“That’s not surprising. Pity can only be shown in small doses. When so many beggars are in one place, the public goes like this” — he put his fists to his eyes, like binoculars. “It’s a freak show. People forget how vulnerable they are despite their shirts and shoes and briefcases, how this hungry and cruel world could strip them, put them in the same position as my beggars.”
Maneck studied Beggarmaster’s excessive chatter, his attempt to hide his heartache. Why did humans do that to their feelings? Whether it was anger or love or sadness, they always tried to put something else forward in its place. And then there were those who pretended their emotions were bigger and grander than anyone else’s. A little annoyance they acted out like a gigantic rage; where a smile or chuckle would do, they laughed hysterically. Either way, it was dishonest.
“Also,” said Beggarmaster, “the public apathy you are witnessing illustrates an important point. In this business, as in others, the three most crucial things are location, location, and location. Right now, if I move these beggars from Vishram to a major temple or a place of pilgrimage, the money would come flowing in.”
Shankar’s body lay on a fresh bamboo bier outside the Vishram’s back door, next to a storage shed containing plates, utensils, spare stoves, and fuel. Beggarmaster explained that the face was not left uncovered for the mourners to see because the sight was unbearable. A sheet concealed the mutilated corpse, and over the sheet, a blanket of fresh flowers: roses and lilies.
Gazing at the bier, Maneck wondered if Avinash’s parents had started his funeral procession from the morgue. Or was it permitted to take the body home for prayers? Probably depended on the state of decomposition, and how long it would keep at room temperature. In the unrefrigerated world. Where everything ended badly.
“It’s nice of the Vishram Vegetarian Hotel to let Shankar lie here before the funeral,” said Dina.
“Nice nothing. I paid the cook and waiter handsomely.” Beggarmaster craned to look through the window, and waved at four men who had just arrived. “Good, we can start now.”
The four men were porters from the railway station hired to carry the bier. “I had no choice,” he explained regretfully. “I’m the only relative. Of course I will shoulder my brother from time to time, to honour him, but I cannot allow any of the beggars. They’re not strong enough. Whole thing might come crashing down.”
He had spared no expense for Shankar, purchasing the best ghee and incense, and mountains of sandalwood. It was all waiting at the cremation site, along with a well-qualified mahapaatra to perform the funeral rites. There were baskets of rose petals for the mourners to shower the bier during the long walk. And after the death ceremonies, Beggarmaster would make a donation to the temple in Shankar’s name.
“There’s only one thing worrying me,” he said. “I hope the other beggars don’t assume this is standard procedure, that they will each get the same lavish farewell.”
The slowest-moving procession ever to wind its way through city streets started towards the cremation grounds just after four. The great number of cripples kept it at a snail’s pace. The deformities of some had atrophied their bodies, reducing them to a froglike squat: they swung along using their arms as levers. A few could only manage the sideways shuffle of a crab. Others, doubled over, crawled forward on their hands and feet, their behinds raised in the air like camels’ humps. By a tacit consensus, the cortege proceeded at the lowest common velocity, but their spirits were high as they laughed and chatted among themselves, enjoying a new experience, so that it seemed more a festival than a funeral.
“It’s very sad,” said Dina disapprovingly. “There is a death but no mourning. And Beggarmaster is not even telling them to behave properly.”
“What do you expect, Aunty,” said Maneck. “They are probably envying Shankar.” And anyway, he thought, what sense did mourning make? It could be himself on that bier and the world would be no different.
Beggarmaster drifted up and down the length of the column like a line monitor, making sure there were no avoidable delays. Dina beckoned to him as he approached the tail end of the procession. “Neither Maneck nor I have ever been to a Hindu funeral,” she confessed. “What should we do when we get there?”
“Nothing,” said Beggarmaster. “You are honouring Shankar by just being there. The pujari will perform the prayers. And I will have to light the pyre and break the skull at the end, since Shankar does not have a son.”
“Is it hard to watch? Someone told me there is a very strong smell. Can you actually see the flesh burning?”
