My Condolence Meeting - Allegory of my life - Part I

12 hours ago i was dead, 4 hours ago i was creamted, few seconds ago my condolence meeting just started. The only problem was that it was a summer evening in Goa and profusely sweating people were discussing the frequent power cuts and the inefficiancy of the state minister for power. My ashes were still wrapped tightly in the metallic urn and my fate undecided as at the end of the meet it would be decided as to in which sacred river i would be flown. The first speaker was my close friend Mr.AD. Teary eyed already, going through his ritual practice of eating his nails from his thumb, looking at his thumb inorder to appreciate his own art of manicure and resuming his nail biting once again. While not speaking about me he spoke at lengths about the merits of going abroad and how the life was much more beautiful there, how much more you can earn and how nescessary it is to go abroad on a company sponsoredtrip to prove yourself a worthy person.



He stood on the dias and gave all the spectators a truly remarkable performance by speaking about how we both met at the notice boards of the academic sections of our engineering college. How our grades were miserable and how bad it was that our professors could not discover true academic talent. As according to him our biggest enemy was Prof B. a dark stocky professor who was simply was recruited by the college to harass us. Finally allowing the spectators with the wisdom that i wished desperately to go abroad which is not true in its entirity, and probably i took it so much to my heart and probably again that was the cause of my death. Finally ending the well crafted speech with the merits of being abroad and how much a common man should make one's duty to go abroad on a company trip atleast once in one's lifetime.



So true was the spectacle that everyone in the meet nodded in agreement. Looking through the metallic urn i could not really figure what the people were nodding at, was it my inept failure to go abroad or their own inept failures to go abroad





Hello?

Is there anybody in there?

Just nod if you can hear me.

Is there anyone at home?

Come on, now,

I hear you're feeling down.

Well I can ease your pain

And get you on your feet again.

Relax.

I need some information first.

Just the basic facts

Can you show me where it hurts?

The Guffawing Matchmaker- A Short Story

I was unmarried then and the apple of the eyes of every; not would be brides, ofcourse not, but the flock of old, wizened with age matchmakers, who always look at you with a crooked expression, bifocals on their noses, just like a hawk who has spotted its pray. One such hawk was Mrs. M, the widow of Mr. M, who died a few years ago from a not so dreadful disease, influenza. Well, coming back to Mrs. M, unfortunately i was in her good books. She admired my family, and considered me a prized catch for some of the fair girls, the would be brides. She knew that i had a job in one of the big cities, but really did not know what job, our family had few tracts of land in the countryside and most importantly a status which was not marred by unpleasant things like married women eloping with stranger lovers or men losing their fortunes on vices.

She met me at almost all weddings none of which i was keen to attend. Being born a Goan, i would wish to say the weddings are more numerous and you have the phobia of being ostracised from the entire clan if you excuse yourself from attending one. She had a silly habit; at my sight she would abruptly stop all her witty gossip, with the members of her flock, rush towards me, dodging a few stray chairs meant for the guests, make a glance at me always starting from my face unto my feet and from my feet back to my face, extend her arm pointing towards the dias, on which the happy bride and not so happy bridegroom sat side by side chatting away non significant things in each others ears, smiling; guffawing at times. And triumphantly say " I would like to see you there next", and this time she guffawing in a pitch her failing lungs could afford.

So she met me once at funeral of Mr P. the grand patriarch of family P. which was into the business of studio photography. While Mr P. was resting on the floor amidst the smoke and the acrid smell of incense and and the oil lamp, i strided along to corner of the great living room, across to where Mrs. M was standing with her flock, with downcast eyes, sharing her knowledge about what happens to the soul in case it is not cremated by the customary feet facing south. "Hello Mrs. M" i said, disturbing her. After her top-down, down-top glance she offered me, i just extended my arms, pointed towards the dead body of Mr. P and triumphantly said

"I would like to see you there next" and this time i guffawed in a pitch my youthful lungs could afford thereby incurring the wrath of all mourners and espescially Mrs. M who never bothered me again.