Chronicle of a Corpse Bearer (15 page)

For that very morning of the day on which Jungoo was to return home, we received another visit from Edul. This time, he was carrying only two letters: one for Rustom, and the other one for me.

It was clear from the contents of these letters that both of us had been identified as ‘ringleaders’ or motivators behind the charter of demands, and the person or persons who had thought it fit to send us these letters wanted to snuff out any nascent trouble seen to be brewing at the Towers of Silence. Without a doubt, you could say, it was the trustees’ own obtuseness that forced our hand, and led us all to the edge of a precipice.

The most depressed sub-caste of the relatively affluent Parsis of Bombay—its khandhias and nussesalars—had never before struck work. Not that they didn’t have enough cause or provocation for such direct action, or that there was any substance to Coyaji’s claim that the trustees cared for them as though they were ‘their own children’.

I suppose the truth was that centuries of oppression and indoctrination had effectively robbed them of the imagination required to conceive of a different order of life, or to question a creed according to which the Almighty Creator had relegated them to such a lowly, depraved existence, while hypocritically promising them (at least us nussesalars) liberation from rebirth for faithfully carrying out their laborious duties in this lifetime. The argument smacked so completely of human rather than divine machination; I could see this more clearly, I suppose, because I didn’t actually belong by heredity to the sub-caste of corpse bearers.

Yet, ensnared in manacles of obfuscation, the vice-like grip of fear was unyielding. Even to convince Rustom that what I was proposing wasn’t utterly rash and suicidal took almost two hours of argument and debate. Finally it was belligerent Farokh who said something that tilted the balance.

‘If we let them get away with intimidation this once,’ he observed aloud, while sitting with us, ‘they will espouse this method as an all-time effective strategy for controlling us—hiring and firing at will.’

I should explain: the two fresh letters that Edul had delivered to us that morning stated that my services as nussesalar were terminated forthwith, and that I should vacate my quarters in fifteen days’ time, for indulging in subversive activities against the interests of the community even while ‘on probation’. And Rustom’s letter actually referred to the dire fate of ‘other troublemakers’, warning him of a similar end to his ‘long and hitherto successful career’ as corpse bearer, should he continue his association with mischief-mongers who were raking up trouble in the peaceful environs of the Towers of Silence.

On reading his letter, Rusi maintained a stunned silence for a whole minute, his large body heaving, as he breathed in deeply. Can’t remember if I mentioned this earlier, but Rustom is a pretty senior person who had already completed twenty-five years of service. In our community of khandhias, he is regarded as a sort of father figure, a particularly kind and well-meaning soul who could always be relied on for advice and support. By involving him in the disciplinary action taken against me, the trustees had made their worst faux pas.

As for the termination letter issued to me, I could not but believe that it was Buchia once again who had wrongly advised Coyaji to take this action. His cloying interest in me had grown to a point of obsession, at around this time, as also his unbridled sense of power. Knowing I had a small baby to feed and shelter, he would have liked nothing better than for me to turn up at his doorstep, begging for a reprieve.

Never before, and never since, have the corpse bearers of Doongerwaadi, the Towers of Silence, gone on strike.

In August 1942, when British towns and cities were reeling under attack from the German Luftwaffe, and Hitler’s army had undertaken major offensives in Europe, Africa and Russia (Temoo’s radio, as you see, kept us informed), we corpse bearers were completely united amongst ourselves in launching a hartaal—a complete stoppage of work. Our decision to ‘down tools’, as it were—or rather, not lift corpses—took Buchia, Coyaji, and the entire Parsi Punchayet completely by surprise. They were so flummoxed that for the first twenty-four hours, they did not react, as if hoping against all evidence to the contrary that the next morning they would find things had returned to normal.

Fortunately for us, in our line of work, no lockout or closure can be imposed by the management. For the assembly line of corpses keeps moving, regardless of whether the latter are disposed of or not. Calls to Buchia’s office, reporting deaths and asking for the corpse to be carried away continued as usual, followed by persistent and progressively impatient reminders. But no corpses were removed from the homes of the bereaved on that day, or for the next three days.

I had persuaded Rustom that there was no chance of our being summarily dismissed for dereliction of duty, and blacklegs being hired to do the work. It wouldn’t be easy to find replacements from within the Parsi community in a hurry; nor would any self-respecting Parsi allow his near-and-dear ones to be handled by an untouchable Hindu or Muslim beggar.

Within twenty-four hours, there was a great furore in the community. Letters to the editor in the local and vernacular papers came in, fast and furious. Only the most colourfully worded were printed.

