By: Hiro Shewkani
Translated By: Param Abichandani

THE grandfather of my friend, Romesh Chhugani had died, and I decided to attend the pagriyun* ceremony fixed for the third day. Before reaching there, a ray of hope shimmered in my mind, or, perhaps I felt sure of getting a moral support there which would give me solace, for my friend Romesh is not only an educated young man, but, in my opinion based on my dealings with him over the years, he is also a free thinker and a man of modern veiws. In fact, I wanted to see how Romesh behaved in similar circumstances. I don't know why I felt at that time that he would do what I had done and his attitude would be the same as mine had been. I was happy, indeed, at the chance that had come my way within such a short period of five or six months to put my attitude to test. The news of his grandfather's demise was conveyed to me on the telephone two days ago by one of my well-wishers. I had at once decided to attend the pagriyun ceremony. I had wished to join the funeral, too. This was not because of any social obligation. No, it wasn't so. My only interest was to watch Romesh's reaction to the tragedy. With this in mind, I decided to attend the third day ceremony after his grandfather's death. Normally, I don't attend such functions.

I had gone to Romesh's house straight from my office. The visitors had assembled outside the house in the alley. They were, however, not many. The assemblage at my house at the time of my father's death was much bigger. I felt this difference and liked it. But, when I saw Romesh, I was shocked to the very marrow. For a moment I couldn't believe he could do that. He had also given hair** to the deceased. He showed up with a shaved head. Without the growth of hair on his head he looked like an uncouth fool. The original shape of his head which normally remained concealed under his beautifully groomed thick growth of hair, looked lopsided. I felt like laughing but the truth is that in spite of my spontaneous desire I could not laugh. 'So Romesh has also given hair,' I kept repeating to myself, and, as a result of its reaction, I felt abashed, or maybe a little uneasy and confused. I had a feeling that some people sitting there were casting meaningful glances on me, or maybe it was my morbid imagination. But, no, perhaps it wasn't. These people had also been present at my father's funeral. I shook off the feeling and tried to look normal. In fact,there was no obvious reason to prolong my stay here. In order to spare myself from facing Romesh at least at that moment and at the same time to subdue the agitation raging within me and the feeling of guilt forced on me, I engaged myself in a discussion with an interesting person sitting beside me.

My father had expired five months ago. For me his death was sudden and untimely. Perhaps every death is sudden and untimely. It is either premature or post-mature. Rarely is any death on time. I wasn't prepared to bear the shock at that juncture. I knew that death would come anytime, anyday, but I needed time to prove myself a worthy son and my father's sudden death deprived me of that. This will, of course, always torment me. It is perhaps not necessary to say that I respected my father since the day I came of age; and for this I have reasons, too. I distinctly remember what my father did for me. I doubt if all fathers do that much for their children. My mother tells me that whenever I insisted upon having something, my father fulfilled my wishes. Especially during my illness he would place heaps of rupee-coins on my bed. Perhaps for this reason I fell ill very often in my childhood. My mother had related these stories together with so many other stories before the death of my father. But now, the tone in which she relates these stories sounds tragic. The day I became obstinate in a real sense, the reality of my father's shrunk economic condition looked straight in my face. Still, all said and done, I respect my father even today. I had wished, as every decent and righteous son wishes, that after completing my education, I would find a good job and keep my parents happy and comfortable in their old age. That's why I am sorry I couldn't get the required time. At the same time I wouldn't deny having a feeling that even if my father had lived longer, I wouldn't have made him comfortable. I don't believe that one can make anyone else happy and comfortable.

I had been in service hardly for two years when my father died unexpectedly. The end came with an ordinary fever for one and a half weeks. He never recovered from it. The special reason why I didn't want my father to die was that, as a custom, I would have been forced to give my hair to the deceased. This was something I considered absurd. How will one look without hair! What madness is it that on the one hand you lose your father and on the other you lose the hair on the your head! And then, one has to be in hiding for quite some time because of the shaved head. What a pitiable plight! I had, therefore, decided much earlier that I would not give my hair. I have not so far understood the idea behind this custom. During college days, once a few of my friends had fiercely debated on this custom. But, a very interesting reason behind this custom was revealed to me three years ago when my maternal uncle's maternal uncle died. In spite of the insistence of my parents, I had refused point-blank to tonsure my head. I had asked my uncle, "Alright Uncle, tell me why do we go through this tonsuring business?" He had answered, "My dear, it's the old custom of Hindus. People come to know that one of your relations has died." How ludicrous! I laughed. What a method to convey the bad news! If the idea is to convey the bad news, can't any other medium of communication be found? And I had not given my hair. Taking my cue, one of my school- going cousins had also refused to have his head tonsured. In fact, at that time, keeping in view that such an eventuality may rise in future, I had intended to apprise the relatives, of my firm view in the matter. I had also observed that my mother hadn't shown any significant resenment.

