THE SIKH PATIENT---Chapter 10---TWO FUNERALS AND NO WEDDING (Continued)...
Me trying to look cool in a ripped jean jacket
TWO FUNERALS AND NO WEDDING (Continued…)
I lift the sheet. I’m actually looking at a dead person, who created me. While I notice that his body looks fake, like it’s made out of wax, I wonder: Are there actual things that are worse than this? Don’t answer that.
He’s faking it…he is so kidding. Come on dad, you’re not that funny. I actually laugh…good thing no one else is in the room…or they might arrest me. I’m laughing at my dead father’s corpse.
He has way more wrinkles now that he’s dead, I swear it, he’s aging still. When did his beard turn so white? Did I ever even look at him? No, I stopped looking at him when he stopped looking at me. Tit for tat. His gray hair is tied in a ponytail, it needs to be washed. Where is Nick? He’s really good at that, dad. My dad is not wearing a turban. I wish he were here, to see this. He should know how bad he looked. He should know that I cried because he looked bad to me, dead.
Dad, this is all I want to say to you. I should have done it while you were alive. You should have died as I gave away the one thing I thought I had, my innocence. But I was wrong, you took it from me, borrowed it, but it never fit you. Now you’re dead and I can’t get it back. Now nobody has it. And me and Nick were the fools who believed something was at stake.
I know you died on purpose tonight. So I could never have sex, so I would hate it. So I would see your dead face in my lover. I know you.
Where is Nick? Did he die too? He’s a recovering alcoholic. I don’t care. He’s outside the door, watching me from the tiny crack. Dad if it’s O.K. with you, I’m gonna put some Crack in his coffee so he becomes an addict again and has to die like you did, because it’s his fault that I didn’t get to say goodbye to you.
I look at Nick through the small space where the door should have been shut. I don’t want to notice his chin, red from when I pushed him out of my way. His wrinkled pants still sadly moist from yesterday. That was yesterday, Nick, it will never happen again.
My dad died at midnight.
What day are we supposed to be sad? I choose today.
*
I stood in the corner in what is called a funeral parlor. A parlor? Do I get a manicure and a massage, after I set my father on fire, all for the price of one? By the way, someone else died—wait someone else probably died today too—but the person I’m talking about is the person I was, with my father. Because you are someone different with every person, and now I will never be that person again. That daughter who understood that he thought of life as a chessboard and he opted not to move. It was his turn, but he passed. That’s all he would say had happened. He got tired of playing.
The Ragi sang religious hymns loudly as he pressed his wrinkled hands on the harmonium. He wore a black turban and a white kurta. He was singing. Umm excuse me, sir, out of all due respect, shut up. This is no time to be singing tunes. This is not a rock concert. Stop the music, now. No one is allowed to experience anything beautiful because a man is dead.
Sikhs believe that music is one of the paths to God. Well, it’s also the path to the Devil. Don’t they know about the Satan worshippers who listen to records backward and then torture small animals? So, music man, stop torturing us with your music.
There were crystal vases with yellow and white carnations, lavender lilies, and peach roses below his casket. For some reason Indians love carnations. Well, you people have no taste, carnations are hideous. How dare you bring them here. Why are we trying to make this picturesque? This is the most revolting scene in the entire universe. Even people sitting around me were singing. Where are the doves, because you know what Prince, I just found out what it actually sounds like when doves cry. Listen you nameless rock star, when you are dead you won’t have a name. You aren’t a prince, so why don’t you just pick a name, because you’re lucky you are alive so you can say it.
White sheets were spread on top of the striped, purple and grey, carpet where the congregation sat. The men and women didn’t bother sitting on separate sides of the room like they did in the Gurudwara. Thank you, men and women, for not caring about your weird fear of each other.
From the corner of my eye I saw my blind uncle, Tarak Uncle, sitting in the corner of the room, with his head hung down. Are you praying? God took away your sight, how can you even think about Him anymore? He had a genetic disease that half of his mother’s sons were supposed to get. My other uncle in India had the disease too. My father was the son who didn’t get it, the lucky one. My uncle who was sitting cross-legged on the floor never really drank. He actually tried to stop my father from drinking so much when they had lived together in Chicago when they first moved to the U.S. He wasn’t blind then and my father wasn’t dead then. I would have picked blindness over this.
