The Cloudburst (Short Story)

 The Cloudburst

By

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Punjabi)

 

 

That day, everyone feared that Lahore would surely experience a monsoon cloudburst. The forecast predicted a deluge. All waited for the thunder from the sky, but it came instead over the phone: the bell announcing Uncle’s death.

Through song, they extolled her slenderness, proclaiming it the very essence of her beauty, "Twenty-eight waist, forty-seven weight, that lovely girl has," and they call me an insect! Is my slender waist not beautiful to them? They say I bite, yet they cannot love without biting. For these two-legged gods, a two-foot beating is enough, but for my six legs, the journey is long. Their stomachs, these granaries, are so vast, never truly filled. One might ask, when they will let us devour the corpse us in the earth, letting us feed here brings death? Let me quickly gnaw off a piece; they'll take it somewhere else to bury anyway.

As the cleric donned his gloves to wash the deceased, my gaze fell upon him. The insect had crawled onto the corpse's foot. The Quranic verses he was reciting suddenly grew louder. He quickly grabbed the water pipe and gestured to Uncle’s son. The son, flustered, aimed a stream of water that drenched the cleric’s trouser cuff, standing by the corpse. The cleric recoiled with a jump, and five Arabic invocations rose so sharply that they seemed to leap with him. The son became even more agitated. He must have gnashed his teeth at the thought of the insect crawling on his father's foot with its tiny legs, and his dead father unable to shake it off. He choked back a stifled scream, lowered the stream, and missed his target again. In this dilemma, while trying to wash away the insect, his father’s entire right leg became soaked. The insect mission was accomplished, and the son, embarrassed, looked at his trousers. The living cleric’s left trouser cuff, and the dead father’s entire right side, were dripping wet. The wetness of the cleric’s cuff filled him with extra humiliation; his Arabic accent was now laced with irritation.

Pulling off his gloves and shaking his cuff, the cleric gestured to me. I handed him the large scissors I’d taken from Auntie’s sewing machine. He began cutting Uncle’s trousers. Cutting, he reached the waistband, and splashes of water hit his rolled-up sleeve. The cleric glared at the boy, who, flustered, lowered the pipe.

"Leave it, son, put the pipe down."

The cleric's voice was gentle. The boy carefully placed the pipe on the ground by his father's head.

The cleric cut the waistband of the trousers and then the other side. Then he gestured for me to bring something from outside. I didn't understand, nor did I dare to ask. What would the cleric say? What kind of Muslim boy is this, who doesn't even know how to wash a corpse? I went to the other side of the curtain, made of cloths hung on a rope, and looked at the items on the cot-like funeral bier. There were white sheets, packets of incense sticks, and lumps of camphor tied in a plastic bag. Two plastic bottles also lay there; one contained perfume, and the other, holy water from the Zamzam spring in Mecca. At this stage of washing the deceased, what could the cleric have asked for? My mind was as shut down as if I were overly intoxicated. But there was no time to think either; three or four boys and Uncle’s brother-in-law stood by the bier, waiting for the corpse to be washed so they could carry the bier inside. I grabbed the Zamzam water bottle and went inside. The cleric was busy cutting the sleeves of the shirt. He glanced at the bottle and said,

“We’ll sprinkle that on the grave, son. Bring that small cloth.”

This time, when the curtain was lifted, I knew what I needed. Filled with the zeal of a goal-oriented youth, I lifted the curtain and went straight to the target: the bier. I rummaged through the cloths; one was a meter square. I picked it up and, with a triumphant air, disappeared behind the curtain. At that moment, the men standing by the bier seemed utterly inferior to me.

The cleric cut the entire suit and placed a white sheet over Uncle, then pulled away the cut clothes. Now, Uncle was naked from the waist up, but half his suit was still stuck beneath him. The cleric lifted Uncle’s legs and pulled the trousers from underneath. Then, he placed his hand under Uncle’s stomach and gestured for us to turn Uncle on his side to remove the clothes from underneath.