Many of them condemned the Parsi Punchayet for being ‘a bunch of lazy and corrupt self-seekers’, ‘puffed up on privilege’, for allowing the situation to get so out of hand, for treating the corpse bearing caste with so much contumely and contempt that they had no option but to fight for their rights by refusing to work. This line of thought represented the reformist minority in the community, who felt that mindless adherence to age-old practices and conventions had alienated its weakest section; that bigoted and inflexible views were endangering the entire community and, in fact, the very traditions which our forefathers had sought to uphold and protect.

But the voice of orthodoxy was overwhelmingly represented, too, people who felt enraged that khandhias had actually dared to ‘hold the community to ransom’, that we should be ‘summarily sacked’ and punished ‘in the harshest possible way’. This faction even took out a small procession that marched through the streets demanding the strictest reprisals against us, carrying placards that made unpleasant broadsides such as:

and

They staged a sit-down protest on the pavement outside the Punchayet building’s entrance for ten minutes or so but, not having applied for police permission to do so, the cops soon shooed them off for obstructing pedestrian movement.

A feeble attempt was also made to engineer a split in our ranks in the hope, I suppose, of its leading to more defections. The target of this insidious potshot was poor Fardoonji, who was issued a veiled threat by Edul that he could lose his quarters and be out in the streets if he didn’t cooperate. I don’t know exactly how old he was at the time, but he was certainly very old. He might have appeared to be the most suitable candidate for this ugly gambit, because of his strong sense of duty and propriety, and the great reverence he showed towards all forms of authority—be it Punchayet trustees, or the Almighty himself.

I still remember what Fardoonji said when he came to condole after Seppy’s death: ‘Don’t judge Him, son. Don’t be angry. . . We don’t understand everything that happens to us. How could we. . .how could anyone? So vast the world is, the heavens so much vaster, and so much going on all the time, continuously. We can only bow our heads and pray. . . I’m very sorry, Phiroze. If there’s anything you need. . .’

But, though docile, he was a good man, and held out.

Despite the mixed public reaction, we corpse bearers stuck to our guns, so to speak. The strike lasted only three-and-a- half days before the trustees climbed down and granted all our demands, including the provisions for overtime, casual leave and my unconditional reinstatement. It was a tense period for us. During those three days the price of ice in Bombay skyrocketed from eight annas per kilo to six rupees per kilo.

Remarkably, the vultures themselves seemed to know in advance that no funerals were scheduled. Instead of the scores of scavengers who collect at the Towers regularly, in time for their repast, that first morning of the strike saw only three or four circling the sky vapidly; and within a minute or two even those were gone. After that, for the next three days until the strike was over, not a single vulture was seen anywhere near the Towers of Silence.

Once an agreement was reached between trustees and corpse bearers, there was a large backlog of funerals to be cleared. For those next three days, a fair amount accrued to us khandhias and nussesalars by way of overtime. And the vultures, too, clocked in with precision once the strike was over. Though instinctually constrained from gorging, they, too, I presume, enjoyed a continual and unlimited feast.

Initially, the mood amongst us was jubilant and celebratory. Most of us were working fewer hours, and our monthly incomes had gone up. When I resumed work, along with all the others, nobody said a thing to me; I was pleased to have come out of this sorry and slightly desperate chapter of my life cleanly.

One night when, out of sheer boredom, Temoo rigged the power line from the lamp post outside his tenement to his radio (Yezdi ‘Electrician’ had done it for him several times before, and showed him how), through much static and radio noise, while randomly fiddling with the tuner on his set, he caught once again that woman’s voice we had first heard by chance about a month ago.

‘This is the Congress Radio calling on 42.34 metres from somewhere in India. Bapu’s message to all Indian people is very clear. These are his words: “Now we have given the call to our rulers to Quit India, every one of you should from this moment on consider yourself a free man or woman, and even act as if you are free and no longer under the heel of this imperialism. This is no make-believe. . . You have to cultivate the spirit of freedom before it comes physically. . . The chains of a slave are broken the moment he considers himself a free man.”’

For some reason, we all remembered Udham Singh, the martyr. It was perhaps two years ago All India Radio had informed us of a man who had shot Brigadier Michael O’Dwyer at a public meeting in London. The news was exhilarating. When given a chance to speak his final words before he was hanged, Udham Singh had simply said, ‘I have no regrets. I feel proud to be the one who executed the butcher of Jallianwalla. . .’ To the memory of that Sardar’s raw courage, we drank that night what was probably an unreasonable quantity of hooch.