My uncle couldn’t see his brother’s dead body, lying in a casket at the end of the room. He couldn’t see our worthwhile endeavor of staring at a dead body. He probably laughs at us. A showing. He got to miss the show. Well give me your tickets; I’ll see if I can scalp them.
Maybe I should get up and sit next to you. Maybe I’ll catch your disease. Right now I wouldn’t mind being blind. I noticed a lot of people had their eyes closed while they were praying. God gave you people eyes, why do you close them when you think about Him? And Tarak Uncle, what does dead mean to you now, you couldn’t see him when he was alive?
Why is time moving so slowly? Sometimes you think time doesn’t deserve a name. Or do you think it shouldn’t have such an exotic meaning, implying ties to eternity? The time you spend in a room full of “mourners” who are required to be sad when an alcoholic Cardiologist dies. What’s the name of that time? People were taking days off from work, it was like a holiday. There will be appetizers later. I should have made some punch. Spiked it in his honor. The home had huge windows and the sun poured through the room, creating a huge shadow where his wooden casket lay. How appropriate, the setting was just right, even the lighting. This was like watching T.V. with no commercials.
I’m making this up. This didn’t really happen. I have a wild imagination. I remember my dad said to me when I was seven, “Do you know that you can make up a sentence that no one else since the beginning of time has ever said? You can say: ‘A flamingo sat on a red rat.’ It’s completely original, no one has ever said it before. You can do anything.’” Can I die? No, that’s not original, everyone does that.
I got up and walked towards the bathroom, I’m gonna go sit on the toilet while they memorialize my father. The bathroom was so delightful, it smelled like perfumey roses. There was an amazing vase with canaries painted on it by the sink. I took it into the stall with me and dropped it as I sat on the toilet seat. I looked at the broken pieces of expensive porcelain and laughed. I walked out of the bathroom, leaving the broken vase. Charge me, O.K.? Stop shoving pristine, immaculate objects in these people’s faces. We have to go outside and look at a dead man after we piss.
I ran into Nick when I stepped out of the bathroom. Are you following me? Nick put his hand in mine and pursed his lips together. I should not have, didn’t mean to, it was an accident, but I felt a moment of peace then. “Are you O.K.?” he asked.
“What?” Umm, I’m sorry; I don’t think I heard you. If I was O.K., that would definitely not be O.K. I looked into Nick’s eyes. I was looking for my father in someone else’s eyes. I walked away from him.
I looked in the mirror of the foyer of the funeral home and looked into my own eyes. “You are his ghost,” I whispered.
Then I saw Ricky, my cousin who was in the United States Army. He was wearing his uniform. It was a navy blue suit with different color badges embroidered at the shoulders. I wanted to tell him if he ever killed himself, he’d wear that uniform, ‘cause that’s what soldiers do. And I was wearing a peacock green salvar kameez. I dressed like a peacock at my daddy’s funeral. Doves, canaries, peacocks. Has anyone seen Birds? “Whoa,” Ricky said, “No one told me to bring my sunglasses. That’s a rather exciting color you’re wearing.”
“And you’re wearing your uniform, how patriotic of you,” I sighed. I wanted to tell him I was wearing this color for his father, Tarak Uncle, his blind father who lost the ability to see color first. For a long time, he saw everything in black and white. My father told me that and then started crying. Someone, go tell Tarak Uncle what an obscene and inappropriate color I’m wearing to my own father’s funeral. He’ll laugh, inside, because it makes a difference to other people. I’m a woman wearing green, to match my eyes, think about that Uncle. Keep that painting in your head. I bet the walls you put up from other people, have paintings on them. And anyway, why are you here? You two stopped speaking years ago.
“I’m sorry,” Ricky said. His eyes became red.
“Don’t do that…please.” I looked away from him at Tarak Uncle, who wore a beige shirt. Someone better have told him it was beige. Is beige really a color?
“You know, my dad hasn’t spoken since he found out.” Great, a mute blind man, very useful. Did I just think that? How about we erase that or at least put it in the trash bin of thoughts we should not have thought?