The son tried to turn his father’s naked shoulder, but his hand slipped. Uncle, who had been half his size when ill, was now considerably heavy in death. I stepped forward and lent a hand. Touching the dead body sent a shiver through me, like when one handles a dead fish in the market. We lifted him slightly and paused, fearing Uncle might roll over and fall face down from the plank. The cleric came to the front, placed a sheet under Uncle’s buttocks, and lifted them. We, too, lifted the shoulder a little more. The cleric gathered the clothes beneath Uncle. Then, lifting the other side, he pulled out the clothes. Now Uncle lay naked on the plank. Only that white muslin sheet covered him, from his navel to his knees.

It is at this very moment that people mock about me holding the corpse, saying, "He's on the plank." Let them not place their corpses upon me. Let them adorn the "Throne of Peacock," am I stopping them? They say the judgment of heaven and hell will occur on the Day of Judgment. The souls of the dead are sent to Barzakh, where they await the Day of Judgment. So Barzakh, too, is a plank, isn't it, for souls! The corpse on me is also confined; it cannot descend, nor can it run away. It awaits the privacy of the grave. Sometimes I wonder, what a spectacle they create? First, they place it upon me and strip it naked, then they expose its face for exhibition, so everyone can step forward and peer at it.

Now, the cleric cut a piece from a ball of cotton wool, covered Uncle's mouth with it, and gestured to the son to pour water generously. Uncle must have bathed his son in childhood; this was the son's first time. Standing before his naked dead father, and in front of two other men, where should he aim the stream? He fumbled. Even though the cleric had covered the mouth with cotton, still, a stream on the face would feel like choking. On the stomach? Only a thin muslin cloth lay there; even if it didn't wash away, it would get wet and expose the dead private parts. Playing it safe, he aimed at the feet. For a few moments, the cleric waited for the water to come higher, then he gestured to me. I grabbed the pipe and aimed a stream at Uncle’s chest; splashes began to fall on all three of us. The cleric gestured impatiently, and I lowered the pipe.

At the cleric's gestures, I kept pouring water, and he, with his muslin-gloved hands, massaged and washed each limb of the deceased body: chest, shoulders, arms, stomach, thighs, calves, feet. He washed thoroughly, massaging as he went, reciting Arabic verses. After washing the entire body, he lifted the corner of the cloth, inserted his hand between Uncle's thighs, and gestured for me to bring the pipe closer and direct water under the cloth. Then the cleric gathered the cloth and pressed on Uncle's stomach with both hands, as doctors do to restart a stopped heart. After pressing down three or four times, he took the pipe from my hand and gestured for us to turn Uncle on his side. We pushed with effort, and he grimaced, then aimed a forceful stream at Uncle’s buttocks. I felt both our noses were also wrinkled in disgust.

The cleric then handed me the pipe again and asked the son to bring a bucket. Mixing the pipe water with hot water, the cleric removed the neem leaves and spread the water over the entire body. Three or four small pieces of leaves had floated past unnoticed; he picked them out and opened a bar of soap. After thoroughly lathering his gloves, he washed the entire body with soap. By now, the son, too, had somewhat come to believe that this was not his father, but a corpse. He also began to rub lather vigorously on his father’s chest and hair. After washing the body, the cleric placed cotton wicks in Uncle’s ears and nose, and a piece of cotton on his mouth, then washed his face. Then, removing the wicks from the ears and nose, he used wet cotton wicks to clean the nostrils and ear canals.

The cleric then gestured, and this time, I asked what to bring beforehand. Grabbing the shopper with the white lumps of camphor, I wondered what this strange thing was. The cleric broke a lump in his hands, rubbed it into a powder, and applied it to Uncle’s hands, feet, face, and head. Then he lifted his face and looked at me.

