THE DAY OF THE FUNERAL

Sharmila Jayasinghe

Ifeel my insides jump up and down and up and down as the man pulls the rickshaw and speeds along Main Street. Grandfather is angry. On a day he should be sad, he is angry. Nothing had gone right that morning. He didn’t know which applet to wear for funerals. He clipped on the blue, then the red one with the silver lining and decided it was too festive. He ironed his shirt twice. Then, wetting his large hands, he sprinkled water to better iron it a third time. The wrinkles refused to disappear. They stayed on the fabric like the creases on his skin. Grandfather cursed—words that should not have come out of a clergyman’s mouth—then wiped his face to erase the misdeed.

It had been dark inside the house, like the sun had forgotten to rise. Grandfather hadn’t opened the windows for four days. The house smelt of nothing. With the stove put to sleep, the familiar spicy aromas had stopped circling the air. I stood quiet and still and watched Grandfather struggle. I had dressed and was ready to leave long before Grandfather found the right shirt to wear.

Amidst his dilemma, he scanned me from top to toe and shook his head from side to side. His tongue hit the roof of his mouth, drumming that sound of disapproval. ‘Tsk tsk,’ he went, deep in thought. ‘Too joyous,’ he presented at last, ‘like a sunflower.’

He then rocked up and down on his heels. The bounce always gave him clarity. ‘Don’t you have anything lighter in colour? Black?’ he asked, clearly frazzled, tapping his chin with his index finger, like John Wayne in a movie. Grandfather was a tall man. Too tall for a brown man. He said it was because he grew up with white people.

I smoothed the sides of my yellow dress, peeped into the floor length mirror and watched Grandfather stomp around the room behind me, pulling this and that, like a giant dinosaur rummaging for food. I did not understand how I should appear at a funeral, but there was no one to ask. It had always been Grandfather, Grandma and me, but now it was just the two of us.

‘This? Or this?’ Grandfather asked, pulling two identical black ties from deep within a drawer. I stared, baffled. ‘Grandma would have dressed us both proper,’ he sighed, defeated and deflated. Stuffing the ties in the drawer, he turned his attention back to the applets.

‘Go and change,’ he commanded. With a wave of his hand, he shooed me out of his room.

It was almost an hour before both of us emerged out of our spaces again. Grandfather, in his white cotton tunic, had decided against the applets and the tie—instead, he wore a long silver chain. A crucifix with a skeletal Jesus weighed the chain down. Jesus on the cross laid on Grandfather’s perturbed belly for rest. I too had changed into less joyous clothes, to a black pleated skirt and a white blouse with a lace trimmed collar. I had no jewellery on. I felt like I was ready for school, but Grandfather had approved.

Out on the verandah, Grandfather had cleared his throat louder than he does in the mornings at the culmination of his teeth brushing ritual. He was a large man who could make a loud noise. The sound had jolted up Sellaiya, fast asleep against the wheel of his rickshaw. He wiped sleep off his eyes and took his position, like the bull of a cart, and waited for Grandfather and me to climb onto the single, leather-covered seat. Sellaiya looked sad. He was groomed better than other days. A creaseless, white, short-sleeve shirt had replaced the discoloured singlet he wore daily. He still had his usual long, khaki shorts on, but it was quite clear he had washed and pressed them. Looking at him, I wondered if someone had helped Sellaiya choose his funeral clothes.

The journey to the cemetery is not a short one. Sellaiya sweats and pants, pulling his load, but the man is resilient. My empty stomach does not welcome the bouncing for long. I feel gas building up, swirling around and bloating my insides. ‘Seeya,’ I say, pulling on Grandfather’s shirt sleeve. ‘I am hungry.’

‘Aha!’ he declares. ‘We forgot to eat!’ We stop at a wooden hut by the side of the road, share a warm fish bun and order a strawberry-flavoured milk, which arrives in a glass bottle. ‘Grandma wouldn’t have let us leave home on an empty stomach,’ Grandfather says, lost in thought, playing with the breadcrumbs on his paper plate. Suddenly he looks older than his age. I wonder if he always had that mop of silver hair, or if his hair turned salt and pepper overnight.

At the cemetery Sellaiya parks his rickshaw under a tree, away from the row of cars, and walks with Grandfather and me. A large crowd has gathered at the gravesite. I’m the only child present. Women in the crowd look at me with sad eyes and forced smiles. Everyone is well dressed, all in their official attire—black suits and grey dresses, with additions of hats and sunglasses. Grandfather, Sellaiya and I look like we are off to the Sunday markets. Grandfather, in his leather sandals and simple cotton suit, preaches to the crowd. ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ he says, sadness triumphing over anger. I stand hiding behind his large form and watch as the soil people are throwing onto the coffin slowly disappears to the bottom of the rectangular hole in the ground. The sadness and the gloom around me make my throat dry. I am emotional, but not enough for my eyes to water.

Back home there’s a leather overnight bag and a basket full of vegetables at the entrance. The door is wide open, showing beyond the corridor. Grandfather’s face lights up at the sight of the bags. Sellaiya smiles, showing his crooked teeth—a first for the day. Grandfather jumps off the rickshaw and inhales sharply. I follow. The old man’s strides are too long to keep up with, but I try.

Grandma appears from the shadows. Sunlight frames a halo around her, like the picture of Mother Mary we have on the wall. She is in a floral sari. Her hair is tied at the nape of her neck. She looks tired. She fans herself frantically with an old newspaper.

‘Lucinda is improving. I came as soon as I could,’ she says, hurrying towards us. Aunty Lucinda is the only living relative on Grandma’s side. Her polio leg makes her fall often. This time it was serious, making Grandma take the long train ride to the middle of the island to care for her. Grandma being away for this long is a first for us.

Grandfather exhales, relieving his lungs of the tension they have accumulated. He grins like a child and brushes his hands against Grandma’s shoulders, as if by accident. They look into each other’s eyes and share a moment.

Then, Grandma spots me and pulls me towards her. ‘Aiyo, you took the child to the funeral?’ she questions. She brushes strands of hair off my face with her hands and scans me from top to toe. ‘What is she wearing? And … why are you dressed that way? Did you go to the MP’s funeral looking like that?’ she asks Grandfather, who is towering above both of us. The side of her mouth twitches as she attempts to suppress the blossoming laughter. ‘Tsk, tsk,’ she says, flapping her tongue on her palate.

She leads us into the kitchen where biscuits and tea await.