I looked at him. I should probably start shopping for a new father. Tarak Uncle isn’t bad. He even looks like dad, with the same oval-shaped head and dark leathery skin. My dad had two scars on his face from boils he got as a young child, they only showed when he smiled. When I was ten he told me he got them from a bullfight. He told me he won.
No, you lost.
Ricky hugged me quickly, then I pulled away. “So what’s going on in your life?” I absolutely could not care less.
“I bought a boat,” he said and then laughed. That’s not funny. His little badges vibrated as his body shook.
“A what? No, you didn’t.” I tried to avoid making eye contact with my mother’s friends who all wanted to so badly to pity me. They all wore silk salvaars and wrapped chiffon chunis around their heads.
“They gave me a twenty thousand dollar bonus for going to Korea.”
“You spent twenty thousand dollars on a boat when you’re going to Korea? You do know you can’t take the boat with you?” I sighed and looked across the room as the sun angled and formed a slight rainbow on the back wall. God this is so poetic.
“I didn’t spend twenty, eighteen. It was on sale at Costco. It’s a great way to pick up chicks. I think of it as an investment.” He sipped slowly on a paper cup of water. Ahh, can we have real glasses? You do know that to the man that’s in the casket, what we’re drinking would have been his most important concern. When Rick first went to the army we were worried about him because alcoholism runs in the family and he was drinking with no abandon. He was almost kicked out of the army and that takes talent. I remember my dad’s dad, who used to take two shots of vodka a day and lived to be ninety-eight. He’s the one who threw us off the curve and made us all think we were immortal.
“Are you making this up to cheer me up? Because I think it’s working,” I smiled. Just when I think my life is sad. “What did you do with the other two thousand, ‘cause I know you didn’t save it to buy Korean food?”
“Scuba gear,” he sighed. He blinked a few times, indicating how serious these purchases were to him. And you’re the one who gets to stay alive.
“Do you know how to scuba dive?” I asked.
“No, but I’ll learn one day.” O.K., I’m still alive, right?
“Have you been on the boat yet?” I asked to make sure we were having a conversation in this world and not the next.
“You mean like in the water? I get wasted in it all the time, but it’s always parked. The weather’s been kind of shitty.” You live in California. He stared at Lovleen, the sitar player, and seemed to be undressing her with his eyes.
“There’s something wrong with our genes, isn’t there?” I asked and stared at the white sheets on the floor. There will be no sheets at my funeral.
“You just noticed.” He laughed. I laughed to make him happy. I’m not laughing because I’m happy, just to make that clear.
“God I missed you. Stop looking at her, she’s thirteen.” I pulled his head towards me. I’m sure he could manage to get kicked out of a funeral home. Maybe I’ll blame the broken vase on him. The same way I blamed this kid in my preschool, who always got in trouble, for cutting my hair when I was five, even though I was the one who did it.
“Have I ever told you, you remind me of Daria?” he asked.
“The cartoon chick on MTV?”
“Yeah. Totally.” I ignored him as he spoke and turned around to meet his sister, Uma who went to study Russian architecture in Moscow. She came all the way from Russia for my father’s funeral. I don’t know if I would have done that for her.
“Yaaaz,” she cried. Tears were streaming down her beautiful face, her wide eyes were red and her strong cheekbones were wet with tears. Her tall thin body waved back and forth until she grabbed a hold of me. “I can’t believe this is happening. Yazer…I just can’t believe it.” She was huffing and puffing. Yazer. Happening? This already happened. I felt like I needed to console her. How could she do this to me, I was trying to maintain composure. She was crying like a chimpanzee and I was as emotional as a rock. What the hell are you so sad about, Uma? You haven’t seen my father in years. You hated him, you called him a bastard to my face. Don’t get me wrong, Uma is my favorite cousin.
“Stop it,” I said to her in a harsh tone. “Stop crying.”
“Yaz,” she sobbed. “You have to let it out.”
“I don’t have to do anything.” I hate people.