Now, the cleric gestured, and I knew it was time for the shroud. There were two white sheets, one half-sized with a large opening, and the other full-sized. Passing Uncle’s head through the opening, he put on the “paper garment.” Then we lifted Uncle, and the cleric spread a sheet on the plank. Pulling the wet cloth, the cleric wrapped Uncle in the large sheet, then twisted the sheet at the top and bottom and tied it with white strips of cloth, exactly like a shawarma. A shawarma, that white flour bread with pieces of meat inside. As this thought crossed my mind, I felt a pang in my stomach and developed a revulsion for shawarma. The remaining lumps of camphor he scattered within the shroud.

Covering Uncle’s nakedness, we moved aside the curtains made of sheets hanging on the drying rope. The men waiting on the other side quickly gathered around the plank. Uttering the Arabic slogan of the second Kalima, everyone put their hands on the plank, lifted Uncle from it, and placed him on the funeral bier. Lying on the bier, washed, cleansed, and shrouded, Uncle was now a funeral procession.

White clothes are universal. For fair brides, and for our widows too. For the turban of chieftaincy, and for the dead man's shroud. What's more, even to cover the corpse's private parts, they use white cloth. Besides, living people's underwear is also white. Perhaps they use me as a blank canvas too. White powder in a white shroud. They cut down trees, cook them, then beat them to make my fragrant powder. When a child is born, they will put a pamper on him and sprinkle fragrant powder. Adults, too, will wear clothes and jewelry, put on lipstick and powder, always playing the hero and heroine. They will even bury their own corpses in starched shrouds, sprinkle me on them, and make them fragrant.

Even before the news reached the lounge, the word had spread that the funeral procession was coming for the last watch. The crying turned into wailing. As soon as the women saw the funeral bier, they wailed loudly, and the crying children, frightened, shrieked. My heart sank. My seven-year-old Bittu is already very timid; these wails and shrieks must have terrified him. Two years ago, on Eid al-Adha, he caused quite a fuss. When he realized that the meat in the pot was from the same goat he had played with all week, he refused to eat meat for three days.

I placed the bier down and stepped back. The women had attacked from all sides. Auntie and her daughters wailed, beating their heads, and the other women also cried loudly. In this uproar, I searched for Bittu. He was hiding in his mother’s lap, crying. Again and again, he would look at the funeral bier with frightened eyes, then at the crying women around it, then hide in his mother's lap and cry again.

After about fifteen minutes, the commotion subsided a little, and I signaled to my wife to come aside.

"Why did you bring him?"

"Where would I have left him?"

"He’ll be utterly ruined by evening." I said, stroking Bittu’s back.

"What’s done is done. I'm worried about what will happen when they lift the bier."

She was right. There would be even more commotion when the bier was lifted. What could happen? It’s Uncle's, and I'll be among those carrying the bier; he'll stay with the women.

"You should take him somewhere before they lift the bier, otherwise, he'll be exhausted from crying."

"Where can I take him? How can I take him? It's my own uncle's funeral. Will it look good if I leave the funeral to amuse a child?"

"You've been exhausted since dawn. There are plenty of other relatives of Uncle living; let them do something too. Look at Bittu's condition."

I looked. His condition was very bad. The point about other relatives was also true. I had been at the forefront since dawn. Announcing the death at the mosque, arranging for the cleric and the plank, getting permission for the grave from the cemetery committee, choosing the grave site, settling all the dealings for digging the grave with the gravedigger, bringing the shroud sheets and other supplies—I had been running around everywhere. Besides, when they lifted the bier, the women would make such a commotion that no one would notice who was there and who wasn't.

"Then, let's do this: just before they lift the bier, I'll take Bittu to the mosque on the pretext of checking the arrangements for the funeral prayer."

"And when will you bring Bittu back?"

"We'll come back after burying the funeral."

"Oh no, you'll take the child to bury a dead body?"

"It'll be fine; I'll be with him. Only men will be there, and there won't be any noise. Besides, I can't come back again and again."

