I went to my first funeral at age 11. The neighbour, an extremely rich drunk died of liver cirrhosis and was survived by Aunty, Suchi Akka (‘Didi’) and Ruchi Akka.
As they sat in a corner of the large, crowded house, I went up to Suchi Akka and consoled her thus, “Why do you cry? It’s not like he’s going to come back.” The large, crowded house went silent. Suchi Akka smiled without humour and I was ushered out.
The Ultimate Paradox: Can You Smile at a Funeral?
I am still quite clueless about how to mourn or ‘be’ with someone who is in mourning. Sadly, I feel this is the case with everyone else in urban India.
No one seems to know what to say or do. How do you acknowledge someone at a wake? You can’t smile, you can’t look sadly at the person and so you manage a fake painful-ironic grin, like you just smelled something odd.
I was with my grandfather during the last stages of his life, as he battled (again a usage I can never understand) cancer. My father performed all the rites prescribed to the tee, because he believed it would help the soul on its way to wherever it must go.
The rest of the mourning period was turned into a function of sorts, where people spoke inadequately, released some collected writings of and about my grandfather and then reassured each other that the soul was well on its way to a better place. There was no place nor circumstance nor space to actually share pain.
De-constructing the Art of Mourning, one ‘Rudaali’ at a Time
In most villages and many of the cities in Tamil Nadu, professional mourners (like the ‘Rudaalis’ of Rajasthan) are hired. It is their job to sing of death, loss and separation with such honesty that the family of the deceased will cry their hearts out and reach a catharsis. This art form is all but lost, with many mourners actually pinching the women or pricking them with a pin to induce tears.
The West, specifically Britain and the USA saw mourning differently. In the early 19th century, an entire labour intensive industry sprung up to design fashion for mourning and accessorise it with brooches, pendants, necklaces and rings made of materials from across the world (effect of colonisation). For a brief period ornaments made of the deceased’s hair or from the guest’s hair (odd but beautifully done!) were given away.
Even here, the space for expression and sharing pain and loss, is strangely absent.
Have we Lost all the Fuss About Mourning?
Then, industrialisation struck. Personalisation took a back seat. The ‘modern’ world suddenly forgot to mourn.
A few weeks ago, I saw a YouTube video of Raju, a professional mourner who sang the ‘oppaari’ for six minutes.
“Ah!”
I tried tracking him, but was unsuccessful. He had left his village in search of work in the city. No one seemed to need his services anymore.
In most funerals in Madurai today, there is only booze and sad Tollywood songs blaring into the night, as the dogs howl dissent.
(Vikram Venkateswaran is a freelance writer, TV producer and media consultant. Headings, titles and captions are his kryptonite. He lives in Madurai and is occasionally struck by the feeling that the city likes him back.)
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