Chronicle of a Corpse Bearer by Cyrus Mistry Page A

family, microcosmically cloistered, yet beautiful in its own fashion; even uplifting, you could say, for the very seclusion it enjoined on me.
    The choice was thrust on me, and I embraced it with both arms—because that was the condition Seppy’s father stipulated: if I wanted to be with her, I was to marry her first, and be willing to live and work at the Towers of Silence. I didn’t take long to discuss or debate this proposal with my elders, or even with myself. My response was: if that’s the choice, so be it.
    That night, when I got home quite late, I should have been surprised to see Father still up. He was seated at the small square marble table in the front room where the rest of us usually took our dinner, long after he was already in bed. But tonight, he was seated there himself, staring at the floor. Was he unwell? Mother and Vispy were there, too, standing behind him. My mother was hugging herself as though she were feeling cold, or frightened. Vispy had his arms akimbo, in the manner of a severe taskmaster. The expressions on both their faces, their refusal to meet my eyes, except in fleeting, reproachful glares, convinced me—that the game was up.

    ‘Where were you?’ asked Mother, in the hurt-filled voice she reserved for such occasions.
    ‘The usual,’ I answered, trying to sound as casual as possible. ‘Classes. Then I went for a stroll with Rohinton. Before catching the tram back. Have I come home so late?’
    ‘See? See?’ yelled Vispy, glowering, unable to contain himself. ‘God knows where he’s learnt to tell lies like that. . .or maybe Ahriman, more likely.’
    My father spoke sternly to Vispy:
    ‘Shut up! You stay out of this. . .’
    Then he looked at me, and asked:
    ‘Have you been studying, son? We heard something else. That you’ve been spending a lot of time at Doongerwaadi?’
    Now look at that, I thought to myself, the very place I had assumed would be a safe haven—compared to walking the streets, which I had been doing for so long prior to that—had been my undoing. Caught off guard, I averted my eyes to the floor, which both Mother and Vispy all-too-promptly seized upon as an admission of guilt.
    ‘But why?’ asked Mother, even more agonized by her sense of hurt, as if my unworthy behaviour had cast a slur on her own parenting. ‘Don’t you
want
to study, be like your brother, and finish your matric? What did we do wrong? I never treated you differently from Vispy. Both my sons are equal, I always said. My eldest may be smarter in studies, but don’t underestimate my younger. Don’t you
want
to finish with school, get ahead in life like Vispy? It’s okay if you’ve failed once. Second time you’ll definitely pass. Nothing to be disheartened about. Just don’t—’
    My father, who had been silent all this time, spoke rather roughly:
    ‘Hilla, please!
Jara bolva bhi desay ke nahi
?’ his deep guttural voice, seethed with irritation. ‘Let the boy answer!’
    There was a moment’s silence, while I collected my thoughts.
    ‘I can’t study, Daddy. It’s too difficult. . .’
    ‘I told you I’d help. Only try your best, didn’t I say?’ he reprimanded me.
    ‘I can’t, Daddy, I know I won’t make it. I know my best just isn’t good enough. It’s too difficult. . .for me, at least,’ I said, sneaking a glance in Vispy’s direction.
    My father looked away. Now
he
was hurt for my deficient faith in the power of his prayers.
    ‘If I felt I had any chance, I would, I would have tried my best. . .’ I mumbled apologetically, ‘but I’m not making any headway. It’s all meaningless to me. You see, I feel I should simply start working, begin my life. . .I can’t do this. . .I don’t want to be a burden on you-all anymore.’
    My mother, who had been waiting to interrupt, couldn’t contain herself.
    ‘Have you gone completely—Work? You’re so young still, and what will you
do
? In today’s world, without being a matric-pass no employer will let you