Babaji's funeral was a big event in our lives and the lives of the villagers. He was the surpunch (elected leader) of our village and well revered elder. People came from far and near to pay homage to him. All the families were still reeling from having been uprooted and scattered at the time of the partition. Weddings and funerals were important times for everyone to come together and re-connect. Our whole family was home except for Chaman chachaji, papaji's immediate younger brother, who was posted in New Delhi. He was married and had a four months old son. He lived with his wife, Gulshan chachiji, and father-in-law in the in-law's home. Gulshan chachiji was the youngest of four sisters; no brother. Chachaji was their ghar-jawai, literally resident son-in-law (sometimes used derogatorily). They came a day later.
For the funeral our main room had been emptied of cots and trunks and some durries had been spread on the floor. Women came and sat in a group in the middle of the room. There were cots with durries in the verha for men to sit on. This was however a loose arrangement and the two groups mingled easily. The women sat in a tight circle, wearing white clothes of mourning, heads covered, crying audibly inside their chunnis. Men were dressed in white turbans, dhotis and shirts. They sat or stood outside in smaller groups, heads close together, talking softly. Bhabiji was quietly supervising tea and lassi being served to all. She did not make a big production of crying and wailing and earned biji's respect. The other family members were also not the chest beating, hair pulling and wailing loudly type. Our family (according to the villagers) had been unduly influenced by the city culture. On top of that many members were educated and had lost the aplomb needed to mourn the proper way by wailing loudly while raising arms in supplication, rhythmically thumping chest in grief, pulling hair in self immolation and rocking body back and forth. Our family was generally sobbing quietly. The villagers were greatly offended on babaji's behalf. He deserved better.
The village syapawallis (professional criers) were alerted. These women are usually invited by the families to keep the exhausting tempo of vigorous grieving going on. Papaji and his brothers with their modern ways viewed these types of customs as barbaric and did not arrange for them. "And the wives are city bred who know not any better" was whispered a few times in the crowd. The village women on arrival gathered outside our verha gate, regrouped their energies and walked in en masse, heads covered, arms raised in entreaty to the Mover and Shaker of the universe, wailing and moaning loudly. All of us cousins would run out to watch them in awe. The women that were already in the house would meet the newcomers halfway in wailing and for a while the room would resound with animated grief before slowly petering out with fatigue. The village women then would look sheepish and offended. The syapawallis were badly needed to fill this gap. Biji was sitting on the floor with the women but was quiet. Having raised the whole subdivision with her crying in Nagpur, now when her robust wailing could have saved family pride she sat there uncharacteristically subdued. "City women are no good" was whispered again.
Chaman chachaji had just arrived that morning with his family. His wife, Gulshan chachiji, was in the main room with the women sitting up on the lone chair that had been mistakenly left in the room. She was very fair and dressed too stylishly for the village, leave alone a funeral. For the funeral you not only wear white clothes but torn white clothes. Here was chachiji sitting on the chair wearing pretty looking pastels. She was newly married and had no white clothes and definitely no torn clothes. She came from a well to do home and they did not save old clothes. Chotte bhabiji had quicly given her a white chunni as soon as they arrived in the morning. Now chachiji sat above all the women, on a chair, looking like a vision from another world. She was wearing her city make-up. This was so out of the ordinary that the refrain "city women know nothing" was rendered impotent and a new one was born, "Hai oh merea rubba! Just look at her!!
For a while Chaman chachaji enjoyed the villager's dumbfounded response. Then he decided to play some mischief. His physique was still quite slim and boyish. He borrowed some clothes from biji, against her better judgement, and dressed up as a woman. He tied his long hair in a bun and hid his beard inside a thick chunni, showing only the eyes and nose, just like the other women. Then he made a dramatic entrance, crying and wailing with a gusto. There was a predictable rise in the crescendo of grief from the women in the room. Chachaji plopped in their midst and they all wailed in chorus. When they took a breather all started wondering about the identity of the new, God bless her! very proper relative. Gulshan chachiji, who had instantly recognised Chaman chachaji, sat stone faced on her throne. Biji and Shanti chachiji were prostate on the floor with what appeared to be fitting bereavement. Vadhe bhuaji muttered 'satnam' under her breath. They were all too overcome to answer anything. Chotte bhabiji came over and hugged the newcomer investigatively and then hurriedly ran out coughing and choking with shrieks, invoking another fit of wailing from biji and Shanti chachiji.
Bhabiji was quietly angry at Gulshan chachiji for never having visited the village after the marriage, as should have been done. Babaji died without having seen his new grandson. Now Gulshan chachiji sat on the chair, decoratively unrepentant, and Chaman chachaji was having fun in women's clothes. When the women enquired about the new comer bhabiji came back with a fast one. She told them it was Gulshan chachiji's sister. Gulshan chachiji was so stunned she did not move a muscle. All the women rallied around the new woman and the room reverberated with their wailing. Villagers were finally satisfied with the syapa ritual. They did wonder though if chachaji had married the wrong sister.
On the fourteenth day the Akhand Path (uninterrupted reading of the holy book) started. This continued for ----hrs. On the sixteenth day the reading was concluded with singing of hymns and the service was ended with Aarti. Our whole house and the space around it was filled with relatives and acquaintances. Everyone was served langar (eating of food as a community). It looked quite festive to me. I asked chotte babaji what was going on. He picked me up and told me that everyone was celebrating my special day. It was May 31st. My seventh birthday. I was pleased that he had remembered.
For one year we mourned babaji by abstaining from celebrating any festival. Then new year started and life resumed as before. Every year we observe shradha (day dedicated to honor the departed) and remember him. Biji always makes prasad on his anniversary and says a prayer. Papaji reminicses his younger days spent with babaji. In my home I too make prasad and light a candle in front of babaji's picture. My kids have never met babaji but they know him. He is still with us in our hearts. He has lived a long life.
