The Home-Grown Variety

OCTOBER 2003 - There is no shortage of philosophers it seems. Just about most people are ready to spin out their philosophic life view given half a chance. While it is no longer possible to spend an evening with anyone without a long, rambling and in the end, meaningless debate about the geo politics of Pakistan and the rest of the world, it is just as hard to avoid running into the philosophers who thrive in most situations but are at their very best when performing at death ceremonies.

Almost all funerals receive heavy attendance for one reason or another and the number of those in heavy attendance is only outweighed by the large doses of familiar trivia that seems to gush forth from every other person. There are those who arrive most solemn faced in starched white local gear only to be seen doubling up with suppressed laughter a few moments later when they are in the company of some long lost buddy. As whispered jokes do the rounds, the pictures of grief a few minutes earlier are bursting at the sides with laughter which is kept under tight wraps since the occasion is obviously not one of great mirth. However the minute they spot any member of the family that they have not so far condoled with, the laughter and contorted facials are instantly replaced with pious and looks of deep concern. Half executed embraces abound, the one where perfunctory stretching of the arms and a slight touch of the torsos is just about the limit. These are followed by listening to the account narrated by the bereaved and clucking sounds of disbelief, anguish and shock are expressed while the eyes keep searching for familiar faces who may be arriving at that very moment.

There are the professional mourners who always seem to be on the run, from one bereavement to another, much in the same style as those who must attend half a dozen receptions the same evening – never saying no to any invitation and never staying anywhere for any decent length of time. The burdens of social obligation rest heavy on these shoulders and they can spend an eternity mouthing excuses and explanations why they have to move along. Having arrived at the house of the bereaved, they are almost ready almost instantly to depart, but since the visit is short, they do wish to pack in the maximum results so a deft search and meet operation is usual with half handshakes and half embraces being the order of the day. Having met all who matter and ensuring that the hosts and their near and dear ones have duly acknowledged their presence, they waste little time in making a surreptitious beeline for the exit and hopefully on to another function.

There is another variety seen at such functions. This is a rather populous variety and seems to have a large following. Their chief identification is two fold. Many fall into that category that must recount in full and tiresome detail where they were when they heard the news. This is like a ritual that cannot be shortened or dispensed with. Most accounts run like this. “I was getting out of my car having gone to the chemists for a few medicines that I had to purchase – you know that since last year I have had many problems chiefly regarding my diabetes and a swelling in my right knee – well as I was getting out of the car who do I see but Malik Sahib walking towards me. Now Malik Sahib and I go a long way back and we were together in the Railways when I was the DS and he was serving in the Locomotive Shop. While I am preparing to greet him he hits me with a thunderbolt and tells me of the sad demise of your uncle. I am totally unprepared for this and Malik Sahib assures me that his news is accurate. Well I just decided then and there that I must rush to your house and condole. I will get my medicines later.” To this club it is not that important what happened to the dear departed but where they were specifically when they heard the news. Many such encounters carry detailed descriptions of exactly what they were doing when they heard the sad news. One popular one is, “I was just getting ready to take a bath when…” and others are just as eloquent. “I had barely taken my pajamas off when I heard the news that Mian Sahib was no more.”

Another variety wishes to know in excruciating detail exactly how Mian Sahib croaked his final bit or as the Americans put it so rudely, kicked the bucket. This lot has absolutely no consideration for those facing the loss that repeating the details will simply take them right back into the ordeal they are still getting to grips with. Mild hesitation on the part of the bereaved family not to go into details is simply ignored. If the old gent who has passed on was suffering from some ailment or the other, they have to express their astonishment that they were completely unaware of this crucial development. Details provided reluctantly by the family are cross-examined in great depth by the mourner till the whole thing begins to look like 20 Questions. This species also is often heard narrating in a loud voice when they had met the deceased the last time and how they had spotted so sign that anything was the matter. Such revelations usually run along the lines of: “Well it was only last week – let’s see – that’s right, last Saturday or was it Thursday – I think it was Thursday – I was coming out of the bakery when I saw Mian Sahib, hale and hearty. And now you are telling me he had had two strokes. Really, that is hard to imagine. I mean he was looking fit and I said so to him. ‘You are looking fit Mian Sahib,’ I recall telling him. Now here I am at his funeral.” This line of thinking doesn’t exactly sooth the troubled breast of the host who can only nod and share the amazing ways in which things move so mysteriously.

Other varieties of mourners will rush in great consternation into the tent where the somber party is assembled and after a quick survey and a few half-embraces will rush into a corner of the tent to take a mobile call. They will move further on and speak in low tones into the instrument then conclude their business and return to the fold looking most grievously hurt only to rush out again as soon as the infernal device chatters. This lot and some others who grace these occasions will in no time, settle down with some cronies and earnestly discuss business matters, stocks, politics, cricket and any other subject going. It is hard to imagine that they are actually in a gathering of mourners since their attention is singularly on the subject under review and nothing else.

While most varieties are hard to swallow, it is the philosophers, which give you a royal pain in the backside. They will look at you with piercing eyes and proclaim some homespun words of wisdom. Some perennial favourites are: “What is life? It is over before you know it,” or “This is the fate of man ultimately. You embrace death,” or “See it carefully – this is the end we all have to face,” or, “You will leave this world empty handed just as you came into,” or “In the end it is just six yards of coarse cotton and that is life my dear.”

Things are bad enough for most people but running into this circus every now and then does take its toll, which may explain the wise thinking of some of us who never show up at such shows.