The Funeral by John Barclay
THE FUNERAL
It’s all hum and bustle outside, sultry and hot.
‘Come on, Kevin, get on with it!’ I shout. ‘It’s here and waiting, bell ringing impatiently.’ Jumping on board amidst the frenzy of the early rush, we set off accompanied by laboured, unoiled squeaking caused by the jerky movement – and the smell of drains.
‘Why are we doing this?’ bellows Kevin trying his best to make himself heard above the din.
‘To get a feel for real life,’ I reply. ‘Death too and disease I fear.’
Constant hooting – parp parp – and ringing of cycle bells, tuk-tuks belching out noxious fumes that claw at nose and throat; cattle too making their mark, sacred of course, but still having to contend with the tap-tap-tapping of sticks encouraging them to move.
Beggars and lepers creep up on us, barefoot, emaciated and silent – Grandmother’s footsteps – and then touching. Total jam as we try to inch our way forwards; carts, wagons, cars, lorries and animals seemingly stuck together in the steamy and stinking melee.
‘Body ahead,’ warns Kevin ‘On the back of that wagon, where the keening is coming from.’
‘Keening?’
‘The uncontrolled wailing of mourners in the procession. It’s how they express their grief.’
The tireless, high-pitched and tuneless screaming begins to trump even the horns and bells, barking dogs and lowing cattle – a noisy and unrestful final journey, open in its casket, on its way to the pyre.
‘OK. Out we get!’ I shout. ‘Come on, we’ll walk from here. Wheels jammed, the wagon stuck.’ We jump off the rickshaw and join the keeners behind the broken-down cart. Leaning our full weight against its wheels, we hear the scrunch of wood upon dust and dirt which suggests slight movement, inch by inch. The body lies peacefully in its coffin, blissfully unaware that it is causing more trouble dead than alive.
The keening is reaching a crescendo and successfully drowns out all other sounds – sorrowful and even quite soothing for some and perhaps rhythmical to the mourners, if not to us.
‘Wouldn’t get far in Eurovision,’ Kevin says with a grin.
‘Or maybe it would,’ I reply while continuing to hum ‘Three Wheels on my Wagon.’ ‘Know any Urdu?’ Kevin takes me by surprise. ‘No, not a word.’
‘I think there’s a word in Urdu,’ he says ‘No idea what it is, which means an irresistible urge to do something inadvisable.’ Inspired by this notion, we breathe in the putrid air as deeply as we can, fill our diaphragms to capacity and begin to wail with as much gusto as can be mustered in such trying circumstances – discordant, rasping and quite ghastly. This, as well as the cacophony of noisome unpleasantness and tumult all around us, does at the very least help ease the cart forward and so move the body closer to its final destination.
Jackie says: The whole episode is well described and well written. I had trouble with finding the two characters unlikeable and culturally insensitive, two examples of outmoded Western supremacy. But perhaps writing unlikeable characters is more interesting than writing jolly ones. Unlike Simon, I thought the joining in was disrespectful. But of course that’s the trouble with writing something from another culture- we all put our own histories and views onto it.
Simon says: I like the way we get straight into the action with this, and the gradual means by which the setting is established. The word ‘tuk-tuks’ is the first to make us sure we’re somewhere in the Orient, though it’s probably not until we get the word ‘Urdu’ that we can be more specific. The chaos of the crowded streets is well expressed by what is heard and smelt. The fact that the action is observed by two friends of Western origin (the name ‘Kevin’ is an appropriate giveaway) adds immediacy to the narrative – and also has a distancing effect. The two men are detached from the business of the funeral, which of course raises questions as to why they were attending. Whose is the body in the coffin and what is their connection to it? If the piece developed into a longer narrative, we would want answers. And I like the pay-off. The two outsiders, having almost made fun of the ‘keening’ expression of mourning, end up joining in, an action which comes across as a mark of respect.