She had, however, resented my attitude at the time of my father's death. The death occured at nine at night. The entire funeral drill was to be gone through the next day. I don't know why my mother was confident that I would have my head tonsured. Maybe, her confidence had some basis and I had done enough things for her to form this basis. For example, during the six or seven days of my father's illness before he breathed his last, I had done a lot of running about, especially after the doctors. This was enough proof of my devotion, attendence and sincerity towards my father; and when he closed his eyes for ever in the stillness of the night, I had cried bitterly for a long time. Mother derived her confidence from my actions such as these. However, soon after the event, I was appalled the moment I remembered the way I had wept. I couldn't believe it, for I didn't remember ever having cried so bitterly on any occasion in the past. I also wrestled with my memory to bring back the past and tried to visualise my weeping face. In fact, for a long time I had nursed a desire to weep to my heart's content; or it would be correct to say that I had desired to see myself weeping, but no opportunity came by to raise me to that kind of emotional level. That night, while giving me other instructions with regard to the next day's funeral arrangements, my mother had also desired that I should send for the barber early next morning to shave my head. 'My only son must give his hair.' Besides, I would also perform obsequies for the next ten days. Later, my elder sister reminded me of all these instructions. She also took off three gold bangles without a word and handed them to me for expenses.

I changed my mind in the morning. That morning was clear and bright, and so, I decided not to indulge in that kind of madness. The women from the neighbourhood had already started streaming into our house to condole my mother and sister. Until my relatives and other well-wishers arrived from the city, I attended to many other chores. A few relatives had already arrived by whatever conveyance they could get. With the help of my neighbours I sent Babu to the barber to have his hair shaved off. I saw my relatives already busy attending to the remaining odd jobs. The required materials for the bier were brought, the town-crier was sent around to inform the people of the funeral, the carpets were spread in the alley in no time. Every one was anxious to complete the job and be free to reach his place of work as early as possible. Meanwhile, my mother came to know that I had refused to give hair. She raised her voice and shrieked as if challenging the panchas assembled outside the house, "Brothers, come and take me and have my head shaved. This unworthy son is not at all ashamed of his rude behaviour."

I felt my inner being was being cut into pieces. For the first time in my life I felt like running away to hide my face somewhere. In spite of all this, I can't say for sure how shamelessly, in the midst of so many persons, I was spared of giving hair. But then, I had been vituperated amongst my well-wishers, sympathisers and relatives, and the impact of 'sin' had continued to have me in its grip for quite sometime.

Especially on the third day, the day of pagriyun, that nauseous feeling had tormented me, although the very feeling had been imposed on me and it was foolish to carry the burden any further. That day the assemblage at pagriyun was huge and beyond my expectation. At that moment I had been very happy and felt proud of being a popular and venerated person. But then again, I felt sorry. I thought, had my father been alive, he would have seen for himself how popular his son was. Why I failed to create in him this kind of confidence all his life is a question that passes my comprehension. This will always torment me. Most of the visitors had already left. Being influenced by that elusive fame, I had respectfully told my friends who hadn't yet left, "Whatever I am today, it is entirely due to my deceased father's noble virtues which I have inherited." But my refusal to giving hair was reflected in the repugnance on their faces and it kept disturbing me.

