“Sorry Muniyandi, its time for you to take your drums, your grandson is dead”, the doctor told Muniyandi as he prepared to leave.
Very soon there was a big gathering at Muniyandi’s place. Muniyandi’s wife was uncontrollable, “Get up Pachiappa, get up, see your grandma, get up”.
People were crying and the children, particularly Pachiappa’s friends were screaming for him. Their shouts and cries were sufficient to paint the house in a gloomy shade. If only malaria had not struck him or if only he had been immune to this disease, he would have been alive now.
People recalled Pachiappa’s services to their families. How many of their dead had he entertained in their last journey, always dancing at the helm of the procession, in synchrony with his grandfather’s drum.
Strangely, the death couldn’t shake Muniyandi, a man whose profession was associated with the dead. Muniyandi went about the house consoling other people, “Death is inevitable, it is predetermined. Anything created has to be destroyed, if the creation is to be preserved”, he would say.
People present there were shocked at his behavior. They had seen Muniyandi like this on several occasions before, but this is the first time they witness him in his own place.
“Is he a human being or a beast; doesn’t he know that the dead boy is none but his own grandson”, one man remarked to the other who replied; “How can you expect anything better from a person like him, who lives on the bread; provided by the dead”.
As if to demonstrate these, Muniyandi went about busily making arrangements for the procession, “Have the green coconut leaves come; please send someone to buy some more agarbathi and flowers”.
The talks and glances slowly shifted towards Muniyandi and he was soon the center of attraction. It was time for the procession to start and Muniyandi strapped his drum to his shoulder. “I’m ready, blow the conch”. The procession started.
It was early night when Muniyandi returned from the funeral. There was no one around the house now and every thing was silent, expect for his wife who was still weeping. He slowly entered the house and occupied a chair at the corner of the room and was lost in his thoughts.
His wife soon asked him, “How did the funeral go, did you have any problem ─ why don’t you answer?”. She paused for a while and said, “How can you answer, I’ve seen you working hard today and you must need rest now”. Muniyandi’s wife continued in her weeping tone, “Don’t you realize that it’s our Pachiappa whom you’ve burnt today?. Is your heart made of stone so that you can’t even pretend to cry, tell me; I want an answer ─ now”. She waited for an answer but she got none.
It was dawn. People had already gathered by now. Muniyandi’s wife was in a miserable condition, “Don’t leave me alone”, she cried “Don’t make me an orphan, please get up”. The conch was sounded for the second consecutive day at Muniyandi’s place and the procession left. The man who played the drums this time was Ravi, Muniyandi’s friend and brother-in-law, who was also his one time colleague.
As he beat the drums, Ravi shuffled his legs and kicked the air in an effort to dance to his own drum beats. He laughed at the boys dancing in front of him; “This is not the way to dance, I’ll teach you proper dancing, if you promise to pay for my breakfast today”; he told them.
As the procession passed Ravi did much more than just play his drums, but strangely no one seemed to mind.
