Lessons for life from the resting place of the dead

In the humdrum of Mumbai’s frenetic pace and the mad pursuit of goals and targets, where few have the time to share a kind word with the person beside them, it’s important to appreciate when beautiful strangers remind us of such simple acts of goodness

Let’s call him Uncle Saby to protect his privacy. Dare I say, it’s close to his real name though I’m pretty sure that in the rare likelihood of him learning about this little ode to him, he would be cool about the attention.

Often, when I step into the cemetery where my dear parents are laid to rest, there is an inexplicable urge to invoke dark humour. Why? Perhaps, it’s my way of processing grief. Then, there are these masala Western flicks that have left a mark; snatches from those VHS-era films, starring the likes of Clint Eastwood, Gregory Peck, Yul Brynner and co. that come rushing to mind whenever I approach this space. It’s high noon and a scorcher. Dust bowl-like scenes greet me. Crows and hawks hover above in the salty, heavy air [the cemetery was laid over salt pans]. It has all the trappings of a frame when one gun-toting, denim-and-leather-vest-clad rebel faces off against another. The missing element is the main street of a Midwest town, where such scenes are usually set in. And yes, there is no handsome Eastwood or Brynner in sight.

My trips to the cemetery are usually resigned to interacting with half-interested scruffy-looking caretakers who have to be woken up from their siesta or lounging, for urgent clean-up jobs or some such. By now, I am fairly used to the un-pleasantries that come with these routine visits. On a recent visit for a task [broken cross had to be replaced], I spot Uncle Saby. Clad in his holiday best–crisp cargo shorts and a summery tee, he has a bunch of fresh lilies in one hand, and a marigold garland in the other. He approaches me just as a relative or friend would, and checks on how the work is progressing. “It’s going alright, uncle [every senior gent is an uncle, no?]; the arm of the cross fell apart, so I had to replace it,” I reply. 

“At least you are looking after it,” he smiles. On noticing my father’s year of birth (1940), he chuckles, “Ah! Not very long for me too! I am 1950-born. My dear wife was 1959-born but she went before me.” His voice lowers a bit, yet the cheery disposition hasn’t left his face even as he recalls losing her during the dark days of COVID-19 due to a complication in her lungs. I rue about my woes each time I visit the cemetery. Meanwhile, Scruffy Worker 1 and 2 are doing a rushed job, despite my presence. I must turn my attention to them so they rightfully earn their chai-paani ka paisa. Uncle Saby decides to head to his wife’s resting place, in another section of the cemetery.

The new cross is installed not before I give Scruffy Worker 1 and 2 a crash course in alignment. Uncle Saby returns. “I see it’s all done…wonderful. But in a few months’ time, you’ll have to move the remains to the niche. One more thing to look after; it will be fine.” His concern is surprisingly comforting. I enquire about his family. I feel reassured that he is surrounded by a close-knit bunch. “Until recently, I would visit her daily since it’s just a 10-minute walk from my home. It’s good exercise, and I like coming here,” his reasoning defies the logic of most who’ve lost a loved one feel when they enter this space. But clearly, love is eternal, and Uncle Saby is showing how it’s done in his own positive way. His affable personality and strong will to live while celebrating his deceased wife had to be seen to be believed.

“I’ll look out for you the next time I am here,” he smiles, while waving a warm goodbye. I wish him good health and happiness. My feelings of empathy, gratitude and affection for an absolute stranger, who gave his time, and showed genuine kindness, cane as an eye-opener. It helped me find solace while executing a mind-numbing task. He was my passing Good Samaritan, a kind-hearted Eastwood; more importantly, it was a reminder that there are guardian angels around us. Even in maniacal Mumbai. That afternoon, Uncle Saby taught me many invaluable lessons about life.

How beautiful that it was shared in a place where we pray for the dead.

mid-day’s Features Editor Fiona Fernandez relishes the city’s sights, sounds, smells and stones...wherever the ink and the inclination takes her. 
She tweets @bombayana. Send your feedback to [email protected]

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