The cat was stiller than any statue carved out of stone. Her small, sleek, cylindrical body was crouched in an impossibly grotesque, frozen, pre-leap. Each muscle was taut, concentrated; leashed, till the moment presented itself. Mesmerised, I killed the engine of my car and followed her fiercely intent gaze.
Expectedly, just a few yards away, were the pigeons. They were blissfully pecking at whatever they had found on the floor of the car parking lot. Ironically enough, the lot itself was attached to the well known Hindu cremation grounds of the city.
I had just driven in, and had braked my car, when I saw the cat. The living, as always, were blissfully unaware, that their death lurked just a few feet away.
Death is in fact, always, just six inches away from anyone who breathes. That is about how far we let our exhaled breath travel, from our nostrils, before we greedily suck it back in.
Like an alert fielder patrolling the boundaries in a cricket match, it stalks, patiently. The moment it catches a mishit, it grabs the prize, and runs away, full of glee. What it leaves behind, is a suddenly still, mound of ambitions, desires, loves and hates. It is final. Absolutely. It brooks no arguments.
Up points its finger, and up you go.
I was already late for the rites (somebody else’s), but kept sitting where I was. What better place to ruminate about the end, than outside a cremation ground. Inside it, I knew, an angry ball of fire was already licking a dear friend to the basics. I should have gone in and shown my face to the other mourners to prove how I too was a responsible, caring, member of their society. They would then remember to attend my funeral. The immediate family was beyond caring.
They had lost him in an accident, the previous day, a day before Deepawali. All four of them, were driving together to distribute some gifts to friends, when he lost control over his car. The friend who called to inform me, had added, that the bereaved wife just kept repeating, to anybody who came to condole; that his last words were, “My God! The brakes have failed……….we are going to crash……….!!!” Three had survived, almost unhurt, physically.
The cat, meanwhile, had noticed me. It turned its head to glare at me, and tell me to get on with my business, and then it ran a few steps forward, to take a new position under a scooter. I was morbidly fascinated. Whom would it pick? How does death decide? The birds had continued enjoying their breakfast. Which one of them was just, just about to go? They were making strange grunting noises. What were they talking about? What was my friend saying, just moments before he realized that the brakes of his car had given up on him? Was he planning the Deepawali night party? The next big car he was about to buy? Was he telling his children about the gifts he had brought for them? Or was he telling his wife how he planned to expand the business after Deepawali? What?
My mind debated (just for that split second it takes us to ponder on life and death questions; when they face others), whether to vroom the car on and warn the birds. I decided not to play God. The cat had to eat too. Quietly, I shifted the gear, stepped on the gas peddle, and eased the car out of the parking lot.
Let them not attend my funeral, when my time comes.
I had to buy candles to light that night. Deliberately, I moved my mind away from the unseen scene of a young boy lighting his father’s pyre. Life has to go on, till death decides. It’s like Yudhistra told the Yakasha, “The strangest thing on earth is, that all of us frequently go and cremate out near and dear ones, but still we truly believe, in our hearts, that we would escape.” Truer words were perhaps, never spoken.
Published in The Hitavada as a middle
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