carrying a bunch of villagers for a wedding in the neighborhood village broke down as it was crossing the village. The chirping birds, which would otherwise make lots of noise as they settle back in their nests, maintained pin drop silence. That evening was like none in the past.
My uncle was advised to sleep at the shed along with the cattle. After an early dinner, I followed him to the shed. It was a small cot, that was sparingly used, made of jute-rope, with just a bedsheet on top. I had no choice. The pricking of the jute rope (or maybe they were bedbugs), the open star-laden sky, the sounds of the lazy munchings of the cow in the shed and the dogs barking at a distance! It was a night to be remembered.
As I was falling asleep, listening to the songs from the radio that my uncle carried, we all got suddenly jolted by a loud cry of a woman. It was a shriek that probably the whole village heard. The cows stood up and moved closer to their calves. The dogs suddenly fell silent. As my uncle started to inch towards the shed gate, my Grandpa came running and asked us to stay put as he made his way to the house from where the sounds were being heard.
The next couple of hours were intense. The radio songs had stopped as it was past Nine PM in the night. The only sounds we would hear is the intermittent crying of the woman and the sounds of the murmurings of people passing by the shed. I felt that even the bedbugs that were troubling me, silently retired to the grooves inside the cot.
My Grandpa, as he was heading back home, asked me to leave the village at the crack of the dawn. A bullock cart was arranged to the nearest bus stop. A handwritten letter to my parents, a pack of biscuits, a water bottle, lemon rice and curd were packed.
As my uncle and I slowly made our way out of the village, I couldn’t but notice the grimness the village was surrounded by. The last I heard was those sounds were coming from Dr. Uncle’s house.
Several questions still remained unanswered that morning. Why would a lady’s cries be heard from the house that housed Dr Uncle – a lone widower in his sixties?! Why would the bullock cart break down that evening stopping the wedding guests from going out of village! Why would Dr. Uncle’s relatives pray around the Banyan tree that morning?! In all of this, why would Pir Baba get a paralysis attack when all he did was to bless his dear friend on his new life ahead. And finally, why would the decked-up goat be ultimately found strangulated in the branches of the Banyan tree!
As many of these questions remained unanswered, I got the answer to the question that Dr. Uncle was trying to argue with my Grandpa the other day – “What if…”.
*** Thanks for reading. This is a fictional concoction of some childhood incidents. You can read the first part here, and the second part here. Would be eagerly awaiting your comments 🙂 ***