She began to breathe heavily in and out and it almost looked like she was doing Lamas. I wanted to ask her if she was pregnant, just to throw attention to her problems. She had a boyfriend, she could be pregnant. I, on the other hand, will remain celibate for the rest of eternity. If I asked her if she was pregnant she would forget about my father completely and obsessively worry about her weight, even though she was underweight. I thought it might be more productive for her to occupy her mind with vanity rather than an obligation toward grief. Her grief seemed so real, but she cried this hard after we watched Beaches. I hated how this was a movie to her and she had managed to grab the starring role. And most of all I hated how small my heart was.
There was my mother, in the corner of the room. Standing up with good posture and dry eyes. She hadn’t lost control yet and I was counting the hours. Because this was not O.K. She had a more emotional reaction when Ravi cut his hair. If anyone wanted to have a breakdown and be the star of her own personal Indian movie, it was my mother. But she wasn’t saying her lines, she had been practicing them her whole life. She had talent.
Mom, it’s show time.
She was extraordinarily upset that I was wearing bright green. She acted more upset about that than the obvious tragedy. That was her way of solving things, wearing the right clothes. If I only wore the right clothes and jewelry to the right event she could have respected me. But I was way off this time. I was embarrassing her. She thought I was doing it to hurt her. I wasn’t but it was a bonus in my scheme to become the most distasteful human being alive.
I turned around and saw Nick pacing back and forth in this “home.” This is not a home; it’s an elaborate setting to celebrate devastation. I walked towards him under a crystal chandelier that seemed like it was ready to fall. I wrote this poem once about how I thought Rome fell on me. “Do you want to talk about it?” Nick asked.
“What is it?” I asked him. I bit my nail and I don’t even have that bad habit, but I thought this would be a good time to start, at least it wouldn’t be in vain. Nick was wearing a black suit with a light peach silk tie. This was the first time I had seen him in a suit, he looked good.
“We don’t have to talk,” he said and pushed a strand of hair out of my face. My father was too debilitated before his death to notice that I had secretly started cutting my hair.
“Maybe you should leave,” I said without looking at his face.
“Are you sure?” He sounded like he was entertaining me. He was talking to me the way adults talk to small children when they tell them there is a ghost under the bed. Nick, I’m the ghost in your bed.
“No, I’m not sure, I’m not sure if I should be here,” I mumbled.
“I think I should stay. I would like to stay.” He spoke with an authority in his voice that I found very sexy. Don’t think about sex at your dad’s funeral, Yasmine. Can you at least extend him that curtsey? I am two people.
“Can I ask you a question? Did this really happen? Is this real?” My eyes were darting all over the room.
“Yeah,” he said and looked away at a painting of a swan. What is it with the birds?
“No, see, my dad is not real anymore. You are real. I am…well I’m in another category altogether. I mean you are really here, in this room. I cannot comprehend how it is possible that he is not here. That he does not exist. How do people just disappear? He left behind all this air. It’s like fog or smoke, I know I’m standing in it and it’s making my eyes water. In fact, I want to capture the exact air that is now taking his place and put it in a bottle. I want to put his smell in a bottle. I guess there are lots of bottles of liquor that are currently commemorating his smell. I’m so funny.” I didn’t laugh. He didn’t laugh. Because I’m not that funny. My dad loved Funny Girl and I refused to watch it because I thought he had bad taste.
“Do you think we can get out of here for a little while?” I asked and stared at the women who probably had a discussion at some point about my poor taste in attire and my poor mother who had to put up with it. These were the same women who warned my mother repeatedly to leave my father. Well, you can shut up now because he left.
“Yeah, let’s go outside.” We stepped into the blaring sun of January. I forgot to put on a coat; I almost forgot to breathe. Nick gave me the jacket to his suit.
We sat in his old teal Pontiac. “Maybe we should have sex,” I said to break the silence.
“What?”
“You do know what the word sex means?” He looked at me sweetly as I said this. “I know like God’s in there and they’re about to cremate my father. I guess this isn’t the best time to try and shoot for an Orgasm.” Yes, I capitalize it like I capitalize all sacred things. “I want to,” I said and stared at the maroon upholstery of his car.
“Do you think we should?” he asked as if we were deciding whether or not to buy a house.
“No. That’s why we’re going to.” I slipped my tongue into his mouth.
“You’ll hate me for this later,” he said between kisses as I bit his cheek. I already hate you. It won’t make that much of a difference…To be continued…
By
Nina Kaur