Chronicle of a Corpse Bearer by Cyrus Mistry

sucked in a deep breath of cold air, after I had found my feet again, and both of us had slaked our thirst.
    It felt almost wintry inside if you came in from the hot sun, yet incredibly calm and pleasant and quiet. A canopy of foliage screened the space between the cave and the rock from light as well as attention. It was impossible to tell from the outside that, for those who sought complete privacy, the hillside offered them this improbable, astonishing asylum.
    That morning, in this very hideout, Seppy and I commenced our journey of mutual self-discovery. Both of us, so young and inexperienced, had an unerring sense of how to proceed, of what was happening to us, or between us. This had to be love, we were certain. . . It only took that first physical touch: incandescent, it fused us. She wasn’t shy. After that, nothing could have rent us apart. Even later, when all the disturbances had commenced, all the bickering and interventions by family and world, even then we never lost for a moment that silent understanding we had found between us, like the telepathic complicity of deaf-mute twins. Together, we were defined, happy, ourselves. Alone, we were amorphous, directionless, rather lost.
    And every evening, once it was dark, as I wended my way home from Kemps Corner to Forjett Hill Road, I felt alone, and puzzled over that emotional conflict I probably would never have been able to define or verbalize then. The conundrum that lurks behind sexual joy, perhaps behind every form of ecstasy: that ultimately there’s nothing to satiety but emptiness, something not far removed from the void of despair. But this was only an abstract, momentary sensation; in reality, with every meeting, every merging, our love grew more steadfast, inviolable. She was not afraid. She trusted me. We were able to laugh together; everything we did, the whole world, seemed funny. Osmotically, as it were—through touch and caress—she communicated her own strength and fearlessness to me.
    How else would I have found the courage during the nocturnal showdown that was about to take place to stand before my father and admit that I was in love with the daughter of a corpse bearer; and at that, as I was to discover later, of a man who was his sworn enemy from the time when I was practically an infant.

    Most of the time, I knew my father as a preoccupied and mild-mannered man; but that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of yielding to bouts of great rage. As a child, I had seen him once deliver a ferocious slap to a young chaasni boy who had consumed the choicest pieces of consecrated fruit he had been assigned to deliver to the home of a family, and then, when questioned about it—after the family complained of receiving a much depleted chaasni—lied outright, first to Ardesar, and then to my father as well, while he was questioning him.
    ‘Did your elders never warn you not to tell lies?’ I could hear him yelling at the boy, furious. He was probably just a few years older than me. ‘Never let a falsehood slip through your lips, even by mistake, do you understand?’
    Father had a complete horror of the act of deliberately uttering a falsehood. He saw it as a terrible sin, a willingness to play ball with the Devil! Unable to efface the memory of that backhanded wallop he once delivered to the chaasni boy, I was petrified that night. I trusted his love enough to know that he would never strike me, and all through childhood, he never had: yet the enormity of my crimes of commission and omission were now in the balance and, I feared, could easily tilt it.
    Yes, I do recall that season of my vagrancy and call it apt, insomuch as it was fully congruent with what was to follow soon after. When this eight-month period ended, instead of attempting to answer my exam as I had promised Father I would, I abruptly relinquished everything I held dear, embracing instead a completely new chapter in my life: narrow and segregated, cut off from most people and