[Reader-list] The Day of the Dead

[lalitha kamath]

Nov 2: All Souls Day or Day of the Dead: the day set aside
to remember and pray for the dead. 
On Sunday, the 2nd, there is more traffic than
usual on Hosur road, so richly lined with cemeteries. As we approach I can hear
the sound of singing and prayers interspersed with a roll of drums. The right turn
off Hosur road leading to the cemetery is a narrow lane that is usually quiet
and serene, shaded by massive trees that meet overhead in a gracious canopy.
Today it is littered with cars, with hawkers selling marigold garlands and
agarbattis, with tables draped in snowy white sheets selling candles and
offerings for the repose of souls. And there are people everywhere-- carrying
bunches of flowers, holding rosaries in their hands and shepherding along young
children. 
 
In the midst of this, bunches of policemen stand around with
truncheons. They look alert, ready for action. Why are they here, I wonder?
Someone whispers, “Its all the atrocities against Christians, they’re here to
protect us”. Another voice says, “Or they’re here to control what we do, to
make sure we’re not too noisy, disorderly or in-your-face while practicing our
religion”. 
 
As we enter we forget about the policemen as we see several
people we know. Exchanging hellos, I watch preparations on full-scale for the
open-air service to be conducted. The pandal is up and the sound of “check,
check” lazily breaks the air around us. Candles burn brightly and the smell of
incense is sweet. We move in the direction of the graves of loved ones. Some
people always know exactly where these are. Others, like ourselves, wander
about searching for the right place, its been a year since we were here last.
On finding it, its back to business: we look around for the cemetery workers-
it’s a struggle to attract their attention amidst the throng of people. We are
successful in our negotiations and the graves are washed and cleaned. “Use more
water and clean it properly”, we say, only to be told “Theres no water ma, no
water came today”. To prove this, his daughters jump right inside the cemetery
tank and scrape along the bottom with their pots to collect the dregs of water. 
 
Despite the place humming with activity, it is peaceful. The
muted sound of prayers for those dead but not forgotton is in the backdrop as I
focus on the array of headstones around-- big and small, imposing and somewhat
shabby and faded. It is a ritual that has been going on for a long time, since
the 10th Century I am told, and while I forget about it the rest of
the year, I’m always glad when its time comes round again. 
 
We leave the cemetery gates. The policemen watch us as we
go. Suddenly out of the blue the thought comes, “Why didn’t they give water
today? They know its an important feast and that many visit the cemetery, the
number of policemen prove that.” On reaching home, I absentmindedly turn on the
corporation water tap and water gushes forth. The tank is full. While the
thought of bombs going off in a public place at any time is a terrifying one
for me, also terrifying is the thought that water might deliberately not be supplied
to certain areas, certain groups of people. 


I feel the need to grasp afresh the myriad ways of
unleashing terror.