I was there at her pyre. I could not but feel the lack of emotions from everyone who were mourning, probably apart from her children. Even within them I reckon it was more about accepting the circle of life, and nature of death.
Most of the times, you attend a funeral, because you must. Funerals are like marriages but with less stress and the need to dress up.
This felt different.
She was an aunt and not too distant. She was a small timid person and if you asked me, I won’t be able to recall her voice. She hardly spoke, and when she did no one really cared for what she had to say. She existed but never mattered.
Around her funeral pyre as I stood and observed. She had lived in one room of the house – due to bullheadedness of her husband, and dickheadedness of her sister-in-law.
She was never assaulted or disrespected or any of those atrocious tales we hear about Indian women. She bore four children. I am sure she got laid. At least as much as her husband if not more.
She was never made to suffer – in any form whatsoever. She did not live a life of penury but as far as I can tell, she was never treated like a woman, showered with love, care, or attention.
She was always present but never there. Her opinion never mattered, not sought.
I heard no stories about her life around her pyre or the ceremony thereafter. No one had mean things to say about her, and neither was any reminiscing. There were empty pithy faces forcing empathy and sense of loss; and that is all there was.
Ernest Hemingway had once remarked that every man had two deaths, when he is buried in the ground and the last time someone says his name. In some ways men can be immortal.
And in so many ways, she only had one death.
PS: Year after she died, her husband and son bought a nicer house and moved.