After about a week, I got the news through a reliable source that the persons who had assembled at the pagriyun ceremony of Thaku's father, had vilified me. They had praised Thaku and contrasted my shamelessness with his dutifulness and obediance. Thaku had not only given hair, but, in order to cash in on the death of his father for deriving full social advantage, he had announced the Akhand Path and dinner to the relatives and friends on the twelfth day. I had felt sorry for those people who tried to censure me. I couldn't understand why their memory was so short. Had they forgotten that Thaku had turned his father out of his house? Poor man! Till only a month before his death, he had been begging continuously for two years before his relatives for shelter, or was staying in the poor-house. I had erred only to the extent that I had not taken any martyr-like social advantage of my father's death; or, maybe I was unable to take such an advantage. But I felt more sorry when I went to my friend's house, who by chance was a rich man. My friend and his three brothers lived separately, but in the same bunglow. I saw in their separate bedrooms their father's decorated oil portrait. At that time a sharp feeling of my uselessness had disturbed me. My friend was perhaps in a fine mood that day. He gave me all the details of expenditure incurred on those oil paintings, the coloured lamps hanging around them and the silk garlands. At the same time he related his father's memorable actions and bored me stiff. He seemed to be greatly inspired and related all this in a manner as if he was describing the marriage of his father. I don't understand: With what heart people transform such sacred and sad experience into acts for self-praise and happiness!

I had prepared myself emotionally for three or four months to go in for a portrait my father. But then! Forget about the prtrait in oil. I hadn't even been able to bring home an enlarged photograph of my father. And one day, because of this unworthiness, my mother cursed me. As far as I can remember, she had never been in such a frenzy before. I was her only son. But now, I was sure that she was completely disappointed with me. I know, she also felt that in this big, ruthless world, I wouldn't be able to do anything else except to feed and clothe the family; that too with difficulty; my this belief is supported by the fact that whenever she frees herself of the sentiment that involves her in social responsibility, she says that I was brought up by my father with tender affection, but I had to shoulder the entire burden of the household at a young age and thus it isn't my fault if I am not able to do many things. However, I hadn't been able to rid myself of the melancholic idea that I should have a beautiful portrait of my father, and that too in oil, if possible. Although I knew that it was an absurd weakness of my mind, I couldn't help it. Once I thought of asking a friend, who was an artist, to paint a portrait of my father from his old passport-size photograph pasted on the paper relating to the claim of the property left behind by him in Pakistan. My father had spent the entire amount of his claim and fulfilled his ardent desire of celebrating my marriage with pomp and dignity. But then, upon hearing the estimated cost, I was mortified. There was yet another reason for my desire of commissioning an artist to paint my father's portrait; the reason was digraceful.

It was like this: A big portrait of my wife's grandfather, done in oil, hung on our bedroom wall since quite sometime.How it came to be there and where it came from is quite a story, and even today when I remember the madness behind it, I can't but laugh, and at the same time an anger envelopes me. If it isn't madness to hang a portrait of your wife's grandfather in the bedroom, what else is it? How am I concerned with my wife's grandfather? However, it happened like this: My in-laws lived in this town for sometime in a rented house. But then they migrated to another town. They left some of their things in the house and asked us, me and my wife, to protect the things left behind by any means. They didn't place this responsibility entirely on me, because they knew my nature. On a day when I was free, we both went there and brought back the articles. Later, we dispatched the bulky things by rail to my in-laws, but somehow this painting was left behind, which my wife, being a little sentimental, hung up in the room sometime later.

And I had to suffer for that madness. After the death of my father, when any friend or acquaintance happened to visit us, he would look at the picture quizzically, as if he wanted to ask if it was my father's portrait. Someone expressed satisfaction that I had got a beautiful portrait of my father painted and hung it at a proper place. Another asked a straight question whether it was my father's portrait. It was then that I got wild at my own lassitude. I felt insulted on all such occasions because of my wife's improper devotion. How absurd it was that a portrait of a person whom I had never seen, was hanging at a place where my father's portrait should have been decorated with flowers!

I brought down that portrait and placed it on the shelf and decided to hang in its place my deceased father's portrait done in oil. I was also prepared to take out loans for the purpose. I thought I should at least do that much. If my father could spend all the money he got against his claims for fulfilling his ardent desire of making my life comfortable and I couldn't take out a loan of fifty or sixty rupees to extricate myself from this disgraceful situation, it would seem like a betrayal.

And on the day when I brought home the portrait done in oil and hung it at that place and decorated it with silk garland worth two rupees, I saw my mother's eyes gleaming with the pain of joy. And then, once again, a thought flitted across my mind: I wish my father were alive!
 

* The turban-tying ceremony as a mark of respect to the deceased.
**On the death of an elder in a Hindu family the young males shave their heads and beards as a sign of mourning and thus 'give hair' -- a Sindhi term for the ceremony.

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Published in the 'Indian Literature' Vol 187 by Sahitya Akademi