THE SHADOW OF DEATH

By Amit Kumar Bhowmik

Pune, 3rd October 2024: From as long as I can remember, I was obsessed with Death, although the first corpse I saw was that of my maternal grandfather. I was twelve years old .We then lived in Bombay (now Mumbai). After wards , I was enrolled in Sherwood College, a boarding school, in Naini Tal.

But when we returned to Bombay each year for our winter holidays, I would , surreptitiously, visit the cremation grounds at ‘Chandanwadi ‘, at Marine Lines and sit there for hours, watching the drama unfold. The reactions and stances of the mourners were varied. Some wept; genuinely bereaved. . Others tried to hasten the proceedings to get their hands on the Death Certificate , to lay claim to the deceased’s earthly possessions ! My parents remained in the dark for a long time, until , when I was reading in the Sydenham College of Commerce & Economics, someone had seen my car parked outside the cemetery , and rushed home to find out if all was well! My Ma was aghast. She made me immediately take a bath and threw away my clothes ! “ Who knows whose spirit you have brought with you ? “ , she exclaimed, exasperated. My Baba, who was and still is, my hero, took it all in his stride .

The fact was , along with another youngster (who is now an eminent journalist), I had been to ‘Chandanwadi’ to do a story on the people who actually did the cremation work. They were known as “ kuttiwallas” and were, largely, from Kolhapur and lived in the few small rooms constructed on the premises. They had no insurance and were paid pittances . Those who came to bid a last farewell to their beloved ones, were too distraught and overcome with grief to give them much “baksheesh”, they said. Also, they were ostracized because of their profession. Donations made to the Trust by way of bequeathals or gifts to provide monetary and other assistance to these people and their families ,were retained back by the Trustees, who managed the cremation grounds here and elsewhere in Bombay . Also, they were ostracized because of their line of work. So, when they, hesitatingly, offered us tea, I gladly accepted, sitting next to a man who cradled his young son’s dead body on his lap. My friend declined, pleading that he had acidity. I had to drink his cup also, as else I felt that our hosts would feel offended .The article appeared as: “ A Burning Question ?” in a youth newspaper, “Hi” , which my dear friend, Madhusudan Kumar, was publishing. Someone from the top echelon in the Trust had read it, and began welfare activities for the “kuttiwallas”, including providing for Insurance, medical facilities and payment of the school fees, uniforms et al for their children! Madhusudan (Madhu) is an integral part of my family . Like a brother. I have never met another multi-talented and a more highly accomplished person like him, who is yet so very modest . Madhu is a painter , commercial artist and graphic designer. He is also a film – maker; ’ sitar’ player (from the late Ustad Vilayat Khan’ s ‘gayaki gharana’ . He, in fact, stayed with Vilayat Khan many times in his home at Shimla , like a family member .)

As I grew older, friends, relatives , including my parents, in-laws, my younger brother, Sharit , aunts, uncles and a countless others were plucked off by death.I watched as apprehensive widows contemplated their fate, now that their man was no more ,and they were in the hands and at the mercy of their sons. Siblings , quibbling and becoming viciously estranged ; fighting , like dogs, over scraps of meat thrown to them . Children , frightened , uncertain and petrified .

Somehow, I have found that the workers at the cremation and burial grounds , appeared to identify with me and accepted me as one of their own ! Perhaps, this was because I gave them due respect and never spurned them , as did most other people.

When ‘Yudhistir’ was asked by ‘Yama’ – the Lord of Death : “ What is stranger than Life ?” .He promptly replied: ” Death ! We carry our loved ones to the burning ‘ghats’ and weep for them, little realizing that we ourselves will also have to go this way !”. Young Buddhist novices in the early days , would be taken to cremation grounds in the dead of night. Pyres would be burning. Jackals howling . There would be rotting carcasses of the poor strewn around ,with dogs eating the flesh ; whose relatives could not afford to pay for the wood or services of the priests. The Teacher would counsel the terror – stricken monks thus : “ That putrefying corpse you see , is you ! Hence, do not become unduly attached to your body .”

“That which Begins must also End’” ( Buddha). I contend that Life and Death are two sides of the same coin. When any living creature is born, it must, finally, die. So why do we fear this mandatory phenomena which must befall us all ? I think , it is because we do not know what happens after we die . The clerics of all organized religions assure us of wonderful things – or scare the living daylights out of us. But , all the goodies (or the punishments) they promise us , we will get only after we die !

Last week a close friend died in Pune from cancer – and not Covid 19 ! The family spent a small fortune on the elaborate funeral rites ; the ‘shrad’ ceremony and other rituals. I did not attend. The ‘Charavakas,’ which is a branch of Hinduism, were atheists , like me, and did not believe that there was a God or a Devil; Heaven or Hell. “Why offer ghee (clarified butter) , fruits, sweets and burn costly sandalwood, when all these could have given to the deceased when he walked this earth ? It is all a sham and sheer waste of money, food and energy , which benefit only the priest who, in any event, never knew the person when he was alive ! “

These days there exists a great deal of fear and panic because of the pandemic ,to which many have, allegedly, fallen victim. The media does not give us accounts and statiistcs of those who, in pre-pandemic times, had died from natural causes and accidents . The only purpose now is to grab head-lines and for garnering TRP . After all, negativity sells far better than does positivity !

I was sixteen , when I had composed a rather long poem on ‘Death’. I remember only the first verse:
“Death comes to one and all.
To rich man and to poor.
He stands await as Life ebbs past
And, knocks on every door”

Therefore, once we accept that Death is our only faithful Shadow, from start to finish, there will be no need to fear it .

(Amit Kumar Bhowmik is a lawyer. He is based in Pune, India)