“Yes, but don’t worry, it’s a beautiful sight. You will come away feeling good, feeling that Shankar has been properly seen off on his continuing journey. And, I hope, not needing a platform anymore. That’s the way I always feel after watching a burning pyre — a completeness, a calmness, a perfect balance between life and death. In fact, for that reason I even go to strangers’ cremations. Whenever I have some free time, if I see a funeral procession, I just join it.”
He hurried now to the front of the column to placate some disgruntled policemen. The sluggish funeral march was annoying the traffic constables, who felt the tempo was all wrong. “Keep Moving” was their one credo in life, and they had a phobia about anything in slow motion, whether it was cars, handcarts, pariah dogs, or people. If they made an occasional exception, it was for cows. Anxious to get the mourners through at a healthy clip, they waved their arms, tooted their whistles, shouted and pleaded, gesticulated, grimaced, clutched their foreheads, and shook their fists. But these tried-and-true methods were employed in vain: absent limbs could not respond, no matter how piercing the whistle or vigorous the wave.
The railway porters, accustomed to fast trotting with heavy luggage, also had trouble adjusting to the unorthodox pace. Whenever the chants of “Ram naam satya hai!” began to fade behind them, they realized they had raced too far ahead, and called a halt till the gap was closed.
Halfway to the cremation grounds, after an hour’s inching along, a small contingent of helmeted riot police charged the cortege without warning, swinging their sticks. Shankar’s corpse rolled off the bier as the porters swerved to avoid the blows. Screaming in terror, the beggars tumbled to the ground. Rose petals scattered from half a dozen baskets, and a delicate puddle of pink spread across the road.
“See? This is why I was afraid to let you go,” said Dina, panting as she and Maneck ran to the safety of the pavement. “These are bad times — trouble can come without warning. But what is wrong with the stupid police? Why are they beating up the beggars?”
“Maybe they are grabbing people for another work camp. Like they took Ishvar and Om.”
Then, just as abruptly, the troops withdrew. Their commanding officer sought out Beggarmaster and apologized profusely for violating the sanctity of the occasion. “I myself am a prayerful man, and most sensitive to religious matters. This is a very unfortunate mistake. All due to faulty intelligence.”
He said a report had been received on the wireless that a mock funeral was underway, intended to make some kind of political statement, which would most definitely have contravened Emergency regulations. Suspicion had been aroused, in particular, by the assembly of so many beggars, he explained. “They were mistaken for political activists in fancy dress — troublemakers indulging in street theatre, portraying government figures as crooks and criminals embarked on beggaring the nation. You know the sort of thing.”
“An understandable mistake,” said Beggarmaster, accepting the explanation. He was more upset with the people who had prepared the bier — they must have been very careless while tying down Shankar’s body, for it to slide off so easily. At the same time, he reasoned, it was not entirely their fault, they probably had little experience in readying remains as segmented as Shankar’s.
Still squirming with embarrassment, the commanding officer continued to apologize. “Soon as we saw that the corpse was not a symbolic dummy, we realized our error. It’s all very regrettable.” He took off his black-visored cap. “May I offer my condolences?”
“Thank you,” said Beggarmaster, shaking hands.
“Trust me, heads will roll for this blunder,” promised the commanding officer, while his men hurried to retrieve the one which already had: off the bier and into the road, along with a few other body parts.
To make up for the debacle, he insisted on providing an official entourage for the rest of the way. The riot squad was ordered to reassemble the bier and refill the beggars’ baskets with the rose petals strewing the asphalt. “Don’t worry,” he assured Beggarmaster. “We’ll soon have everyone marching shipshape to the cremation grounds.”
As the procession cleared the scene of the ambush, a car stopped by the kerb and honked. “Oh no,” said Dina. “It’s my brother. He’s probably on his way home from the office.”
Nusswan waved from the back seat and rolled down the window. “Are you part of the procession? I didn’t know you had any Hindu friends.”
“I do,” said Dina.
