Chapter 6: On Grief.

Tales of Treselda Cottage (Part 6).
On Grief.

When Oswald Fernandez passed away, a silence seemed to have descended over the whole neighbourhood. People were respectfully making their way to the funeral house. Ava remembered visiting Uncle Ossie once with Mama, on their way back home from Baroda Bank. Mama was returning a sum of money her son had borrowed from his son, in Madras, a long time ago. Uncle was sitting on a rattan easy-chair, in the verandah. The house was thatched, the broad verandah, defined by thick, evenly spaced, cylindrical columns. The floor was laid with small, red terracotta tiles, worn out in patches. The linear precision of the tiles was broken by a beautiful circular pattern in the verandah, right in front of the large main door. The hall inside had two low Diwans and a few rattan chairs. The customary picture of the Sacred Heart on the wall had no special altar, just a dim, flickering bulb that lit it. The showcase half-heartedly displayed knick-knacks from other countries, brought by the intrepid siblings, uncles, aunts and children who had left Trivandrum in search of their fortunes, over the years.

The large hall had been divided into two, with a flowered curtain drawn across the far end. Uncle Ronnie's wife Mable Miss , gave English and Maths classes there. Children would troop in after school, and she would busy herself with lessons, while Uncle lounged in the Verandah, keeping an eye on the fruit trees in the property. The children were allowed to help themselves to luv-luvs and tamarind, which they ate raw, faces scrunching up when the sourness hit them. Uncle wouldn't let them wander beyond the few trees that lined the foot path. His guava, mango, chickoo and kudampulli trees were watched over with a hawk-eye. He was most fussy about his rose bushes, that he watered and tended to himself, and the Malaysian orchids that hung in the shade of the trees, bursting out of coconut husks. Conrad, Ava's brother, came to Mable Miss for classes after school. Ava thought it such a waste that he didn't care for luv-luvs and tamarind. She had slowed down as she passed the trees with Mama that day, but didn't have the guts to stop and ask if she could pluck some.

The children used to make their customary visits to the house at Christmas time. Mama would hire Peter Cook to prepare rose cookies, plum cake and murukku, and send the children, dressed in their Christmas finery, house to house with little parcels of goodies. Over the years, as Ava grew, people found it harder to run big kitchens, and the custom had dwindled out of practice. However, over the Christmas season, families would still make their visits to each other's houses by turn and get to sample the home-made wine, plum cake and all the other Christmas treats.

Homes would take on festive looks, with cribs and Christmas trees dressed up with prized ornaments collected over the years, usually brought by family from abroad or purchased in the markets of Madras or Bombay. Almost all families had someone working in the Railways, so trips on subsidised tickets were common. They would wrap roast beef sandwiches, cucumber salad and cutlets, lime rice and hard boiled eggs into picnic baskets and set out on the long journey, staying for extended periods with relatives and sampling the exciting big-city offerings.

When it came to Ossie's old house by the bend, Mama instructed the children to give out three separate parcels of Christmas goodies, and not miss visiting the two side wings in the sprawling property, for they belonged to two of his siblings, who didn't see eye to eye with each other or with him. When the Matriarch, Wilhelm Fernandez had passed away, the siblings had come into a dispute over the house and the vast grounds, which included a paddy field at the back. Oswald, the eldest, lived in the main portion of the house. A tall, well-built man, he had been dashing in his younger days, as Ava had heard, and noticed from some framed black and white pictures hanging in the hall. Dressed in a white shirt and white trousers, a dark suit thrown over his shoulder, hair neatly parted low at the side and falling in waves across his head, he was caught in a picture mid-pose with friends in Bombay harbour, a cheroot in his hand.

The side wing of the house was occupied by his sister, Jacintha and her family. Uncle Ronnie, her husband had given Ava those glace cherries once. He was a kind man, with a low voice, and always had a smile for the children. His wife, known to all as Jessy, had a formidable sense of humor and a sharp tongue. She would crack jokes with a straight face and a naughty twinkle in her eyes. Jessy Aunty was given to using a lot of bad words, in both Malayalam and English, swearing at the servants and her children from her pride of place, a high-backed chair bolstered with many cushions and pillows. They took it in their stride and she had a loyal entourage despite (or perhaps, because of) her acid tongue, all very fond of her. She had coined nicknames for everyone in the community, and Ava secretly chuckled at some, so apt were they. She would sit across the door and watch who went in and out of the property, peering from the darkness inside when they walked through the door, back-lit by the bright sunlight outside. Her face would break out into an elfish smile when they bent down to greet her.