Clouds had gathered. It would be difficult to bury if it rained, so the funeral couldn’t be delayed much longer. The funeral prayer was set for Asr time. The congregation was to stand at a quarter to six. The cleric could lead the funeral prayer at any time; the trick was to have the funeral bier present when the worshipers finished their prayers. The worshipers would gain blessings in five minutes, and there would be plenty of people to pray and intercede for the deceased's forgiveness. The family would also boast until the fortieth day that the funeral was well-attended. The mosque was nearby, but the cemetery was a distance. Carrying the bier on shoulders also earns blessings, and then relatives have nothing to gossip about, but carrying it all the way to the cemetery was a hassle. It was decided that we would carry it on our shoulders from the house to the mosque, and then by ambulance from there.

At a quarter past five, I left, saying I was going to check the mosque arrangements. Bittu was with me. I had told his uncle to bring the car; we would go together from the mosque. Bittu was very happy that we were going alone. To be on the safe side, I began to explain that a person dies because God calls them. That’s why we wash them, dress them in new clothes, and then everyone comes together to send them off, "just like we drop your uncle off at the airport." We talked and laughed as we went. From his innocent questions and comments, it seemed he wasn't as unaware as I thought. Nowadays, children learn a lot from YouTube too. Well, it’s good I brought him along; he avoided the commotion and was also mentally prepared for the burial.

After the funeral prayer, I picked Bittu up and showed him Uncle’s final glimpse as a man, then handed him to his uncle and helped carry the bier to the ambulance.

We reached the graveyard, and the grave was already dug. On one side of the grave pit was a mound of fresh earth; on the other, the bier was placed. Uncle’s son and I went into the grave. Those outside lowered Uncle from above. Two men held the shawarma-like ends, and two stood pulling the cloth rope from under his waist. From below, for a moment, it felt as if they were about to bury me and close the grave with a white cross above. My breath hitched.

The shroud was opened from his face, and turning Uncle’s face towards the Qibla, we raised our hands. Those above pulled us out. After placing the cement slabs over the pit, everyone took handfuls of earth from the fresh mound.

"You put some dirt too, Bittu, it brings blessings."

Everyone earned blessings, and the gravedigger, holding a shovel, began to shift the mound of earth onto the slabs. Bittu climbed into my lap. The experience of burying a dead body for the first time was quite exciting for him. He was very happy after placing soil on the grave with his own hands. After completing the mound, the gravedigger was now shaping it like an Arabic tent.

"When will Uncle come back?"

For a minute, I thought of not spoiling his mood and telling him "in a few days." Then I thought, this is the truth of life, and he needs to endure it. It's alright, we'll manage.

"Never."

"Then who will take his things?"

"His son."

"And will I get all your things when you're gone?"

I looked at Bittu in surprise. He was watching the gravedigger designing the mound with great interest. Children saying such things is common. They are innocent; they don't understand that death's black hole consumes a person.

"Yes, son, everything I have is yours. Now, and later too."

Bittu paid no attention to me, still watching the gravedigger.

"Parents' lives are only for their children."

I kissed Bittu’s cheek. He smiled and looked at me. At that very moment, the gravedigger signaled that the work was finished. Everyone raised their hands in prayer. Before their hands fell, a loud clap of thunder boomed above.

"It sounds like Uncle has reached above!" Bittu whispered to me, clinging to me, frightened by the sound of the thunder.

"Yes, now everything is definitely his son’s," I said, laughing. Simultaneously, it began to rain in sheets. Everyone rushed towards the parking. The muddy paths among the graves began to churn. Everyone’s gaze fell to the ground, and their thoughts turned to home. Uncle’s son walked beside me, ordering canopies and chairs for tomorrow’s rites on his phone. I was angered that he had just buried his father and hadn’t even left the cemetery, yet he was already thinking about chairs? I hugged Bittu to my chest like a baby monkey, wrapping my arms around him.

Leaving the graveyard, for the first time, I truly felt that Uncle was no longer with us. My heart sank. As I got into the car, the cloud within me burst, and I began to cry in sheets. Bittu looked at me in astonishment.