Ghostly Grind

The Ashes of a Family Drama

The next day was the "celebration"—or as everyone else was calling it, the funeral. It was a drag. I dragged myself out of bed, already wishing I could fake my own death to get out of this. The whole affair was a classic example of how not to throw a party, with an unspoken competition on who could mourn the loudest. My aunt was leading the charge with her over-the-top crying and her Oscar-worthy performance. She even threw herself next to the body at one point, making everyone cringe and wonder if she was going to start twerking next.

The hall was a mess of tacky floral arrangements, each one uglier than the last. It was like someone threw up roses and marigolds everywhere, hoping it'd mask the stench of death and wilted petals. The flowers, once vibrant, now sagged like they were as bored as I was, with petals curling up like they were trying to escape the room. The whole setup reeked of desperation, as if the flowers were trying to mask the stench of death but had given up halfway through. Incense burned thick, layering the air with a smell that made you want to gag, mixing the sour rot of dying blooms with whatever else was festering in there. Each corner was filled with arrangements that seemed to scream, "Look at us, we're really sad." The incense was burning thick, mixing with the scent of wilted flowers to create an olfactory assault that would make even the most experienced funeral-goer gag.

Uncle Ravi was going on and on about how Grandma was the best cook in the family like we hadn't all suffered through her flavorless, overcooked meals for years.

"You should have tasted her dal, It was a recipe passed down through generations. No one could ever replicate it. It was the stuff of legends." he declared, his voice dripping with exaggeration that made it clear he thought he was narrating a great epic.

I bit my lip to stop myself from laughing. Grandma's dal wasn't legendary; it was a joke. It was so bland it could've been used as a food substitute for torture. The stuff had the texture of wet paper and the flavor of disappointment. She cooked it with the kind of enthusiasm you'd expect from someone who'd lost their sense of taste and smell along with their will to live.

I was pretty sure the only thing memorable about Grandma's cooking was how it could turn a gourmet meal into a piece of cardboard.

"Legendary, my foot," I muttered under my breath. Grandma's dal was so bland it could be used as a punishment for bad behavior. Even the dog refused to eat it, preferring to scavenge for scraps of anything else.

But Uncle Ravi was on a roll, he was making it sound like Grandma's dal was the holy grail of cooking. In reality, it was a tasteless disaster. Her "secret" ingredient was a complete lack of seasoning, and the result was always a pile of mush that could be used to seal envelopes. I remember when she tried to make it spicy. The outcome was a gray sludge that might as well have been a new type of cement.

Meanwhile, Cousin Priya was snapping photos of the ceremony with the zeal of someone who was documenting a zesty celebrity funeral. The way she was going on, you'd think Grandma was a Bollywood star who had just passed away. Her camera flashed incessantly, capturing every sorrowful grimace and feigned tear. Priya's obsessive clicking was a stark contrast to the solemnity everyone else was trying to maintain.

"This is going to be so great for the family album," she said, not bothering to look up from her viewfinder.

I couldn't stop myself from snorting. "Yeah, nothing says 'cherished family memory' like a bunch of people pretending they gave a shit. '"

She finally looked up, giving me a look like I'd just insulted her life's work. "You're such an asshole. We're preserving memories here. What's your problem?"."

"Oh sure," I shot back, laying the sarcasm on thick. "Oh, I don't know, Priya. Maybe it's the fact that you're treating Grandma's funeral like it's a goddamn photo op. What's next? A selfie with the urn? #RIPGrandma, #SoBlessed?.'