The other wing was occupied by another brother, Fritz. It was actually a detached building, an out-house of sorts, used in the old days as a bakery. Cakes, breads and pies came out of this bakery at the late Matriarch's wedding, made by chefs brought in from Quilon. The family proudly recounted how she had been taken to church in the royal carriage, as her father frequented the palace in those days, supplying the Travancore royalty with imported goods. The grand old days of glory were long gone, with successive generations living off the wealth, property and goodwill he had amassed, by trading across borders. They however continued holding elaborate weddings and funerals, christenings and first holy communion parties, in keeping with the family tradition of doing things on a grand scale, on the sprawling grounds of the property. While the royal carriage had taken her to her wedding once, it was a black hearse drawn by white horses that had taken the Matriarch's body to church for the last rites, her coffin covered with white orchids and lillies. By the time it was her eldest son's turn, ambulances had replaced hearses.

The body was laid out in the center of the hall, the curtains for the tuition class drawn back, hired chairs filling the space. People dropped in in a steady stream, to pay their last respects. When Ava went into the hall with Mama, they stopped in silence to have a last look at Uncle Ossie. He was laid out on a white satin spread, that had been pleated and pinned to look like a soft cushion. Clumps of white flowers were pinned on it at intervals. His hands were joined together, fingers overlapped, and a white rosary wound through them. Mama suddenly seemed weak in that large space, and she straightened, held up by many eyes watching her from the chairs. She gripped onto Ava's arm tightly to shuffle towards the chairs. Someone sensed her difficulty and made way for her, offering them chairs in the front row. They started up the rosary in English, and Mama joined in, her voice hoarse and lost in the crowd.

The family was seated close to the body. They were all there, from the side wings and outhouses, young and old, differences set aside for the funeral, united by death. Some had busied themselves with chores, the men making all the funeral arrangements, hurrying in and out, the women planning the refreshments. A mixed group at a table were making floral arrangements for the church. Someone placed a sprig of Uncle Ossie's prized "Dancing Girl" Orchids from the garden on the Sacred Heart's picture. Aunty Jessy was sitting bolt upright, a few chairs away from her sister-in-law. Ava noticed that her eyes were moist. A family estranged over property disputes, but not too far gone to avoid rallying around each other, she was there to join in the grief of his wife and children, all of whom she had once addressed by the choicest epithets, preceeding searingly accurate nicknames.

Mable Miss was surrounded by her children, some of whom had arrived from abroad with their families, so different from the locals, yet so much at home in the house they grew up in. They went to commiserate with the family on their loss, Mama silently kissing each one, both a welcome greeting and a condolence wish for those just arrived, Ava embarassedly muttering, "Deepest condolences". Mable Miss held onto Mama's hand and cried, her tears allowed to flow freely now after all those years she had held them back, stoically busying herself with her myriad duties. Mama stood patiently by. Margaret had never allowed herself to cry. "If I start, I might never stop. And when you think if it, there's so much more to smile and be thankful about", she had once told her companion Marcy, who was given to crying all the time, tears streaming down her face, leaving trails through the powder. "Pull yourself together, child", was Mama's oft-repeated refrain when she was met with tears. But Ava remembered she had contradicted herself once, telling Aunty Janice who came to collect old clothes and had once struggled to keep her tears in check, "Cry it out, Janice. Your tears need a release or you will fall sick". Ava had watched transfixed as Aunty Janice's body heaved, racked by soundless sobs. Mama had to signal her to leave the room. She thought of that advice often in her adult life, and applied it to herself on some dark nights, holding to her pillow and saying to herself, "Cry it out Ava". And she would cry, and watch almost detached, the tears wash out the sorrow, the sickness, the pain, leaving her refreshed and clean like a rain-washed morning. Sometimes tears needed no specific reason to flow. They were there, building themselves into a dark cloud, condensing into dew drops, showers and torrents, reserved for lonely nights. During the day, she had a life to live, much to be thankful for and smile about, and no time for tears. "If I start, I might never stop".

The nuns were at the funeral house and had started a series of prayers for the dear departed. There was a lull when the ambulance arrived and the body was placed in it by the young men of the family. Someone started a slow hymn and everyone joined in, the property welling with the echoing high notes of the women inside the house, the baritone of the men joining in, "Coming home, coming home, never more to roam. Open are thine arms of love, Lord I'm coming home. I've wasted many precious years, now I coming home. I now repent with bitter tears, Lord I'm coming home. I've sinned against my brother too, now I'm coming home. By hurting him I've tortured you, Lord I'm coming home...".

Handkerchiefs came out of handbags and pockets. Wet eyes were dabbed and nearby hands clasped. Cousins and siblings who could not ordinarily see eye to eye moved close to each other, shoulder to shoulder, in silent acknowledgment of shared grief that was bigger than them, of shared ancestory that was older than their differences. Now, it was the time to cry. Oswald, stiffened and flower-covered in a satin-lined coffin, allowed them to let tears wash away their collective pain and accumulated differences.

(To be continued...)

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