By Shevlin Sebastian
As the mourners descended the steps of the St. Augustine’s Forane Church in Ramapuram (60 kms from Kochi), they veered to the right. On a cart, there were steel canisters of tea and coffee, as well as paper cups and a basket which contained pieces of fried vada. These were refreshments for those who had attended the burial ceremony of Rosamma Joseph, the 86-year-old matriarch of one branch of the Cholikkara family.
Even though it was 4 p.m., the slanting sunlight hit my face and arms with piercing force. So, I took a vada, wrapped in a paper napkin and a cup of tea, climbed over a low wall, and stood under a tree.
That was when I saw the crows. They seemed to stand almost in a parallel line, near the snacks distribution counter, as they watched the people eat the vada and drink the tea. What struck me was that a few of the crows had their beaks permanently open. Was this a sign of starvation, I thought.
The vada was large. Not everybody ate the entire vada. They threw some on the grassy ground. A couple of crows picked them up neatly with their beaks and lower jaws and flew away.
One crow picked up a paper napkin lying on the floor with both its feet. It carried it to the top of an angular roof nearby. When it poked the napkin, it realised there was nothing there. The crow pushed away the paper in disgust. At that moment, a breeze blew. The paper rose, and in an up-and-down fashion, it floated to the ground. There was not much food to be had. People seem to consume the entire vada.
But the crows did not feel frustrated or lose patience. They silently watched the proceedings. Feeling pity, I placed a part of the vada under a nearby tree. But the crows seemed not to have seen my action. The piece remained there for a while. Then a flying crow noticed it from a height. It flew down, scooped it up, and flew away.
On the ground, the people present did not notice the crows at all. They were engrossed in their conversations, snacks, and drinks. Those who had finished eating had begun looking at their mobile phones.
I finished my vada and tea. I placed the napkin in a nearby waste box and moved to the steps of the church where a group of people, mostly relatives, were milling around after finishing their refreshments.
This was what I heard:
“Rosamma Ammachi had a heart of gold,” one woman said.
“Yes, she was a gracious person,” said another.
“The daughter-in-law looked after her so well in the final stages,” said another.
“Yes,” said another woman.
One man in an aside told his wife, “I saw a woman.”
Before he could finish, she said, “In a blue saree?”
His mouth opened in an ‘O’.
“How did you know?” he said.
“I know your taste,” she said. “I have been married to you for over 30 years.”
“She looked like the sister of a daughter-in-law,” he said lamely.
The wife twisted her lips to one side.
Another man said, “Rosamma was always smiling. And she was so welcoming whenever we went to the house. Very generous host.”
In the house before the burial, I noticed a black-and-white photo on the mantelpiece. It was of Rosamma and her husband, Joseph (Appachan), standing next to each other in front of the Taj Mahal. “They went there on their honeymoon,” said Joseph, the youngest child. No wonder the couple had a radiant smile on their faces. But this event happened over 60 years ago.
Little did they realise how much of life lay ahead of them. The ups and downs, the trials and tribulations.
They had six children: two boys and four girls. They had to bring them all up, provide them with education, arrange marriages for them and watch as they become mature adults and responsible parents. As time passed, their children grew up, got married, and had children of their own. Now those grandchildren had grown up and got married and had children. So, now Appachan and Ammachi became great-great-grandparents. The members of this large extended family had come from places like Dubai, America, and all over Kerala to attend the funeral. Many wept openly at the bier where the body lay. Indeed, Rosamma was a beloved person.
Appachan had a dazed look on his face.
When two people marry, little could they imagine then that decades later, one of them would look at the dead body of the other.
Two days before she passed away, along with my wife, I went to meet Rosamma, as the news had come she was sinking. Indeed, one look at her and I knew she was going. My wife held her hand on her own. There was a profound sadness in her smile. From a bed in Ramapuram, she would journey into a life of eternity in the universe without her body or family. Just spirit. And all alone.
You come alone. You go alone. Nobody can accompany you on these journeys. That is our fate. So Rosamma travelled alone…
But on the ground, the crows remained in a small group.
They were more aware of the human beings, because they could get some food from them. But human beings, engrossed by their thoughts and chatter, and their constant interaction with technology, had no contact with nature. None of them knew or were aware there was a batch of crows hopping about and waiting patiently nearby to get pieces of the vada they nonchalantly threw away.
As I was about to leave, I saw a crow with a large piece of vada in its beak streak across the large courtyard at high speed, probably going to feed its family with this sudden bonanza.
A joyful moment for them!
Soon, the crows would settle into their existence and we into ours.