I saw him lying down on the floor with a thread tied between his two toes. He was wearing a dhoti which was wet. Lot of people who knew him had come. That included a lady around whom he had tied a yellow thread around 50 years ago, a man whom that lady produced 45 years ago, a lady whom that man tied a thread to, men and women he met during the last 70 years at various buildings- house, school, college, office, etc.
Few people who had come shed tears from their eyes, few were trying to, few were silent, few talking among themselves, few remembering things he had done, few older ones thinking about their deaths..
A man who had long hair, ash on his body wearing dhoti sat near him blabbering words in a language which he din’t understand and which was in use in this country 200 years ago.
People who had come circled around him. The man whom the people referred as “eldest son” took a handful of rice and put it in his mouth knowing well he couldn’t eat it. As the blabbering man increased his tone and pace, more people around him started shedding of tears.
A Black Van had come and was parked near the gate. He was lifted by four men and put inside the back of the van which was kept open.
The van reached an open ground. He was placed lying on a wooden platform. Wooden logs and Dried Cow Dung were placed on top of him. The “eldest son” carried a mud pot which was broken and water leaking from it and circled around the platform.
As the blabbering man blabberred for a final time, a matchstick was lit and put on him. The fire engulfed him.
Where did he go? Or was he here at all?
All the things he had done, his love, laughter, anger, pity, generosity, jelousy, beliefs.. Did it matter?
What is the use of life? Seriously