A Funeral at Easter

I woke up to the sound of the mike blaring from our bedside window. My wife was stirring with our little son nestled between her small arms, but her eyes did not open. It had been a sleepless night for me however, over three hours of amplified Bible discourse from our church just a couple of houses away had taken its toll, it, after all; being the Easter weekend. My eyes were red. They felt red, though I could not see them at the moment, caked with only God knows what.

With a moan, I sat up, tossed aside the stuffy mosquito net and pricked my ears with a lazy yawn at the sudden crackle of the noisy mike. Not another sermon, was it? This time, much to my surprise, it was the town crier. Pudgy man, with voice like a deep-voiced woman. God, he could well tear down walls of ears .

Pessimistic as I was (and too many a time over the top in that), I felt a shiver down my spine as I heard my wife rustling the blanket as she stirred with a small moan, which I ignored, listening with all my might. Of course it might well be this or that announcement, arriving sugar rations, rice rations; etc, etc; but I recognized this tone he used for announcements such as this. Dull, sullen, somber; nothing good.

Pu Sawma, seventy years old, said the crier with the woman's voice, who left yesterday at around eight A.M for his jhum to check his snare hasn't yet returned. All available men are asked for an organized search-party to set out after breakfast. All must bring packed lunch.

I scratched my head and kicked aside my blanket, both sweaty feet landing on the dirty floor in unison. Thump. Thump. My wife moaned again, and I could hear her stir. She might be awake. She might have heard, but I dismissed turning back around to face her questioning eyes.

For a strange reason, I had this obvious feeling. The old man had always been a bit thick in the head. Well, that's what the whole town used to think anyway, and yesterday, holiday, a religious day, Good Friday; he had to go to check his snare. Many a time, he had been known to ignore Sundays and church services for his own little private time in the fields. Nobody thought of anything curious or suspicious in his little escapade as it was something he had done before so many times, even after the morning church-service. It's somehow, I don't know... a sorry truth perhaps, that too many a time, Old Sawma was never taken too seriously. He always does what he wants, regardless of Sundays, sunshine-days, rainy days. But religious days were a bit too much; that was everyone's opinion I have heard so far. Of course the town gossips were either in an uproar or a hush at his many escapades, but that never stopped him at all. He might as well have caught some good game - wild pigeons, jungle fowl. That would make a good, Good Friday feast, would it not?

But on a Good Friday, clearly why on an auspicious time when the town was under such hustle was what everyone I knew thought about. And now, everyone might as well add that he was suffering the consequences of "sin on a holy day" (I felt myself smiling at the random thought).

Well, what happened afterwards was a bit rushed. We all prepared to assemble at the town square right after the morning meal to take our instructions. Nearly two thirds of the town adult male population might as well be there, I did not know, really; but such an estimate is usually correct. Truth is, on days like these, it is a liability. Though I had preferred to do things around the house that day, like fencing up our sorry, empty little vegetable garden beside our house (to keep out those damned chickens of the people next door), it is an unavoidable truth that sometimes the crier cries a different tune that you just cannot ignore; and you had to answer that cry no matter what; night or day, shine or rain.

I had now put on a cap and my wife's packed lunch was inside my knapsack and reached the square soon afterwards where a band of our town's finest had already gathered. There was Rema, President of the Town Council, a good, old friend of mine, pointing fingers around; five Committee Members from the Y.M.A, (Young Mizo Association) teenagers and full grown men alike - all Y.M.A. members, of course, naturally; with their knapsacks. What a procession for an auspicious weekend, that's what the women might have said.