I watched them burn his body. That’s the Hindu funeral tradition – cover them up with wood and light them up on fire.
While they placed logs of wood on him, they accidently dropped one on my dad’s shoulder. He didn’t flinch. I knew then that he was gone. I watched it all. The men of the family walk around him in circles. Add fire to the wood. The fire spread. The smoky room. People stare at him getting burnt.
It’s an irony – it was fire and third degree burns that brought him here. To death.
Burn.
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I stared at him. I looked around and wondered if people were watching my sister or my mum. I felt fiercely protective. They weren’t watching.
It got too smoky. My dad filled up the space and I wondered if everyone would inhale him now. They all walked away like ants. First a few, then many, a few more and eventually all. I spotted my friends. I asked them not to say a word as we walked back to my home, just around the corner. We walked in absolute silence. It felt odd but perfectly normal – I wanted ice cream.
After the rituals, there were a bunch of relatives who stayed back at home. It was suffocating. My husband and a friend took me out for a drive and I told them I wanted ice cream. They took me to the nearest shop and I got myself a large scoop. They spoke. I ate in silence. Thinking of his arm where the log hit him. Watching him, not flinch. Watching him go away forever. Turn into ashes while I had my ice cream, guilt free.
Jalaja Ramanunni 