The movements of those feet were in complete sync. Most of them had no idea about other’s style of walking. But, they moved in perfect sync. Like a march past on 26th of January every year. I was also a part of it and somewhat satisfied and surprised with the ease with which, I carried it off. Being away from home for more than 9 years, I was not sure if I was still brisk enough to walk with the same calmness and the momentum as they did.
It was a set of four shoulders of some 20 different men playing a game of Kho Kho in the middle of National Highway no 10. One slight push from the back, a few words in the ear and he left his place, that place filled by another one.
I noticed a bunch of rooms erected like a mismanaged hard on a piece of land smaller than my cup board next to that gate which despite being huge wasn’t welcoming. They saw us coming and remained seated. I found it disturbing, but what else they could do? Sharing the wall with a crematorium takes its toll on people’s mindset. I think that was justified.
I crossed that gate after a long time. I mean, long time, since I carried someone through it. The air was heavy. It made me sink in the ground by two inches at least, but that wasn’t bad enough. It actually felt better to be at the same level as the other three. I wondered, if should try doing it next time someone dies. It made it easy to walk through that air that smelled of death. I was, I think proud of myself to perform my duty seamlessly, but there was this emptiness that didn’t let that emphatic euphoria stay for long.
The weight of a burden on your shoulder is far more easy to take then to take the weight of a dead. A weight that is being transferred to you through some randomly knitted bamboos. The red stiff ones.
As they crossed the gate that promised to lead people to heaven without consulting Led Zepplin, they all went berserk and ran in various directions. As if running for their lives in Carmageddon. Just that, there was no car there to splatter them to pieces. In fact, they all slogged to find some logs. The stairway was going to be made in a record time.
Soon, the air smelled of freedom. Freedom only the clerics can guarantee. One of whom stood in front of me, smoking a beedi and counting money in his head, he was going to ask for. The price of providing freedom to the dead.
On the way back, I asked my cousin, if I behaved fine according to the old men. He said he was just 24 and shrugged.
I again had to be 12 stories above the ground at 10 in the morning. So, I had to leave with a sense of loss and satisfaction of not disappointing myself at a critical time like that.
The sun was setting behind some dunes and the sky looked like the color of the bamboo. That blood red color, that was still there on both the shoulders of my white shirt.
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