The Mourner-Story-5

The Mourner

Although my friend Kamala’s father died, she was not participating in the ritual mourning— called ‘Kriya’ and which lasts for eleven days. The reason Kamala was not in ritual mourning was simple: she was a woman. According to religious belief, females cannot perform the Kriya rites for either their late mother or father.  Only sons or males are allowed to perform mourning and my friend didn’t have any brothers. 

Kamala’s father did have a ritual mourner, however; his name was Ramnath. He sat next to Kamala where primary functions of the rituals were to be performed. Ramnath looked emotionless. It was quite difficult to read the expression on his face.

Kamala was allowed only to assist Ramnath. When I arrived to pay homage, the two of them were surrounded by relatives, friends, and well-wishers.

Although mourners were whispering quietly, I remained silent. I watched and tried to read my friend’s face--which showed clearly she was in deep sorrow. The untimely demise of her father had put her in a bay of grief—the depths of which I could only imagine.

I couldn’t keep silent for a long. I approached Kamala and after offering my condolences, asked, “What was the cause of death of your father?”

 “It was RTA.”

My face was a blank. I asked, “What do you mean by RTA?”

Kamala clarified, “Road Traffic Accident. My father was driving a motor bike and a local bus hit him from behind.”

I asked Kamala if she had been able to take him to the hospital immediately, and she replied, “Initially, my father was in no position to be taken anywhere! I could not tell you in what condition his body was under the bus’s wheels. It was terrible!”

I was trying to keep our conversation short, but I couldn’t keep myself from asking so many questions. I was about to cry and so was Kamala. But I plowed on, “Did you catch the bus driver?”

Kamala almost sobbed, “At that time my priority was to save my father’s life, so we concentrated on the accident only. The driver took advantage of the situation and ran off.”

After listening to Kamala’s story, tears filled my eyes. I saw Kamala’s own cheeks were flooded with tears. She said, “My mom is still in shock. She doesn’t speak with anyone. She only sits and stares at visitors. My father was only in his late 40s. He had so many dreams. We are now not only missing a good father, but also a gentle person who cared for the entire community.”

One thing interested me while I was speaking with Kamala. I noticed that Ramnath wasn’t showing any interest in our discussion; rather, he looked very busy performing the required rituals. However, his performance was mechanical. The level of his emotion was constant throughout all the time we were talking about Kamala’s father’s untimely demise. It seemed strange. His behavior made me curious to know more about him. I moved closer to Kamala and whispered, “Kamala, the person who is performing the ritual mourning, the Kriya…is he your brother?  I thought you told me you have no brothers.”

Kamala replied, “You are correct. I have no siblings.”

‘Then, who is he?”

Kamala paused. First, she hesitated to say anything about Ramnath. After a moment, she replied, “He is a professional mourner. I had to pay him.”

I was in shock. I felt pity for Ramnath now, as well as for Kamala. I wanted to cry for him, but I managed to keep the tears at bay.

***

When I returned home, it was evening. But I couldn’t sleep. All night I thought about Ramnath. I thought about his job as a ritual mourner, his profession, and his patience while doing that job. Everything amazed me. Ramnath seemed to me an emotionless coin-operated machine which starts only once money has been put in.

The next evening my curiosity dragged me to the temple where the mourning was taking place. This time, with his permission, I sat next to Ramnath. I whispered, “Sir, the job you are doing seems boring? It must be very difficult--physically and emotionally--isn’t it?”

The professional mourner looked at me curiously. His face reflected both shame and regret. He replied, “Most certainly. To perform the proper rituals I need to be in fasting for a longer period daily. That makes me weak.” He paused, as if debating how much to share with me.

“The fasting has brought some diseases, too.”

I nodded sympathetically. Making my voice even lower I asked, “Sir, what made you choose such a horrible profession?”

He replied flatly, “My ruthless poverty.” 

We sat in silence for a time before he continued.

 “My poverty makes me feel that someone from my own family has died and I have to mourn every day.”

I could think of nothing else to say.

Bishwa Raj Adhikari