Chronicle of a Corpse Bearer Read Online Free Page A

to the cause of India’s independence by consigning every last parcel in their arms to a large bonfire blazing on the macadamized public road.
    Traffic had slowed down, there was smoke everywhere. Several Anglo-Indian officers in white stood by, glowering under their sola topees, none too pleased with the sweltering summer heat, smoke, fire and the sloganeering of nationalists. The protesters were cordoned off from the general public by a posse of Indian sepoys. Then something happened, what it was I didn’t see.
    Perhaps somebody threw a stone. The officers barked a directive, and immediately a fracas ensued. The sepoys, in their baggy blue shorts, began caning the vociferous protestors. Many were arrested, and bundled into a waiting police van. Moti was barking her head off. Finally, one of the officers noticed us waiting patiently with a corpse and dog, and gave instructions to let us pass.
    A Parsi funeral must be concluded before sunset. In Parsi-populated areas there was certainly no call for vocal histrionics. The sight of four burly men in white muslins, shouldering a corpse on a bier and walking as fast as they could was self-explanatory: the public knew where we were headed, and why in such a hurry. People made way for us long before we approached. Jungoo, the erstwhile driver of the defunct hearse, was walking a little ahead of us, holding on tight to the excitable Moti’s leash. It was he, really, who should have been clearing a path for us, admonishing pedestrians that a corpse was on its way. But, that very morning, he had complained of a sore throat; as always, Rustom was happy to take on the part of crier, boastfully revelling in the reverberations of his own deep voice.
    ‘Make way! Make way for the corpse. . .’
    Nobody quite remembers how the custom of showing a corpse to a dog began, but it’s probably as old as ancient Persia itself. Before modern medicine reserved that right for itself, it was canines that were believed to have an uncanny ability to sniff out the slightest flicker of vitality persisting in a body presumed dead. Hence, not once, but thrice in the course of the funerary ceremonies my Moti is brought before the corpse. Invariably though, after no more than a moment’s hesitation, she wrinkles her snout and looks away.
    By the time we reached Opera House, obstructions in our route had increased manifold: all manner of traffic, crowds of people on foot, bullock carts, stray cows, taxis, public trams rattling past, and every now and then, a chauffeur-driven private sedan honking obstreperously. The voices of street hawkers rang in our ears through several long stretches during our journey.
    ‘Fresh leafy vegetables. . .fresh methi, sua, maat. . .’
    ‘Bombeel. . .taaji, safed bombeel!’
    ‘Langraa. . .langraa. . .dasheree. Juicy, sweet dasheree. . .’
    Given the fierceness with which the sun was beating down, it was unlikely that either the leafies or the Bombay duck had retained any of their proclaimed freshness. The mangoes looked quite luscious, though. It was already a quarter to four, and I was terribly thirsty.
    ‘Shall we take the short cut through Khareghat Colony?’ asked Jungoo.
    ‘Hardly much shorter,’ snapped Rusi. ‘And taking those steep rocky shelves with a corpse’ll slow us down even more.’
    Clearly, he was peeved, for not once had Jungoo offered to relieve him of his load. Not a corpse bearer himself, Jungoo was no stranger to nusso either; his own elder brother had been shouldering corpses for years. And Jungoo would have known just how difficult it is for the same person to yell for gangway while carrying the weight of a corpse and bier.
    Having made it up to Kemps Corner and almost into the gates of the funeral grounds, something happened to me which I can’t quite account for, even after all these years. It’s never happened before, or since.
    Fatigue, dehydration and exhaustion—all that, yes, but something else, too: for I went under at the very