burying

They knew without him having to say it. Some kids playing in the fields had seen him coming, they ran off to tell the others, pretty soon, the village of just a few dozen people knew. His wife came hurrying along, she saw it in his eyes, and she began to wail. Her cries pierced the stillness of the afternoon. His youngest came hurtling towards him, and the man winced. His heart dropped. The boy had lost his brother, and he could see it in his father’s eyes. The eyes refused to believe what was in front of him: his struggling father, and the prone, upright body of his brother. Then he began to stomp on the ground, and began to hit himself. His mother rushed towards him, but her father grabbed her arm, and shook his head, eyes teary with sorrow. Then the villagers came, they had heard. They saw, and two young men took his son off his arms and began to drag him to the maulvi. He sighed.

The usually sleepy village was a humdrum of commotion today. People came to mourn, offering their hands up in silent communal prayer. The wails of his wife along with a few other women kept shattering the otherwise silent sky. The smell of dung and wheat, usually so nostalgic, so welcome, so much like home, made him feel nauseated. When there was a dip in the guests, he made his way to the butcher. “How much for the meat?” “Usually seven thousand, but for you, six thousand.” The man saw the sorrow in his eyes, and apologized, “I’m sorry, prices are really high. I’d be selling it at the price I bought it at, to you. I’ll prepare it for free.” He left wordlessly.

If he bought the meat, he wouldn’t have the money for the proper funeral. If he didnt, he wouldn’t have a good feast. If he didn’t have a good feast, the religious man wouldn’t pray for his son, and his son might languish in the afterlife. Like a dog. Dog. Dogs? The dogs! He went back, and cut them up, put them into bags, and brought the unidentifiable carcasses to the butcher, who set about with the task of preparing and then cooking them. A heaviness set about in his heart, surely his Lord would understand. Meat was meat, after all. He shivered every time someone touched him. A low, humming, throbbing pain was hanging over his eyes. The feast came, the feast went. The religious man ate his full, and then came to thank him for such a wonderful feast. They prayed the funeral prayer, observed the proper rites, and buried him according to tradition. He didn’t cry then. He had to be strong for his family. 

He cried all night. Morning came, and the religious man came to him, and with a mournful smile on his face, he gave him the good news, “I saw that your son was in heaven. Many thanks to his father observing the way of our tradition. And not just me,” he leaned in and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “My wife had the same dream too. Your son is in good hands.”