A Funeral Pyre, by Joanne Divine

It is a funeral pyre, not an ordinary rubbish heap, and I cannot give to you the flame without a
backward glance at the days we spent together. On this pyre lies Singhar Ghanish Prantha age 70, his photo hanging on display. Does his photo reflect the joy he has brought into my life?

Every morning my friend would sit on his stool in front of his son’s shop. Moments later, I slowly made my way through the rubbish strewn path to sit on my stool, beside him. ‘Namaste’, did he know how much this simple greeting, uttered every morning, meant to me? Our friendship didn’t need words to fill the space. Across the narrow laneway from his son’s shop, a tourist hotel welcomed travelers from lands so strange to us. To the tourist passersby, we may have looked like two old men sitting idly watching the world go by. At times we would overhear an English speaking tourist exclaim their sorrow at these two old men’s inability to behold exotic corners of the world. Yet our inner world, our shared memories of 48 years, held as much fascination to us as the Annapurna Mountains to the insatiable explorer.

I suppose our long suffering wives were gleefully smug over our friendship. What dread must have filled their heads when we laid down our trowels for the last time, invading their daytime space. We missed the outdoors, the smells, and the comradery. Retirement wasn’t the anticipated prize that we fantasized as the hot sun beat down on our bowed backs. It really started as a joke when we told our wives that we were now office boys, shutting the door behind us to amble down the path to go sit on our respective stools.

And there we sat, day after day, after day. Bhoj Raj, the vegetable man, bellowed about his produce of the day as he pushed his livelihood. Our mouths salivated as saffron colored carrots danced atop golden onions and ruby red tomatoes jostled for space. A daily discussion about what our wives would cook for our lunch always preceded the next door neighbor’s gadfly goose cacophony.

The bowlegged restaurant owner would wave to us as he hurried by to open for the breakfast crowd. We chuckled at the memory of his proud announcement on naming his new restaurant, “A Thousand Stairs Serene Restaurant”. This was as good as “Fire on the Mountain Hotel” across the street and “Hotel Holy Heathen” next door. The non English speaking proprietor requested a neon sign with the name “Hotel Holy Heaven” but instead now owns an infidel inn.

Sometimes Singhar’s infant grandson would join us, his squeals of delight alerting us to his arrival. My friend delighted in his grandson’s smile. That little cherub face with his one-tooth smile. As our grandsons played together, we secretly hoped they would form a bond that would last as long as their grandfathers’. When his daughter gave birth to her lovely child, my heart burst with pride as if my own daughter gave new life. When my children revealed their new treasured toy to their friends, they hastened to add that their father gave it to them. Did Singhar know that it was their father’s friend that they were referring to and not their own father?

Whenever his mother-in-law came to visit, Singhar always made me laugh with his jokes. “One day a guest, two days a guest, three days a pest.” Singhar, my co-conspirator, and I would sneak off to commune with our fishing poles. He always said it was God’s blessing that he had become hard-of-hearing when his wife caught him fibbing.

His presence brought such peace into my life.

‘My friend pass in peace’, my flame giving him passage to the other side.